For me, Imbolc is the Pagan Season of Hope – as we anticipate the Spring Woman who rises in the green veins of trees and tulips, come to lift us out of our dark night. (Hey…there’s a whole soteriology waiting to happen…Kore as Pagan Messiah…hmmm…of course, Feraferians have been saying as much for years.) Some may find, in this story, a metaphor. But for me it’s deadly literal. Without the knowing in my body that the ground will melt, that flowers will bloom, and that the wind can be again my friend…well, I simply don’t think I’d make it (I grew up in Texas and Colorado. And while I thought that my experiences in Denver and Boulder had prepared me for what it meant to live in a winter country, Mother Lake and Brother North Wind learned me right out of that notion). I imagine my ancestors may have had similar thoughts. And this movement is, deliciously so, outside of my realm of control. The earth spins and the seasons turn, and these things are greater than I, and I am a firm believer in the Mystery of Maybe Not Tomorrow – so I do not Make Spring, but I hope, and this Hope is born of my body – both Faith and Fact.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."