Let Yourself Belong to This...
- Christine Laura
- 4 days ago
- 6 min read
Early May is Beltane season in Celtic-pagan worlds, a time to celebrate fertility and creativity along with the full-out splendour of Spring (a Northern hemisphere holiday that is celebrated in October, in the South).
From an eco-psychology perspective, Beltane presents us with a symbolic opportunity, each year as the seasons reliably change (thank goodness). We may feel drawn to tasks like planting seeds, making wishes, and allowing ourselves to feel longing...to connect with our bodies in new ways after the winter...it is a time of hope and desire and being present with the Earth and with each other (in as healthy - but possibly somewhat ebullient - ways as possible...after all, there is not much to stop a stream full of spring run-off - and would you want to?)
I love these words about Beltane by the wonderful Brigit Anna McNeill:
"Beltane is here and in full bloom, the land opening in every direction.
Sap rising through branch and stem, seedlings pushing upward through softened ground, the soil alive with wild growth rising through it.
Hawthorn opens along the hedgerows, blossom thick and fragrant, pollen drifting softly through the air, settling on skin, on breath, on everything it touches.
Wildness is rising, unfolding steadily, carrying both beauty and desire.
It is a time to mark the wild fire that moves through as a living spark, a quickening that travels through branch, root, and body alike.
It stirs what has been waiting, drawing it closer to the surface, asking it into shape through heat, through breath, through the steady act of tending, until it begins to glow,
gathering strength, finding its way toward form, toward voice, toward light.
Wildness moves through everything, it rises and gathers, drawing us into creation, into the making of our own lives, into the work of tending what is ours to grow.
Fertility lives not only in fields or bodies and birth, but in dreams, in long-held hopes, in plans that have been quietly forming.
This is the kind of aliveness that asks to be met and lived, drawing us into the work of tending our own ground, shaping our own lives, and moving with what the wild in us sets in motion
Hawthorn, the symbol of Beltane, holds this moment in their own body, blossom heavy, scent shifting between sweetness and something darker, the trace of decay woven through the bloom.
Bees come for the pollen, flies for what echoes of rot, and in this they draw both into the work of fertilisation, widening the chances of life taking hold.
Hawthorn reminds us through smell, that rot is always part of what comes next.
Sweetness and the unmistakable trace of death held close within it.
All seed filled, pollen encrusted beginnings carry the scent of death.
To grow is to split, to open, to shed what can no longer hold you.
What falls away nourishes what is coming into life.
Hawthorn also shows us, through branches thick with thorns, that living boundaries which cannot be passed through lightly are needed for the earth’s tender openings, and for our own.
Within them, nests are made, shoots are given time, and what is tender is protected from being taken too soon.
There is midwifery here, a guarding of what is coming into being, a steady holding of the space it needs.
Let yourself belong to this.
To the warmth, to the aliveness of it, to the quiet, steady beauty of life continuing in its own way.
To the part of you that knows how to grow something true,
how to tend what is yours,
how to bring your own medicine into the world.
There is so much here that wants to live.
And you are part of it."
This time of year for us in the North is a good time to reflect on faith; on the power of alchemy, the magic of transformation, and the joy and hope of making wishes. In all of these ways, this season makes me think of the symbol of a cauldron: a holding place, known in countless fairy tales and folk tales for its power to brew spells and transformation. I love the richness of this symbol so much that I'm writing a whole novel about it (but that's for another blog post!); notably the Celtic witch Ceridwen is known for the magic and transformation that unfolds from her cauldron. The gift of creativity - and especially poetry - knows as "awen" in Celtic spirituality - is considered to be brewed in the metaphorical cauldron of one's inner spirit, and is likewise something to be tended, as over a just-right fire.
On the topic of fairy tales, this time of year when the rivers are melting and flowing freshly, when spring rains help water new growth and in some parts of the world monsoon season approaches - I love to reflect on the power of a "good cry," the kind that in a story might bring transformative tears, symbolizing the magic that can happen when emotions are felt, expressed, and shared.
The "good cry" in fairy tales also often comes at a time when the hero/ine has encountered one too many obstacle, and has to admit defeat - or at least bitter frustration - with an un-selfconscious release of tears. In many of these stories, it is the arrival at a place of utter hopelessness - alone, perhaps lost, scared and bewildered - that in fact brings the next transformative stage of growth: sometimes a helper (human or not) hears the cries and comes to help; other times it is the tears themselves that transform. There is a physiological phenomenon that occurs when we cry, and it can have a great clearing power for the psyche and the mind. It can lead to new insights that may not have come if our absolute desolation was not expressed; and it also acts as a pressure valve, as with a volcano (if we imagine the emotion to be sadness, hopelessness or grief instead of the anger associated with volcanoes). That energy needs to go somewhere, and often, with a good cry, a state of flow can be restored in our system, allowing for new ideas and opportunities to come where before they were blocked.
Alchemy in all forms: new growth below the surface, waiting to come through at the right time, with the right conditions nurtured.
The cauldron of transformation can also apply to the creative process, much like a cocooning caterpillar or an incubating seed: something is coming, and it needs time, and careful tending. It takes a great deal of skill to know when to pause, when to add new elements, and when to let nature (or the passing of time) work its magic (often considered "doing nothing" to the outside world). I recently read a blog post about cauldrons and transformation (among other things), and the line the author used, "the terror of incubation," has really stuck with me. It can be so painful to be in the alchemical muck: pre-transformation, but post-life-before-the-change.
Waiting. Wondering if the tending you are doing will work. Praying (even if you have never done so before). Asking for help, perhaps, in new or challenging ways, pattern-breaking ways. Waiting some more.
It's a liminal space with a lot of power, if we can surrender to it. (This has me thinking of my recent blog post at Girl Between Places, about the hallways between doors of opportunity). There are many layers and they overlap sometimes 🤍
And the rain, and the compost, and the new warmth in the air - all of these matter as much as patience and trust (I'm mixing my metaphors now for sure, but the earth is a kind of cauldron, is it not?) And at Beltane, we can celebrate all those elements that combine to make new life: hope, effort, water, sun, desire, and commitment. It's a time to feel the magic of being alive, and take small steps (or maybe big leaps) in the direction of your dreams. A time for wild hope and gratitude, even with all the difficult - and in some cases horrific - things happening in the world.
What's in your cauldron of creativity this Spring?
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