Murmurations

and other notable things

by Mary Oliver

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It is a cold, sunny February afternoon. I sit in a deck chair, surrounded by random outdoor toys (and those that aren’t meant to be outdoors yet, somehow, are here anyway).

A dark green barn coat envelops me, its brown corduroy collar and fleece lining have my soul running towards a moor across the sea, collecting wildflowers in my pocket for a windowsill jar later. Instead I am running through a to-do list, unanswered texts, rescheduling plans, and honestly trying not to burst into tears.

Coffee steams into the cold, grounding me in the present suburban dichotomy of a busy road at the front, and our oasis under Maeve the Oak out back. She soothes me, somehow, even with bare branches. Perhaps especially so. I doubt a tree like herself ever feels lost. She simply is, throughout every season, shifting her growth and shape when it’s time to.

My children play nearby, their imaginations streaking wildly toward the dusk. Their tiny voices and worlds are etched within me like layers, the rings of a trunk containing the heartwood of first cries, words, snuggles, and the newer additions of growing up.

To an outsider, their odd arrangement of chairs and objects look somewhat disheveled. To the 3 boy-elves, however, it is a car or train, a spaceship, their Roxaboxen.

In between getting up to fetch this or that, to kiss away a scrape, break up a brawl, or repeated utterings of, “no, we can’t throw a ball at someone’s head,” I try to read or write. The trees lean forward in gentle rushes of windswept stories, and I catch what words I can, holding them close before they are lost.

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This week I’ve borne witness to grief, work stress, and severe illness among friends. It’s as if my heart is in my throat and the dam holding my emotions back will burst at at any moment.

My older two children are officially enrolled in a school for next year. I feel like I’m wrestling with my own mixture of excitement and loss, even though it’s not until September.

It’s also the time in my monthly cycle, Day 20, when my body shifts into Autumn. I am in a state of vulnerability and openness to what I haven’t been processing, my emotions right at the surface.

I’m a bit wedged into a tender place, a thin place, and even though it’s uncomfortable I have learned to let myself be still within it. I remind myself of this today.

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“I’ve always felt drawn to this moment in our year, even though I’m a lover of winter. Something about this time where we are half way between the winter solstice and spring equinox appeals to my obsession with in between times; liminal days; thin places.” -

Kerri ní Dochartaigh

, Imbolc

Like Kerri, I have also been obsessed with such times for as long as I can remember, particularly since my early 20s when I lived in Northern Ireland and finally found a name for them.

I am someone who often feels tethered in several places at once, in time and space. Folklore and mythology, explanations for and rhythms of time, captivate me. I used to be scared of letting that be known. As a privileged white woman growing up in a conservative, religious family, one did not discuss such things as gods and goddesses, ties to the Divine Feminine, or equating worship as an act of being in tune with nature - not to mention your period in the way I did above - which is another thing of magic altogether, but for a different piece.

As I embark into my late 30s, I recognize and tend to these surges in myself, what I call my “murmurations.”

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Scientifically speaking, a murmuration is a flight of Starlings in which they swoop, dip, and fly together in one great movement - all due to a single bird changing it’s pattern. (Here is some magical footage of it happening.)

Meg Tannehill Justice

In folklore, humans interpreted the flight patterns as messages from the gods, a sign that change was on the way. If you’re anything like me, you may see images or patterns in nature - animals, faces, or symbols, also called pareidola. In my case, it’s often faces, hidden in the bark or branches of trees and clouds, the sides of mountains, or distant landscapes.

I find myself reflecting on the shifts in my murmurations over the years. The messages and patterns I thought I saw and misinterpreted, and those which have made themselves known to me in the clear, frosted sky only a winter’s night can bring.

“Brigid” by Scottish artist Lucy Campbell

Imbolc (pronounced “imolg”) is an in-between time of Celtic origins, rooted in the celebration of Brigid. She the Celtic goddess of the hearth, poetry, and healing.

“They are called ‘cross-quarter days’ because they fall between the big astronomical markers of the year, the summer and winter solstices, and the spring and autumn equinoxes. They are useful because they are signposts. They say: the season is moving on, look where we are, let’s mark this moment.” -

Lia Leendertz

, Imbolc Celebrations

Celebrating signposts like this, figures such as Brigid who represent what I often can’t find words for, settles me.

Let’s mark this moment, together.

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marking this moment

I encourage you to light a candle, order some seeds or think of your Spring garden (I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw Daffodils blooming today), or reflect on what will feed your soul in the next month.

Would you share it with me? Please comment or reply directly to this email. I love connecting with my readers.

For further reading on Imbolc, check out these posts:

Lia Leendertz - Imbolc Celebrations

Kerri ní Dochartaig - Imbolc

Lyndsay Kaldor

- Soft shimmers of light and and buds of potential at Imbolc.

As always, thanks for being here.

Warmly,

Jess

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"I am a leaf on a branch of a tree with many rings
I am a word in a book of many pages
And I am the strength in a name
I am a candle's dancing flame"
-Lyrics from Brighid's Cloak by Gayla Drake Paul

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Music is Piano Moment by Daddy_s_Music