Imbolc

 

 

 

“But, lo, we might be shining too;

If we turn our backs on what has been, 

Learn different ways of making do,

And fit ourselves in the between…”

-Judith O’Grady

 

And so Imbolc is here, today and tomorrow we celebrate with lights, remembering we are divine feminine, every one of us.  Her name “in the belly” speaks to Spring arriving, bit by bit, and yest, we have snow and wintry weather giving its last blast.  As of sundown, we light candles in every window and celebrate until sundown tomorrow, the divinity of the Queen of Heaven.  We, are Queens of Heaven, as well.  Our heaven is our holy haven of where we stand.  She represents the fire of the hearth, the keeper of poetry, smudge of sage, of rosemary, of cinnamon.  She comes with the first snowdrop flowers, the rising of daffodils.  She is the ewe giving birth to more of the herd.  She is fountains loosening self from an icy grip.  She is early garlic spindles beginning to appear.  She is citrine, garnet, amber and sunstone.  She is oatcakes and Bannocks, she is fresh butter and cheeses, and a traditional dish made with potatoes and greens. 

Imbolc Colcannon

 

5 medium Yukon Gold potatoes (about 1¾ pounds)

Kosher salt

6 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided

2 leeks, white and pale-green parts only, sliced in half lengthwise, thinly sliced crosswise

2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

2 cups (packed) shredded savoy cabbage (from about ¼ large head), divided

1¼ cups milk

½ cup heavy cream

Freshly ground black pepper

 

1scallion, thinly sliced

Preparation

Cover potatoes with water in a small pot; season with salt. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce heat and simmer until a paring knife slides easily through the flesh, 30–40 minutes. Drain, let cool slightly, and peel.

Meanwhile, melt 4 Tbsp. butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add leeks and cook, stirring frequently, until very soft, 8–10 minutes. Add garlic and cook, stirring frequently, until garlic is fragrant and leeks are just beginning to brown around the edges, about 3 minutes longer. Add 1 cup cabbage and cook, stirring constantly, until wilted. Add milk and cream and bring to a simmer.

Add potatoes and remaining 1 cup cabbage, then coarsely mash with a potato masher. Season with salt and pepper.

Transfer colcannon to a large serving bowl. Top with remaining 2 Tbsp. butter and sprinkle with scallion.

At this time, our energy will sprout as well.  The lethargy of the hungry moon is nearly over.  There is hope on the horizon.

Brgid is patroness of poetry.  Poetry has been a huge part of me all my life.  I learned cadence on the back of my horse, when I was young.  Each step of a hoof was a pattern to rhyme in my head.  I only lost it, for a time, after the greatest loss in my late life.  I could not delve deeply enough to grasp the images my poetry needed.  But, it comes, now, and I hear the phrases in my head that need a poem to fit into.  

 

Woman Is A City

 

she is a grid, an underground wonder

so fluid she seems disjointed    at times

her space     an aura ebbing and flowing

her blood     roadways     mapped by DNA

not ever defined by plastic     she calls skin

 

she does not live within boundaries

nor caged     nor white picket fence

both quarry and air    head full

of imagination and desire    her streets

her tunnels     her systems    some untraveled

never both victim and assaulter

yet many times a car crash away

from being written off

 

beneath her ribcage      are echoes

of past     passed     voices

a whole movement in sharps and flats

the music of neon     that should tell you something

about the kind of city she is

 

she has parks      bypasses      shorelines

crashing waves against seawalls   

her breath     a thousand thousand storms

or passive seas   pounding against her beaches

she is synagogue     she is cheap bars

she is a theatre     a carnival

city sounds of New York City   pastural

hum of nature    swinging in her hair

 

she is a flea market full of eggplant womb

great hill of pregnancy      emerging blossoms

of garden flowers   and earth     she is good soil

she is fecund forest of fine feathery leaves    of boulevard

trees         she is a landscape to be determined

by topographers and geologists and city planners    

she is a new geography at every stage

of her divine development     she is an adventure park    

a cradle     a hammock     under hearted skies     

she is built of homesteads      that outgrew their home   

a pen and ink drawing      of developments about to happen

 

she is a city shape with offshoots and bedroom communities

she is knob hills and ghetto all at once

you would have to drive the rest of your life

to begin to know her many cul-de-sacs      her detours

her changing highways and byways

and still would not grasp that she is

tired     smog-ridden    polluted     vacant     betimes

vulnerable bridges and filthy riverbeds and all

beneath skyways of patriarchal view    that made you think

you could own      control      redesign or even live in

she is a dying city

 

©Carol Desjarlais 1.22.22