Trusting Winter: Imbolc’s Ancestral Lessons

A love letter to winter’s medicine (from a gay homesteady witch who still doesn’t like the cold).

“Cover Connection” by Hunter Page, used with permission

Well my lovely friends, the Wheel of the Year is turning again — and winter is still with us in the northern hemisphere.

In Pagan and Celtic tradition, February 1st is Imbolc (pronounced eem-olck). Or in Welsh, Gŵyl Forwyn (Maiden Festival).

Imbolc is that delicious midpoint between Yule/Midwinter Solstice and Ostara — when winter is still very much here, but the light starts whispering, “Don’t worry, I’m coming back.”

Imbolc is also known as Brigid’s Day — Brigid being that beautiful Celtic goddess of fertility, healing, fire and inspiration. I could share much more about Brigid, but I’m going to keep it cute and on topic.

Imbolc has woven traditional meanings tied to both ritual cleansing and pregnant ewes who are getting ready to lamb. In other words: we’re cleansing and preparing the space for that which is gestating but moving closer and closer to birth.

And wow, do I feel that. I’m in that tender in-between where I still (energetically) feel I’m in the dark cocoon of winter, but I am starting to sense the first tiny shoots of spring energy pushing up underneath it all.

And here’s a plot twist: As I explained in my previous article about Yule/Winter Solstice, I’ve found a deeper appreciation for winter over the years as I’ve deepened into my magickal and animistic practices. (Seriously, who am I?)

A.C. (my cute hubby) and I have been working to live more in rhythm with the seasons — not just aesthetically (especially our low-light, lamp-lit winter evenings), but practically. And honestly? Being fully self-employed and living on a small farm these last few years has brought a plethora of both gifts and challenges.

It’s challenged us to stop living like every month is “go-go-go season” (which is still a work in progress) and to start asking a very old, very ancestral question: What does this season (whatever it is) actually want from us?

Because here’s the thing: winter has a PR problem.

Reframing Winter

Winter is the season our culture loves to shit on and try to avoid — it’s too dark, too cold, too depressing, too “can we skip ahead to spring already?” And I get it. I’ve had plenty of winters where I treated February like a personal enemy. But as my magickal practice has deepened, I’ve been learning to relate to winter differently.

Not like I’m forced to endure it… but like I’m being nourished and initiated by it.

Yes, Imbolc absolutely stirs up that itchy, anxious excitement for spring — a kind of holy restlessness, that feeling that something is about to bloom. And there’s also real medicine in letting winter be winter. In appreciating what it gives the Earth, what it gives the non-human world, and what it gives us.

Many earth-honoring cultures (including my own ancestors in the ancient Celtic world) understood the seasons as relationships — not inconveniences. They knew temperature, weather, light, and land as living forces. They honored the gifts of each season, and they moved with those cycles the way you’d move with a beloved (maybe sometimes moody) relative: with respect, attention, and a little humility.

For many of our ancestors, winter wasn’t “dead time.” Winter was sacred slow time — a season to rest, dream, and deeply nourish body and soul.

And nature preaches this sermon every year, whether we listen or not.

Trees go quiet. Plants go dormant. Animals hibernate or shift into a slower rhythm. But let’s be clear: this isn’t laziness. This is underworld work.

Beneath the surface, everything is still moving. Perennial plants pull nutrients down into their roots like they’re stashing supplies for a long journey. They build up the energy they’ll need to burst back into visible beauty come spring.

Even the soil becomes a cozy little coven of unseen activity — roots, fungi, microorganisms, all sharing resources and keeping the ecosystem alive while the world has withered to sleep.

Winter teaches me (over and over) that rest is not the opposite of growth. Rest is where growth is being brewed.

And because we’re an interconnected part of the natural world (not somehow “above it” because we have Wi‑Fi and central air), our bodies and souls have that same instinct: slow down when the world goes quiet.

But modern Western culture is basically like, “Hell no! You can force yourself to keep being productive with all of our modern technology!”

So most of us keep sprinting through winter like some weird obstacle course. And we naturally get tired and exhausted more easily. Then we tell ourselves we’ll rest on Spring Break, or a summer vacation.

And listen, I’ve lived that way too — and I’m still not free from that colonized thinking. So no shame. Just noticing.

And if we’re honest, it’s not just exhaustion — it’s disconnection.

Could it be that our cultural disdain for winter is actually grief in disguise? Grief that we’ve forgotten how to truly rest, slow down, and nourish ourselves the way the non-human world does.

Over the last several years as I have deepened my connection to the Ancestors and better attuned myself to the Wheel of the Year, I have learned some valuable lessons about winter. And while there are plenty of moments I find myself anxious for Spring and/or traveling to warmer destinations, I am able to ground back more easily by reflecting on the teachings the Earth and my ancestors have taught me.

Here are a few lessons winter keeps teaching me (whether I’m ready or not):

Nourishing Body & Soul

Winter keeps teaching me the same sacred truth every year: when the light gets scarce, life doesn’t stop — it goes inward.

Plants and animals don’t treat winter like a failure to thrive. For them, it’s strategy. Energy gets conserved. Nutrients are pulled down into the roots. Systems are quietly reinforced so there’s something real to draw on when spring returns.

And the more I observe that, the more I’m like… duly noted. Message received, Great Mother!

For us humans, winter can be a sacred invitation to turn inward too — building emotional, mental, and spiritual strength. It’s a potent season for reading, learning, making things with our hands, tending the altar, and doing that slow soul work where the wounded parts of us finally get to exhale. (And yes, that includes those of us with calendars, email, and Netflix series we have to stay current with.)

On a very practical (and very “kitchen witch”) level, the last several winters since moving to our little farm have also taught me how much my food choices change the entire winter experience. Having food stored from the farm — canned, frozen, or simply the kind of winter-keepers (squashes, potatoes, onions, garlic, etc.) — has made winter feel less like deprivation and more like abundance shrouded in sweat pants (grey ones, to be sure) and a blanket.

It’s also been an invitation for A.C. and I to better plan our meals around what we’ve grown, gathered, and preserved, instead of living off whatever the grocery store shipped in from far away. Which, in its own small way, feels like a devotional act: feeding ourselves in a way that’s more aligned with land, season, and body.

Dreaming and Planning

Another sacred lesson that winter has taught me is that rest isn’t just about sleeping.

Rest is also about creating enough inner quiet to hear what your deeper knowing has been trying to say all along.

For me, winter has become sacred time for dreaming, planning, and gentle brainstorming — not the frantic, “oh-shit-I’ve-got-to-hurry” kind. More like the “light a candle, ask a better question, and then actually listen” kind.

Because when you’re attuned to the Wheel, you start to see that ideas have seasons too. Winter is where they gestate. And Imbolc is where they start kicking like, “Hey girl. I’m growing. Let’s talk and start dreaming up a birthing plan.”

On the practical “farm” side of things, over the last five years since purchasing our farm, A.C. and I have been steadily expanding the gardens and inviting more biodiversity in — more fruits, vegetables, herbs, and flowers (aka: more non-human friends to weave into our biodiverse little gay funny farm).

And yes, the seeds will soon show up in the mail and suddenly the forthcoming spring starts to get very real. Because the planning you do now becomes the harvest you live on later (and the next few months will go by way too quickly).

On the soul-and-business side of things, these winters have also been a season of listening for how I want to serve my people — how to support clients more deeply, and how to create content that feels genuinely nourishing instead of just “posting for the algorithm.”

At the same time, winter dreaming also reminds me of this: the season moves slowly, but time does not. Spring will arrive whether I’m ready or not… so I’m also learning to let winter be my planning partner instead of a procrastination excuse — balancing the real need for rest with gentle actions required for my dreaming and planning.

Learning to Confront the Uncomfortable

Along our journey, in true farmstead fashion, we got animals. Which means confronting winter became… mandatory.

After moving to our farm, we soon welcomed laying hens and three adorable baby boy alpacas. And ever since, the winters have required more regular “go outside, Joseph” moments than I might prefer otherwise. Turns out our fluffy and feathered dependents don’t really care about my feelings or my temperature preferences.

So, more chores. More cold hands. More chipping ice off the water tank when the boys unplug their water tank warmer (I think we’ve fixed that now…). More bundling up like a practical witch instead of a dramatic one.

And honestly? It has been good medicine for me (although this winter has been eerily and alarmingly warmer than usual).

Because discomfort doesn’t always imply danger. Sometimes discomfort is an opportunity for initiation.

Being out in the cold (again and again) has taught me about resilience in a way my cozy indoor theories never could. It helps me build a steadier relationship with the parts of life that are uncomfortable but necessary — the parts that ask for presence, patience, rootedness, and a little grit.

Winter teaches me to stop resisting what’s here, and to find the beauty and purpose in it — even when I’m freezing and just want to go cozy up inside on the couch with a book, a blanket, and some tea.

In Summary

So here we are in the second half of winter. With Imbolc flickering like a tiny candle to gently anchor and nourish us in the dark — reminding us that light is returning, and that Spring is on the horizon.

If the last several winters have taught me anything, it’s this: you don’t have to love winter to receive its medicine. You just have to stop fighting it long enough to listen.

And to close things out, this little gay homesteading witch would love to offer you some invitations to sit with for the remainder of winter:

• Slow down, even a little.

• Rest without needing to earn it.

• Dream without rushing into a detailed action plan.

• Nourish what needs to gestate — in your body, your heart, your home.

And if you want to go a little deeper, here are three questions I’m sitting with this season. Feel free to borrow them and share with me what they stir for you:

1. What is beginning to stir in you for spring? What wants to be nurtured now, while it’s still in its “seedling in the dark” phase?

2. What are you ready to cleanse or release — not through force, but through devotion — so you can step into spring with more space in your spirit?

3. What part of you needs tenderness right now? What wounded place might finally speak if you gave it quiet, warmth, and a little compassion?

May your Imbolc be nourishing, warm, cozy, and quietly powerful — the kind of powerful that looks like good boundaries, nourishing soups, deep naps, and candles lit with intention.

May Brigid bless what you’re being called to birth.

And may your loving, wise, and well Ancestors be close, kind, and supportive.

Fendithion y Gaeaf (Winter’s Blessing)

Joseph

Photo: “Cover Connection” by Hunter Page, used with permission; visit www.hunterpagephotography.com for more beautiful photos of the Southern Utah desert.