“She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor:
“Winter is dead.”
―“Because the birdsong might be pretty,
But it’s not for you they sing,
And if you think my winter is too cold,
You don’t deserve my spring.”
―
Night fades into shades of purple. A pale lavender sky and the waning crescent moon almost lost beneath a wisp of cloud, gossamer thin. Dew decorated cobwebs make fine lace, and tiny droplets hang from the branches and the grass capturing the soft light and refracting it so that the world shimmers in the soft light of the rising sun, beauty beyond compare.
The dawn chorus works up to it’s crescendo, starting in the early hours of the morning while darkness grips the land and souls lay tucked up in their beds, still lost in dreams of far off places and other-worlds; adventures through the looking glass that is the human psyche. The clear, strong song of the blackbird calls out from the boughs of the linden, joined by the bell like melodies of the robin and greets the rising sun as it spills it’s light like spun honey across the land.
Already blossom adorns some trees. They wear the delicate blooms like crowns, a welcome relief for the fat bumble bees, lured awake from their winter slumber by the warm spring sun and the sweet elixir of the flowers. It’s not just the trees either. Daffodils are already well into their season. Brightest yellow, they catch the breeze and dance, standing tall over the wild violets that creep through the grass. Snow drops stand in those shaded areas, delicate white flowers that grow in clumps. Soon the blue bells will come, the tulip too, but that is later on. For now, this is enough.
As the world awakens to the energies that abound in nature at this time, so too do we. We are a part of nature, something many people have forgotten, but not us few, who carry the knowledge of our ancestors, of the land, of the spirits in our heart, in our bones. In our blood.
Feel the energy of the rising spring, feel it around you and within you. This is the energy of getting shit done. Spring might look pretty, is the traditional lambing season and is associated with all the good stuff, cute babies, chocolate and the promise of summer, but do not be fooled. Birthing is hard work, whether that’s the creating of new life, or new opportunities.
And so, let us take our cues from the land, let us plan and prepare. Let us take this energy and do what we will with it. Let us remember the wisdom of our ancestors and the connection to the land where we live, no matter where in the world we find ourselves.
May we remember our power and feel it swell within us as the spring awakening swells in the land, filling us with the potential of all we are and all we may be.
Hail to the witches.
-
“She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: “Winter is dead.” ― A.A. Milne, “Because the birdsong might be pretty, But it’s not for you they sing, And if you think my winter is too cold, You don’t deserve my spring.” ― Erin Hanson Night fades into shades of purple. […] -
“She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: “Winter is dead.” ― A.A. Milne, “Because the birdsong might be pretty, But it’s not for you they sing, And if you think my winter is too cold, You don’t deserve my spring.” ― Erin Hanson Night fades into shades of purple. […] -
“She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: “Winter is dead.” ― A.A. Milne, “Because the birdsong might be pretty, But it’s not for you they sing, And if you think my winter is too cold, You don’t deserve my spring.” ― Erin Hanson Night fades into shades of purple. […] -
“She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: “Winter is dead.” ― A.A. Milne, “Because the birdsong might be pretty, But it’s not for you they sing, And if you think my winter is too cold, You don’t deserve my spring.” ― Erin Hanson Night fades into shades of purple. […] -
“She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: “Winter is dead.” ― A.A. Milne, “Because the birdsong might be pretty, But it’s not for you they sing, And if you think my winter is too cold, You don’t deserve my spring.” ― Erin Hanson Night fades into shades of purple. […]
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