This year, more than any other, the time between Yule and Candlemas has felt like the Schroedinger’s Cat of witchcraft. Paused in tension. A place in time where all possibilities exist, perfectly posied, waiting for actualization. A hush before the bursting forth of a new season.
It’s as though the Land Herself waits to feel the first stirrings of new life within Her womb, before committing to the possibility of another Spring.
.Imagine. We stand in a ring, hands clasped, around a cauldron turned over to cover a bulb, the hope of new life. We rush in, raising our arms, then back, straining to hold on to each other. Again. And again. . Sacred Queen. You whose deep nights are filled with secret pleasure, You who have opened to the Horned God’s embrace. Let life take root and quicken within you — Seed to bud Bud to fruit Fruit to the belly. Knit the borrowed stars released by death’s decay. Weave us bright new bodies. Filled with light. . . .