Hobo, Chickens and Candlemas

I sat down to write as Hobo began his morning it's-time-to-let-the-chickens-out rub against my leg. I gave in, got up, slipped on boots and headed into the crisp, sunny morn. Emphasis on sunny. It's getting brighter earlier; the sun is more intense upon the skin. Imbolc, Ground Hog's Day or Candlemas, whatever you choose to call it, is one of my favorite holy days. I know the sun turned around with winter solstice but was hard put to feel it with curt  days and 18-degrees below zero. The seasonal shift was purely intellectual, far from the body. But now! The sun feels different upon the skin. It has a zing. Begin to awaken, it says, as we yawn from winter's deep dark to feel the surge and stirs towards spring.

It may be lighter and brighter but it was still 16-morning degrees when I stepped outside. I opened the gate to the chicken pen and lifted the wooden door to their house. Their melodic, soft drawn-out clucks serenaded me. But I only saw two. Where was the third? I made my way to the side hatch-sized panel and opened it and there it was. An egg! It's the first these hens have produced since they were purchased the previous summer. I picked up the cold-shelled wonder and put it my pocket as I thanked the girls.

I light yellow candles to bid the sun's return. I move my solstice tree from the inside of the house to the outside where I will burn it, a ritual flame to give thanks for the turn of the wheel. I will miss the colored lights and pine that have graced my spirit through the darkest time of the year, but it is time. The sun creeps north as I ask what part of my dreams still need illumination?

What egg -- new birth -- awaits the light of day?

Taos Sunrise