Imbolc- Candlemass- The Lambing
The Lambing
The stinging sleet was blowing sideways. It
stung the face and chilled the fingers to the bone. The sky was February grey.
In the distance the she could hear the ewe. It was labouring loudly. Tiny white
feet were already showing. Wiping the wet from her face she walked slowly
towards the ewe. Distracted and upset the ewe barely notice her presence. She
ran her hand over the slick sweetly pungent wool. The ewe calmed some. Just
having someone there, sending the message with her touch It will be alright, you are not alone was often enough for some frightened new
mothers. The sheep shuddered and a nose appeared. The ewe panted more heavily
and the head was almost out. Speaking softly old words that had no meaning but
meant everything , the woman knelt one knee onto the soft wet grass. Then in
one swift motion the little grey lamb landed heavily on the grass. The woman
didn’t pick it up but waited. It wasn’t moving, no breath just yet. The ewe
hadn’t moved. It still heaved and sighed. More feet started to show. The woman
sighed. She began to rub the lamb on the ground. Her numb hands becoming slick
with warm wet life and blood. The lamb shivered. She tried to make him stand
but he couldn’t even open his eyes. Taking off her scarf she wrapped the limp
body and placed him inside her coat. The next lamb had turned quickly and was
born more quickly. Just as grey and lifeless she waited for the ewe to turn,
and lick them into life. She didn’t. All the afterbirth came quickly too. It
was clean and had no infection. The ewe turned and looked at the grey wet thing
on the ground. The woman rubbed the afterbirth on the ewe’s nose. She snorted
and turned away.
“Damn.”
She picked up the other lifeless grey body
and placed it inside her coat. She turned, walking into the bitter wind towards
the dark grey smudge in the distance. The pungent smell began to rise from the
bodies inside her coat. Singing old lullabies softly under her breath she put
her numb feet one after the other until she reached her stone steps. As she
opened the door a waves of warmth and silence embraced her. The wind no longer
singing in her ears her own voice singing sounded strange to her. The oven was
still warm from the wood she had placed carefully placed before she had gone
outside. The old applewood made the room
smell sweet. The little bodies she placed on an old towel and she wrapped them
together. She placed them into the oven leaving the door open. She took off her
coat and put the kettle on. When her fingers began to feel fully she found a
small stump of a candle in the draw by the sink. She lit it with a match from a
large, scruffy box from the same draw. The room was then filled with light and
dancing shadows. She placed the candle on small saucer that had long since lost
it’s cup. The slick from her hands was drying but she smeared what she could in
a circle around the lip of the saucer and then washed her hands in the sink.
The kettle began to whistle starting her back to the room. She dried her hands
and made herself tea. She moved back to the oven and waited. The tea was strong
and sweet and warmed all the way down her throat. A shadow came to the door. An
ancient dog stood there, his tail thumping against the door frame. He sniffed
and groaned and he came and lay by the open oven door. Suddenly the lambs began
to cry. Their tiny voices urgent and insistent.
The woman smiled and reached into the oven and took out the grey twin
lambs. The old dog wrapped his body around them and licked them clean. The
woman found two bottles and made up some milk. Kneeling again she feed the
lambs together, their tails wagging excitedly as they butted to get more milk,
though it didn’t come any faster. When they were feed she found an old chair
and settled down, boots still on and just rested her eyes. She woke to the
smell of cooking.
“Can you spare sometime today to go to the
stone?”
He nodded and kissed the top of her head.
At the standing stone the wind still
whipped wickedly but the sleet was holding off.
Nearby the woman and man buried the bundle full of gifts carefully saying
little until they were done. Stamping their feet they chatted about what was to
come over the next week and headed back to the warmth of the farm kitchen.
While the above story is a fiction, this is how I remember Imbolc, as The Lambing. The smells are of milk and blood and of the cold, and of whiskey, woodsmoke and warm tea. It is not about snow drops (the kind we were worried about that could kill or make our lives miserable). As an uncomfortable urbainite these days the trops of this holiday in the pagan world are often laughable and very alien to me.
Traditions differ place to place, community to community, even farm to farm. It is not surprising to me that it was an important or holy time of year. Much of this Mighty Isles wealth came from wool until last few centuries. Sheep have changes our landscape. They are strange creatures, wily as a fox, and dumb as box of wet hair. I think sheep get a bad rep really. That have a mob mentality. On it's own a sheep can be smart, even cunning and dangerous in it's own right. When they get spooked they will throw themselves off, through and into things (the way that we were told lemmings did) and will get hurt, stuck, or injured that way. They have strange eyes too, almost demonic, but they are just a humble farmyard animal.
This is also the time of year when hunters would take their Jack Russels and nets to stem the rabbits before the first sowing of barley or wheat.
In some places or traditions there would be Brides or dolls, or St Brigids Wheels. Our rites were simple. The first two cawls/or afterbirths were collected. One was buried near a boundary stone, and one was burned in the hearth (yes it stank). There was not a big fuss because everyone was cold and tired, not like the end of some getting in the hay, or even the potato or turnip harvest late in the year. No it was unspoken. If it was a good year, no one wanted to jinx it, if it was bad, no-one wanted to make it worse.
Holy stones, and standing stones got offerings, but they were subtle and everyone pretended it didn't happen.
You can get one of your own here.
Incense is something I usually make way in advance of a holy day. I am still to make my Imbolc blend. Yet I know it will have a pinch of powder milk in it, to honour those tails quivering like the catkins in the rough winds. Things unspoke about the future of the year, too delicate to say aloud sit just behind my lips and I would not speak them just yet.
The snow here has been amusingly pathetic, even compared with a few miles up the road but the birds appreciate the shelter and the food there. Yet the snow has washed away much of the old and as the blue sky waxes (and wanes) new beginnings seem to be creeping, pushing through.
Bright Blessings xxx
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