A Dark Time of the Year

According to the Wheel of the Year, Imbolc is the time when we can begin looking forward of spring.  We have passed the depth of the darkness with Yule, and entered the Waxing Year.  Fires are lit, beer is brewed, and Brigit – however you choose to spell Her Name – is invoked for her blessings of warmth, health, fertility, and artifice.

In Kansas City, however, early February is the coldest, darkest part of the year.  This year more so than usual, with an straight-from-the-ice-of-Hel blizzard starting the evening of Monday 1 February and lasting through Wednesday 3 February.  The roads had barely even been cleared after the first round of foot-deep snow.  Aradia had to put off a business trip for two days, waiting for them to clear the I-70 corridor; I lost another two and a half days of classes.

Somehow, Aradia and I just weren’t feeling that Imbolc Fire.  We sat around the house watching bad TV and trying not to think about how cold it was outside.  We still haven’t changed over our altar from Yule, and I haven’t yet started the Imbolc batch of mead.

For the last week I’ve been living on leftovers and takeout.  The house gets dirtier.  My mind gets more and more scattered.  I didn’t really sleep last night.  I should be doing more homework, using the snow days to ahead in my classes; working harder on my admission essays, due the first of March; and studying for my ACT, which is this coming Saturday.  I’m keeping up with my classes, and working again, and making progress on the essays … but the ACT scares me so bad that it hurts – an almost physical pain – to think about it.  It’s hard to say which of these things is “cause” and which are “effect”.

Aradia comes back from St.Louis tomorrow, and I need to get the house clean enough for us to change out the altar and celebrate Imbolc.  Hell, I need to get the house clean enough that I don’t feel like a fucking bum.  I need to get my head screwed on straight so I can sleep and get done what I need to get done. The ritual will make me feel better.  Having another gallon of mead bubbling away under the altar will make me feel better.  Having my shit together will make me feel better, and feeling better will make it easier to keep my shit together.

This semester could easily define me for the rest of my life.  I need to not fuck it up.


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