Breaking Apart on Imbolc Morning

This morning I went to the woods for Imbolc.

Almost three weeks ago, I wrenched my back while I was trying to move the couch forward a few inches. And ever since then it has refused to heal. In this latest phase, the nerves along my lower spine all feel raw and strange and exposed. My heart can relate. 

But nonetheless, today is Imbolc, and I haven't been out in nature in weeks. My friend Martha sent me pictures this morning from her home in England of snowdrops blooming. Life was returning, seeds were germinating. I wanted to at least go for a walk in the woods. I planned my strategy. I would go to the stream and take pictures with the edge of my skirts in the water. I would wear all white, with my clasped hands belt Tom gave me for Christmas representing Brigid's embrace. I would be holding a lantern with a lit candle, and staring off into the distance, a reminder to everyone to be strong, that the goddess is with us.

And then, maybe, once I had captured some photos, I would sit in nature for a while and have a little cry.

So I carefully applied my makeup, took an ibuprofen, strapped on a brace, and got dressed in a cowl, capelet, white blouse and skirt. The hands belt didn't fit over the brace, so I loosened the buckle settings so it would. And then I drove off to one of my favorite parks. 

When I head out on a forest walk, I listen to which of the many woodland trails nearby is asking to be walked. And I had that image in my head of standing in a particular stream in that particular woods. But when I arrived, I noticed the forest trail was covered in snow that had melted down into lumps of solid ice, a veritable slalom instead of a path. Still I set off, carefully stumbling along the edges of the trail where the leaf litter was safer. I was up for the challenge, wasn't I?

I stopped to take a short video of the sussurating golden leaves of a beech tree. Eventually I reached a point where there was nowhere to step off of the icy channel through the trees, and proceeded to cautiously hobble along. I was almost to the stream when, on my right, I saw a lovely vignette of weathered turkey tail mushrooms next to a vine. Bending down to take a picture, I felt something pop.

I only made it a few feet before my new belt fell apart around me. I stood there in shock for a moment, and then I fell apart too. I started crying, collapsed on a nearby log, and tried to blink past my tears to look around and try to find the missing metal bar that had broken off of one of the hands, rendering the whole belt useless. But there was no point. It could have fallen off anywhere along the path, and despite searching through my tears for quite a while, it was simply gone. I bent down to search the area near where I had taken the photo, and when I stood back up, I hit my head soundly on the edge of an elevated tree trunk. 

Of course, many of you will understand that it wasn't the broken belt I was crying about or my wounded head. It was everything. I stumbled back down the precarious path to the car, alternately gasping for breath and holding my breath to keep my composure until I reached the sanctuary of my vehicle.

And then I lost it.

I screamed, I sobbed, I cried, I let out all I was feeling and holding in. I cried for my transgender loved ones I felt helpless to comfort. I cried for the constant barrage of nightmare after nightmare assaulting my rabbit heart daily. I cried for the undocumented immigrants detained, for the people on a routine plane trip that wasn't. I cried for the way our country has become so mean, for the swaths of nature that are now simply considered "resources" by those in our highest seats of power. I wailed and gasped and hiccuped and felt my heart break into a million pieces. I lost every shred of hope. And yes, a tear or two was for my stupid belt I loved so much and only got to wear three or four times. I cried for everything, I felt everything: a bundle of raw nerves. It felt like a release, but it also felt like giving in to every fear I'd held captive inside.

Eventually the crying slowed, and I glanced in the mirror. I wiped away my smeared and clotted makeup as best I could, and then I took this extremely vulnerable self-portrait.

Because, my dear loves...this is the face of Brigid. This is what she would do if we could see her today. Our goddess of healing and protection would be crying. Would be wailing. I (perhaps somewhat arrogantly naively) set out to capture the spirit of Imbolc this morning, received a whack in the head, and then let out every square inch of the overflowing fears and broken heart I'd felt and held in for the last two weeks since the transfer of leadership.

I sat there in my car for a while longer after the tears had mostly subsided. And then I started to notice the noise of one bird chirping. Over and over again in a repeated pattern, he chirped, and the noise echoed across the brown winter meadow in front of my car, weaving through the barren winter trees. His song never slowed. Never stopped. Three chirps, then four. Then three, then three. 

And my heart slowed, and a tiny sliver of calm descended. After listening to the bird for five minutes or so, I felt well enough to drive home. Nothing had been resolved. Everything was still broken. Today on Imbolc, Brigid would be crying for all of this fractured world. But her birds are still singing. Her people won't give up hope. Spring is coming, and I have to believe that everything is not lost.