Cold Threshold

Down at the creek, it is not just the Indian plum announcing spring, now. Also the snowberries, and the wild roses, all tipped with tender buds. Sayre sends me his “sidewalk omen” of the day: pictures of pairs of daffodils and popsicle stick fortunes and tales of sexy black cats. We agree that there is something in the air, about innocence and sex and magic. That this is the doorway, now.

And it’s also true that yesterday, in the field above Acer the Big-Leafed Maple, there was a flock of robins at least 20 strong. They have not given up their winter behavior for the pairing and courtship of spring.

Threshold. Hovering here.

Tonight, I flocked with my girls, drank chile-laced tequila, my concession to a wicked cold. Today, and in the days since winter camp, I have received texts and messages from the brave and beloved witches who are all over this land, working for magic or justice or joy or the simple revolution of slow pleasure in the seasons. I remember the feeling at the end of camp, the brief wavering: can I take this hard-won strength home? Can I take what I have found in this winter place out, and put it in service in the world?

And Jen Byers, saying to us all, as we prepared to say goodbye: “We have to stay connected. None of us do this work alone.”

I’ve heard that so many times before. Never believed it this way.

And I realized that I actually do love Facebook! I do believe in standing, with many hands on my shoulder, on the threshold of the season, the world, and loving all my witches, my beloveds, my allies in the air and fire, water and earth, feeling them behind me and above and below as I reach down and dig into the ripening soil of spring.