03/08/2025
My dearest ones, from my warm little corner of The Burrow where the hearth fire crackles and the kettle hums, I greet you with a breath of candlelight and a whisper of jasmine on the edge of the wind. The Witch’s Sabbat of Imbolc is almost upon us, arriving with the softest footfall tomorrow, Friday the 1st of August, and though the land still slumbers deep in Winter’s dark dream, there is a shiver of promise stirring in the stillness. This is the holy hinge between the depths of cold and the trembling breath of Spring. And oh, my darlings, how I feel her, Brigid, moving closer.
My very first Witchcraft teacher, the luminous Calypso Rose, would always become giddy and bright eyed around this time of year. She’d laugh and clap her hands and declare with absolute joy, “Brigid is coming, Brigid is coming!” Her love for this Sabbat lit up even the darkest of winter days. She would open the windows just a crack, even in the freezing air, to let the Goddess find her way in. She taught me to listen not just with my ears, but with my bones and blood, for the faintest music of returning life, the rustle of dandelion roots, the sigh of seeds beginning to dream.
Imbolc is ancient, older than ink and older than iron. It comes to us from the hearths of the Celtic peoples, whose lives were braided tightly with the rhythms of the Earth. The word Imbolc is said to mean “in the belly,” and it is the time when the ewes begin to lactate and swell with life, when milk returns to the land and the Goddess stirs beneath the frost. It is a time of inward flame, of quiet vigils and candles lit in windows against the long night.
The Goddess of Imbolc is Brigid, the radiant one, the forge keeper, the healer, the poetess of fire and water alike. She is a triple goddess in her own right. The midwife of Spring, the guardian of sacred wells and springs, the protectress of bards and witches. Her fire is not the roaring blaze of Summer but the steady flame that refuses to go out, even when the wind howls and the cold claws at your door. She walks barefoot through the frost, leaving tiny blossoms where she passes, her cloak trailing milk and stars.
And the faeries. Ah, yes, they too are drawn to her glow. The quietest of the Winter fae follow Brigid’s gentle steps, bringing blessings to those who honour her with reverence and flame. It is said in some old corners that the fae rest through the bitter cold, huddled in hollow hills and tree roots, and that Imbolc is their first stirring, the first flutter of wings beneath the earth, the first faerie sigh in the frost.
Here at The Burrow, I always know Imbolc is drawing near when the jasmine awakens. It has always been a loyal herald, erupting in sudden, sweet profusion around this time, its tiny white stars spilling over the trellises and hedges like blessings from another world. Every year I gather it, with thanks and song, and dry it gently by the hearth. It becomes the scented lace of so many spell jars, teas, incense bundles and bath soaks through the year, binding magick with fragrance and softness. Though this year, the cold has lingered longer than usual and the buds are still shy, tightly curled in their green and pink cocoons. The jasmine knows, though. It always knows when to come.
We are expecting a biting turn soon, with a sharp east coast low rolling in, wrapping the land in bitter winds and sleeting skies. But even that cannot stop the slow miracle that Imbolc brings. Life is already quickening in secret. Deep in the soil, the first roots stretch. The birds call just a little longer in the morning. The sun, though weak and low, is shifting ever so slightly in the sky.
If you sit very still, cup of herbal tea in hand, shawl wrapped tight, and press your palm to the earth, you may feel her too. A thrum. A song. A heartbeat.
And so, beloved ones, I offer you this Winter spell, crafted in honour of Brigid and this sabbat of hidden flame.
Gather together: a white candle, for Brigid’s fire, a small bowl of milk or oat milk, for nourishment and blessing, a pinch of dried jasmine or rosemary if jasmine has not yet flowered, a sprig of evergreen or ivy, a quartz crystal, clear and true, a silver coin or something precious, to offer to the fae, a bowl of water from rain, spring or sea.
From this evening or anytime until two weeks hence, place your hands around the bowl of water and whisper into it all your hopes and wishes for the months to come. Anoint the candle with the water and light it, saying:
Brigid of the flame and forge
Brigid of the sacred well
Kindle in me a spark of hope
In this dark and frozen spell
Drop the herbs into the water, float the evergreen atop it, and place the crystal within. Let the candle burn down safely, and when it is done, leave the coin at the base of a tree or in your garden as an offering to the fae. Keep the bowl on your altar for three days and then return the water to the earth, whispering thanks.
This is a time to tend not roaring fires, but the little embers within. To honour your dreams still forming in the deep. To hold your own self with gentle hope and trust the thaw will come. To celebrate the brave and beautiful beginning of new life that still hides beneath winter’s cloak.
So let us welcome Brigid, as Calypso would, with joy and love and songs by candlelight. Let us festoon our homes in flowers, or promises of flowers. Let us sip tea and dream and stitch our intentions quietly into the world.
The frost still clings to the windows here at The Burrow and the jasmine still holds its breath but I feel her coming. The old magick is moving again. Brigid is coming. Brigid is coming.
With flickering flame and jasmine scented blessings
Tori, The Burrow Witch ###ooo
