Happy Ostara!!!!! I am sitting here watching it snow/rain on a peaceful Sunday morning. The animals have nodded off again, after getting up at our usual time, then going back to bed, then getting up again (I'm the only one who managed to stay awake this go-round). So, what I'm saying is that it is quiet. I can hear birds chattering on occasion and the faint snoring of the dog...
I have managed to be a very piss poor magical person and plan nothing for the first day of spring. Meh, I guess life has gotten the best part of my planning lately...
I think instead of anything formal I will just spend the day in quiet contemplation and mostly rest. Other than some minor chores I'm free to lounge, visit my horse and watch it spit snow one last time (fingers crossed). Winter is mourning itself now, even as it takes this last breath it is losing a grip on the world. Spring is giving birth to us all and our memories of how to live and grow and thrive are beginning to spark as we prepare to touch to warmth of the sun once more.
Blessings on this first day of renewal.
And with blessings some thoughts about spring from last year:
This is a really messy time of year, which gets me thinking about the birth of a season and the earth in general. I think that spring is possibly the most misunderstood season. Because people want it to be something it is not. Yes, they love the concept of winter ending and warmer weather and “life renewed” but they think in terms that aren’t accurate. People want spring to be like modern Easter. Full of brightly colored, clean eggs and new frilly clean dresses and enormous feasts fit for a very clean village.
That ain’t spring! Spring is fucking messy! It is muddy, wet, gooey and sometimes painful (if you count wiping up your floors four times a day from little dirty footprints as critters come and go). It is true birth. Birth of the creatures that we share the world with, the trees and plants that bud (and pollinate speaking of painful for many), the flowers that have struggled to the surface and finally break through, the cold blooded frogs, lizards and snakes that lie curled in the earth as they begin to come back to life…
These things aren’t sterile and crisp, clean white. They are bathed in the colors of struggle. The colors of blood and tears and grit. It takes an enormous amount of work to renew oneself and that rebirth doesn’t come without those things.
When I walk outside these mornings I am not greeted with promise. Promise was for Imbolc. Promise was the whispered words of those still underground telling me to hold on, just hold on a little longer… Promise has passed now and we have burst forth into what is real. What is real is that birth is all around us and every bit as messy as it should be.