In some cultures, Spring is almost here

We've entered what is typically the coldest period of the year here in the North Country. I'm hoping Mother Nature and the Fates will be kind this year so we don''t have to wait until Spring for ICE OUT. Meanwhile, paperwork that let's us know we've entered tax season has started to arrive, along with junk mail. Can you tell this is not my favorite time of year? On the other hand, at least there's lots to look forward to during in January and February, like the return of melting and growing and waterfowl. We just have to hang in there.

winter is also sourdough bread season

Photo by J. Harrington

In the interim, the Better Half has three (Christmas) amaryllis plants with multiple blossoms now on two of them and the third coming along more slowly. Plus, one of her windowsill orchids is flowering! But, the lavender plant I got for Christmas seems "under the weather" due to lack of sufficient sunshine and ambient indoor temperatures five to ten degrees cooler than ideal. (Our downstairs is always cooler during heating season since heat rises.) I honestly can't remember an extended period of cloudiness like we've had for the past several months. I'd move the lavender upstairs but the sunny windowsills are full already with amaryllis and orchids.

If we were wise enough to follow more of the old Druid traditions, in a couple of weeks we'd be celebrating Imbolc on February 1. That's the first of three "Spring" festivals and arrives a couple of weeks ahead of Valentines Day. I'm going to polish my ""of Irish extraction" credentials and get ready to celebrate and enjoy Imbolc this year. That feels like it fits nicely with rereading Gary Snyder's The Practice of the Wild, as I started to do yesterday.

As Sergeant Phil Esterhaus said each morning at roll call on Hill Street Blues: "Let's be careful out there," especially as long as Minnesota is territory occupied by hostile forces.

Imbolc by Damh the Bard

As the dark, cold morning gives way to light,
And the world shows its face dazzling in her nakedness,
So the twigs and leaf-bare branches,
Bow to the passing dance
Of old Jack Frost.
His crystal breath on the earth,
And the corners of houses weep icicles of joy.
But where is the Sun’s warmth?
Where is life?
A small flower, delicate and pure-white,
Looks to the earth,
As if talking to the waiting green,
“Not yet,” it seems to whisper.
“When I fall, then you can return.”
And she nods her head,
as the Lady passes by,
Leaving more flowers in Her wake

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