To Be, As Well, A Daughter Of The North

The Bear's Daughter
by Theodora Goss

She dreams of the south. Wandering through the silent castle,
Where snow has covered the parapets, and the windows
Are covered with frost, like panes of isinglass,
She dreams of pomegranates and olive trees.

But to be the bear's daughter is to be a daughter, as well,
Of the north. To have forgotten a time before
The tips of her fingers were blue, before her veins
Were blue like rivers flowing through fields of ice.

To have forgotten a time before her boots
Were elk-leather lined with ermine.

Somewhere in the silent castle, her mother is sleeping
In the bear's embrace, and breathing pomegranates
Into his fur. She is a daughter of the south,
With hair like honey and skin like orange-flowers.

She is a nightingale's song in the olive groves.

And her daughter, wandering through the empty garden,
Where the branches of yew trees rubbing against each other
Sound like broken violins,

Dreams of the south while a cold wind sways the privet,
Takes off her gloves, which are lined with ermine, and places
Her hands on the rim of the fountain, in which the sun
Has scattered its colors, like roses trapped in ice.

Some people, and I think that they are well-meaning people, will say that Imbolc, the Pagan holiday that's coming up this full-moon Friday, is the "beginning of Spring." They talk about watching for the "first signs of Spring," although they have to stretch rather far to find them, noting buds on trees that were there at Yule, as well, or pointing out that the days have, as, in fact, they have, become a bit longer since Yule, when the night far outlasts the day. But if they thought more about it, these people would, I think, agree with me. Imbolc isn't the first day of Spring. Imbolc is the deep, deep, deepest deep middle of the Winter. Imbolc is as far into Winter as you can be. Yule was the beginning of Winter and the first day of Spring will be Eostara, the Vernal Equinox on March 21st. Imbolc, which falls between them, truly is mid-Winter.

And, here, at least, where I live, in the middle of the Mid-Atlantic seaboard, that feels right. From mid-January to mid-February is when we have our coldest weather and best chance of snow and ice. By February, it's been grey too many days and there are still, to my mildly-SAD-affected self, too many grey days still to come. Trees, hard tiny buds notwithstanding, still look bare, not yet having gained the vague pink aura that they'll acquire shortly before turning that amazing color of Spring green that they turn once it's really Spring. The squirrels are now digging up holes all over my yard here in the oak grove, desperate for a few buried acorns to carry them through. "My" fox comes round, too, too hungry to worry about staying out of sight, hoping she may catch an already-nearly-dead rabbit or, even, proud though she is, a squirrel. The ground is too hard, and even when it's not too hard, it's too wet and cold, to do much of anything in the garden, although this mild winter I've managed to pick thyme and rosemary and a bit of parsley as recently as this weekend.

Imbolc, in my mind, is all about two things: (1) getting through and (2) doing wild things that require a leap of faith. I think, and your mileage may differ, but I think that deep Winter calls on us to take the same walk as the Bear's Daughter takes in Theodora Goss' wonderful poem:

And her daughter, wandering through the empty garden,
Where the branches of yew trees rubbing against each other
Sound like broken violins,

Dreams of the south while a cold wind sways the privet,
Takes off her gloves, which are lined with ermine, and places
Her hands on the rim of the fountain, in which the sun
Has scattered its colors, like roses trapped in ice.

Take off your ermine-lined gloves, the habits and beliefs and carefullnesses that cover your hands and keep you from feeling -- the cold, yes, but also everything else. Touch, with the palm of your whole hand, the icy rim of the fountain, and reach for the sun, reflected and refracted like roses. Touch it even though it freezes your fingers. There are times, lots of times, when the only way "out," the only way "there" -- is through. Deep mid-Winter is like that. If you make it through, you'll see Spring and Summer, but first you have to make it through. And sometimes that means taking off your gloves and plunging your hands into the ice to grasp the fiery roses, to feel something, anything, even if it's pain. It's the only way to find roses in mid-Winter's "empty garden."

What wild thing can you do between now and late March? What warm ermine-lined gloves do you need to pull off? What will help you to make it through?