Feb 02 2015
Candlemas, Christmas, Imbolc

The Dewdrops of Mercy Shine Bright

Marianne_Stokes_Candlemas_Day

Imbolc on the First of February begins the stirring of the earth from its long winter’s sleep, and from the earth, on this Second day of February, emerges the groundhog as weather forecaster. The daylight hours of this day brings, of course, Groundhog Day, one of the few traditional weather markers we still know well. If Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow as he crawls up out of his burrow this morning (he did, by the way), there will be still forty days more of winter. No shadow? An early spring. This relates to centuries-old weather lore, like this:

If the sun shines bright on Candlemas Day,
The half of the winter’s not yet away.

And yes, today is Candlemas, the day of blessing of candles in the Church, forty days past Christmas. It is also known as Purification Day, which comes out of an old Jewish tradition: forty days after the birth of a son, mothers would go to the temple to be purified. You might think of it as renewal, fitting for this time of year, the approach to spring. And so the story goes that Mary went to the temple to be purified, carrying her newborn son, and it was there that she met the elders Anna and Simeon. Simeon recognized the child immediately as the light of the world, and this is the basis for the blessing of candles on this day, and the day’s lovely name: Candlemas.

Candlemas is for many the true close to the Christmas season. One of the finest songs for this day and for those who follow these ways is the old hymn “Jesus, the Light of the World.” Tradition would have us light every lamp in the house at sunset, even for just a few moments. You might follow that with a meal of crepes (a European tradition) or tamales and hot chocolate (a Mexican tradition).

 

Image: Candlemas Day by Marianne Stokes. Tempera on panel, 1901 [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons. 

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Feb 01 2015
Candlemas, Christmas, Imbolc

Approach to Spring

St_Brigids_Cross

Come February, we are thoroughly along in our journey away from winter, toward spring. The thermometer may not be giving a clear indication of it, but we are now about halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Sunlight has been increasing each day here in the Northern Hemisphere since the 21st of December. In another six weeks, night and day will once again be nearly balanced.

These halfway points are cross-quarter days, and this one, in the old Celtic calendar, is Imbolc, derived from the word Oimelc, Gaelic for ewe’s milk, for as the milk begins to flow for newborn lambs at this time of year, so soon will frozen streams and rivers begin to melt and flow, and so soon will green––and warmth––return. We are on the approach to spring.

The Church gave the day to St. Brigid, or Brigit… a bridge from winter to spring. Brigid is more proper, as is the more Celtic pronunciation of her name (brigg-id or bree-id) and she is sacred to Ireland, second there only to St. Patrick in stature. It is traditional on this day to fashion a St. Brigid’s Cross out of rushes or reeds, as well as to leave an oat cake and butter on a windowsill in your home. This, to encourage Brigid to visit your home and bless all who live there. She bridges us also to Candlemas, which comes tomorrow, and tonight, being Candlemas Eve, marks the true and official end of the Christmas season. If there still remain vestiges of yuletide greenery in your home, this is the night to remove it. And so tonight return to nature what is hers––the rosemary, bays, mistletoe, holly, ivy, all––if for no other reason than that soon, the earth itself will be erupting in green.

 

Image: St. Brigid’s Cross by Liscannorman [Creative Commons], via Wikimedia Commons.

 

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Jan 21 2015
2 Comments
St. Agnes Eve

The Honey’d Middle of the Night

Santa_Agnese

Friends last night took Seth and me to the Kravis Center in West Palm Beach for a concert by the Budapest Festival Orchestra. I went knowing nothing about the Budapest Festival Orchestra or what would be on the program. The first two pieces were by Mozart, and they were good, certainly. The second half, though, was Felix Mendelssohn, who is more my speed. It was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and it felt just about perfect to hear this now. I am still at the press every chance I get, working on my annual Copperman’s Day print, and usually listening to old obscure Christmas carols while I do so, for Copperman’s Day is the last of the odd “Goodbye to Yuletide” holidays. But even as I do so, the days are getting longer as we progress further and further from Midwinter’s longest night and toward Midsummer’s longest day. Here we are at the 21st of January, and it’s been one full month now of days lengthening since that shortest day. Each passing day adds a few minutes more daylight as the sun continues to trek further north in the sky. Sometimes we are given precisely what we need (even without realizing we needed it), and last night, Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream was just that thing.

Copperman’s Day was the Monday after Epiphany but I’ll keep working on that print until it’s done. Tonight, though, it’s another obscure old holiday, St. Agnes Eve, with its own traditions. It is a night of divination of a particular sort: a night when young girls could expect to see visions of their future loves. In Scotland, the tradition is to throw grain onto the soil of a field at midnight while reciting the following words:

Agnes sweet and Agnes fair,
Hither, hither, now repair;
Bonny Agnes, let me see
The lad who is to marry me.

The spells vary far and wide. In Italy, young girls go to bed without supper in order to dream of their future husbands. (One might wonder if this is worth it. I, for one, would be more content going to bed sated while dreaming of other things than a future love.) In other places, one must walk backwards to bed or bake a cake or eat a hard boiled egg before bed, yolk removed, the cavity filled with salt. Your future husband will, they say, bring you water in a dream. But of course you’d be dreaming of water to drink if you ate all that salt in one sitting.

John Keats in 1820 wrote a long poem titled “The Eve of St. Agnes” and in it, he put to paper many of these old traditions.

They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey’d middle of the night.

St. Agnes, like St. Valentine that follows soon after her, focuses on romance and matters of the heart, things that help melt the chill of winter. Like a surprise performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, St. Agnes warms the heart and the night.

 

Image: Saint Agnes, from the Basilica of Sant’Agnese Fuori le Mura in Rome.

 

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