These first days of February, I have been reflecting about the nature of this season in which many different world cultures seem to celebrate the same process of moving from darkness to light, from cold to warmth, from wintery rest to busy Spring. The promise of blossoming life. A promise, we are told in Celtic myth, that is based on the cauldron of Ceridwen, on the fire tended by Brigid. All life, it is said, comes from a sort of Womb of Being. And it is only fitting that we ascribe inspiration, passion and the urge to create to that same ever-pregnant womb.
But what gives when the Divine Feminine of myth and lore, and especially of current Earth-based revival practices, falls back to motherhood as the be-all, end-all of being a woman? And to throw ritual affairs even further back in the history of thought, a kind of motherhood which remains submissive and will-less even when faced with abuse. The Earth weeps with centuries of human hybris, but she certainly will not forever forgive and forget. It already is payback time for Mother Gaia.