The final Soundbath of 2023 was a cosy crush at Christmas. Last month at the Cold Moon we were 19 all together, the air outside was chill, the hot spicy lemon water sweet with cinnamon, and the mood like a party. We made £216 for Doctors Without Borders and a jolly time was had by all as December 27th rolled on towards the end of another year.
This month's Wolf Moon - so called because wolves can be heard howling at this time of year, maybe to establish territory, gather for hunting, and define their packs - was a rather different affair. There were just five of us. The lemon water was astringent, with less cinnamon and more star anise and ginger. The sounds more intense, the soft chat at the end more wistful. The days have been warmer with a promise of spring "It'll be Imbolc next week"
'What is Imbolc?' asked Claudia
'It's a sort of celebration'
'Is it like the equinox, or solstice?' asked Emma
It is like the equinox and solstice in that it marks a certain time in the year; it is not like them in that it's a Celtic pagan festival where two seemingly polar opposite things are encouraged. You spell Imbolc/ Imbolg and pronounce Immolc It is a time for both inward reflection, solitude, and for togetherness and companionship. It's a time to clear away and let go but also a time to plant seeds and develop new ideas. The choice is your own, as you are your own best guru. Of course.
Harriet and Ria remarked on the merging of the Earth gong with the Moon gong. They said they felt the sound waves go through them. The warm, grounding compassionate sound of the Earth gong, and the complex, unforgiving sound of the Synodic Moon gong.
There are also two possible dates to celebrate: the calendar Imbolc on 1st February, and the lunar Imbolc at the new moon (this year it falls on 5th). So the pattern through the year goes like this: Winter solstice, Imbolc, Spring Equinox, Beltane, Summer Solstice, Lamas/ Lughnasadh, Autumn Equinox, Samhain/ Halloween, back to Winter Solstice.
This moving between polar opposites is fascinating to humans, as we often get stuck on what we believe to be opposed things when really they are not. There is always some linear connect, even when we can't see it. The seasons show us that, and it is one reason why they are so comforting to us even as they are disquieting. Who doesn't regret the loss of light as summer turns to autumn. Who doesn't contemplate death as autumn turns to winter, and who doesn't entertain a tincture of hope as winter buds to spring? And the exuberance at summer is self-evident! Then who does not feel the sense of rightness and comfort at the recurring pattern of the seasons, we're lucky to have them in Britain.
In the dark of the season we crave depth. It feels almost impossible to be deep now, or it may seem so with the speed of the internet, all information available in a split second, not having to wait, social media that presents us with a perfect snapshot every minute, always different, moving on inexorably. What ideas could we have that don't become redundant tomorrow? Not like the old days when we'd read Bertrand Russell, Nietzsche, Plato, Joyce, listen to Jonathan Miller on the radio, think deeply for days, weeks, sometimes years about an idea from ... Heraclitus let's say. A river. So what are ideas for? Something to be scribbled down one moment and forgotten the next?
It struck me as I stepped into that non existent river the other evening, by the light of the full moon, that although ideas are never new - of course they aren't. They never were really. They were always there in the Akashic records. You can never be told something you didn't already know somewhere, somehow. - It struck me that although they are never new, ideas can be washed and distilled, sometimes playfully, sometimes with the focus of wolves, distilled into values that can inform every breath of your life.