“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
