Daffodils at Imbolc
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When my husband proposed a few years back, our Mam presented me with a glass vase. It was given to her by her Nana, and she had decided to pass down to me.
“It’s for when Jo buys you flowers,’ she said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Jo was very unlikely to do that. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he knows I am averse to having cut flowers in the house. I don’t know whether it’s because of my spirituality or my Yorkshire roots or the fact that I was once a teacher but as a general rule I like to see things grow. Flourish. Blossom. And once you cut a flower it can’t do that for very long.
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I allow myself to break this rule once a year, and that is around Imbolc, when I bring daffodils into the house. Looking into their sunny yellow faces makes me smile and brings me hope. They are a reminder that spring is on her way.
Moreover, it feels right to let my Nana’s vase (pictured on the left, the other ‘vase’ is just an empty pasta sauce jar I washed out) fulfill its purpose at least once a year…
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An hour after I put the daffodils in water this afternoon, yellow petals were beginning to emerge. Resonating perfectly with the time of year. Imbolc translates as ‘in the belly of Mother Earth.’ A time when seeds start to stir in the soil. A time of promise.
