Imbolc

Busy with the usual thoughts, I forgot to celebrate Imbolc. My backyard oak remembered, surprising my house with sudden confetti. For weeks I’ve wondered about this oak. The rest of the neighborhood trees dropped their leaves long ago. Why does my oak keep hanging onto its dried-up soldiers—through rain, wind, and snow? Is it haunted by the past? Is it bound, like me, to old ideas and worn-out expectations? The answer arrived on this pagan midwinter holy day, as the Sun reached 15 Aquarius and we officially turned towards spring. Under a mild wind and blue sky, for thirty minutes, hundreds of dead leaves began floating down. Visible from every window of my house, they called, “You too! Let go! You too!”