Why We Mark Imbolc
One thing I find endlessly fascinating is learning how many of our modern traditions are essentially mashups of cultural practices layered over centuries. Humans have always sought meaning and connection, weaving folklore and mythology steeped in seasonal wisdom to make sense of everything from weather patterns to fertility, loss, and renewal.
Across these islands, seasonal thresholds were marked long before written history. In Irish mythology, Imbolc is closely associated with Brigid, a goddess of fire, poetry, healing and fertility, later woven into Christian tradition as St Brigid. In Gaelic folklore, the Cailleach, a powerful figure associated with winter, was said to gather her firewood around this time, her behaviour hinting at whether winter would loosen its grip. Welsh traditions speak to early spring through figures such as Rhiannon, whose stories carry themes of sovereignty, renewal and deep connection to the land. In England, agricultural communities looked less to named deities and more to practical signs: the first snowdrops breaking through frozen soil, ewes beginning to lactate, and the subtle but undeniable lengthening of days. Different names and stories, yet a shared attentiveness to the same quiet turning point.
As you know, we like to follow the Wheel of the Year, a seasonal framework rooted in ancient druid traditions and earth-based mythologies. It offers eight points in the year to pause, reflect and realign, inviting us to move a little more slowly and consciously in a world that often demands the opposite. The next festival we’ll be marking together is Imbolc, on Sunday 1st February.
The Winter Solstice opened a space for reflection. As we naturally turn inward during the darker months for rest and recuperation, we’re given time to assimilate what has been learned, what has been gained, and what has been shed over the past year. This quiet integration creates fertile ground, not yet visible, but quietly preparing to host new growth as the light continues its gradual return.
Imbolc arrives in this in-between space. Traditionally linked with hearth fires, candlelight, milk and nourishment, it marks the very earliest stirrings of spring. Nothing is in full bloom yet, but something has shifted. Beneath the surface, life is gathering momentum. The earth is beginning to wake.
Side note: Considering all of this is a great reminder that now is not the time to be starting new big projects, so don’t let the messaging of the ‘New Year’ add any undue pressure.
This is the spirit we’ll be holding as we gather to mark Imbolc together. Not a celebration of bold action or fully formed intentions, but an invitation to notice what’s warming and stirring beneath the surface. To tend the hearth, both literal and metaphorical, and to offer care to what is still tender and unfinished. Imbolc reminds us that beginnings rarely arrive loudly; they emerge slowly, quietly and in their own time. As we come together at this turning point, we do so to honour that process, in our surroundings, and within ourselves.
