Soft shimmers of light and buds of potential at Imbolc.
reflecting on January as a pathway in-between worlds and my guiding lights for the months ahead.
I’m Lyndsay, mother, creative and storyteller with a background in interiors PR. Story & Thread. is a weekly letter exploring the intersection of creativity, mothering and the living world, with a home and a garden at the heart...
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“And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to blossom”.
—Anaïs Nin, Risk.
Hello everyone
It feels auspicious to be writing to you on this the first day of February — as well as the date that draws us out of the depths of January, it marks the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. It is marked each year on 1-2 February at Imbolc, the Celtic festival celebrating the first quiet stirrings of spring.
Thank you for reading last week’s post on kindling the fire element to warm and inspire us, I loved hearing your thoughts about the continued need for warmth and cosiness as we move through winter, despite the emergence of some spring-like signs.
This week I have been reflecting on the start of this year — the dream-like in-between world of January, the month as a portal and the guiding lights leading to shimmers of light and buds of potential as we reach the beginning of February…
A portal within a dream-like world.
The word January is derived from Janus, the ancient Roman god of beginnings and endings; gates and keys; doorways, frames and passages; time, transitions and thresholds — and the duality that often dwells there. For that reason, he is usually depicted as having two faces — one looking back to the past and one facing into the future.
The symbolism of Janus encompasses many of my feelings for the start of the year. Both of my births have taken place in January, each marking a portal embedded within a threshold — a liminal time immersed in an intentional hibernation; a pathway in-between worlds; the closing of one doorway and a gateway leading into new beginnings; a transformation beyond words that seeps into each layer and every cell, an entirely new way of being. Just two evenings ago, on the night before my daughter’s fourth birthday, I remembered the exquisite (and excruciating) magic of going to bed in one world, and the next day being plunged entirely into another.
This January felt to me like a (long and full) expanse of time — a continuation of the hibernal months, of December’s wintry magic, albeit through a fresher lens. I started the month looking back and holding onto festive remnants, and my grasp has loosened gradually as I have slowly turned my face towards the months ahead. I have taken a pause, biding my time (alongside all of the doing of mothering), with a deep trust that dreams would drop in, and distil in their own time.
At the turn of the year, I did not feel even nearly ready to make sense of my visions and hopes for the year ahead. It has been a month that has been slow to unfold, an easing in — I have granted myself gentleness in the hope that tiny seeds would become slow-forming concepts, ideas and intentions as the buds reach a fullness of potential at Imbolc.
And here we are…
I was amazed to find buds on almost every bare branch in the garden at the weekend, though their precious promises are still enclosed within a tightly clasped outer shell.
I feel this way too, I have dreamed audaciously (in the spirit of
’s Warning: May contain audacious dreams post); I have begun to hone visions of how I want my creative work to feel (to me, and to you as a reader and valued part of this community); I have felt the shimmer of potential projects, sensed sparks of inspiration and engaged in conversations about collaboration in the months ahead. Yet like the buds outside, I am holding these treasures within a little while longer, before they unfurl into form — reminding myself that a gentle simmer is required to ensure the enduring glow and longevity of the slow burn.
Gentle guiding lights for the year ahead.
I am remembering too, that it is what the dreams and visions represent as a way of being that is of utmost importance. And as the light begins to illume our way once again, it feels timely to mention my ‘words of the year’, gentle guiding lights for the months ahead (uncovered with the help of Susannah Conway’s beautiful and thoughtful Unravel Your Year and Find Your Word workbooks). Although my words are entwined threads in many ways, I am leaving space for them to either loosen their hold or weave more closely as life unfolds and the seasons change…
Embodied — be an expression of or give a tangible or visible form to (an idea, quality, or feeling). I want how I live and what I write to be a reflection of my truth — of my curiosities, my experiences and how they feel in my body.
Now four years into my mothering journey, I find it to be both deeply physical, yet at the same time, an ‘out of body’ existence most days as I am pulled into the orbit of my little ones. Embodiment speaks to a need to draw myself back into my centre, and to feel and care for my own body as not only a vessel but also an abundant wellspring.
Spacious — having ample space. Physical space is something that has been lacking in the last few years and so space for creativity and my own self-expression can be found in the margins of everyday life.
I need stillness to draw inward and to make space for imagining — to find a place to pause and feel the edges of where I begin and end, and to decipher what I want and need.
Joyful — feeling, expressing, or causing great pleasure and happiness. Inspired by
’s post ‘Come Home to Yourself’, I plan to prioritise my own joyful practices, the things I do when I feel a sense of flow, of being at home and being most myself.This will take the shape of bringing my children into my creative world, as well as carving out space to embody all of the pieces of me and reclaiming the things I love as an expression of my truth.
The way the late winter light falls.
The celebrations of both of my children in January brings a softer, lighter and more joyful feeling within the container of hibernation, rather than the hard slog it once was. The month has become a jewelled string of celebrations, bookended by my children’s birthdays. This year we celebrated my son’s second birthday at the beginning of the month, and my daughter turning four yesterday, on Imbolc eve.
Being born on the eve of Imbolc, when the light is visibly lengthening whilst still immersed in winter darkness feels precious and symbolic. Imbolc means “in the belly” and to me represents the silent growth that happens in darkness within the living world, something we have no control over and that requires deep-rooted trust.
Imbolc honours the stirrings of new life and the slow, steady return of the light. By the beginning of February there is a tangible expansion of sunbeams and a proliferation of light. The growing luminescence begins as a feeling and becomes a visual truth as days lengthen once again. To me, it signifies a hint at reawakening and a reemergence whilst nurturing what we have been reflecting on and dreaming of over the winter months.
It reminds me of hushed hidden potential, just like the quiet movement that is happening deep underground and within the tight buds on the trees. It is a concept not so far away from my experience of pregnancy, of holding the unknown with tenderness, care and quiet hope.
Embodying the cusp of winter and spring.
My experience of Imbolc feels like the stretching of cold silvery days as the longer light casts a spell of shadows on the walls and green shoots appear on the windowsill. It is sitting down to write with a combination of a cosy Christmas candle and the sweet scent of pale yellow Narcissus. It is fairy lights on dark mornings, paper snowflakes, star garlands, balloons and birthday bunting. It is the feeling of apricity and a subtle shift in the air. It is the remaining branches of holly and ivy lingering in our home whilst cutting back the roses outside and spotting the first flush of snowdrops in the garden — their luminous pure petals promising us that life and light will return, and was never really very far away.
I would love to hear how the year is unfolding for you…
How does this time of the year feel to you?
Are you feeling the shift in the light or are you still deep within the cocoon?
What are your guiding lights for the months ahead?
Thank you for reading — I really hope we can chat more in the comments.
That is so interesting about Janus and how January is derived from that. I love little bits of interesting trivia! Thank you for sharing Lyndsay and I hope 2024 is everything you hope for and more 💛✨
This was a beautiful read that allowed me to exhale the previous and to take in the beginning of a new month <3