The blessed day of Imbolc turned out to be a rough one for me. I spent most of the day with my dad (almost 91 years old), who seems to be weakening more and more. It is hard to see a beloved parent having difficulty with even the simplest everyday tasks. Harder still to watch him become a shadow of the wonderful, vital man he once was.
I left the island on the morning high tide, which was higher than usual because of last night’s nor’easter. Quite a wild storm to usher in the Quickening Tide. On the ferry, I read over a printout of this article on Imbolc by famed dowser Sig Lonegren. I especially liked the part where he can’t find a certain book. “In desperation,” he writes, “I said out loud, ‘Bridget, help me find that book.’ My hand was on it within five seconds. Call Her, She’ll come to you.”
Call Her, She’ll come to you.
I drove through acres of farmland and corn fields turned into lakes after a month of steady rain, singing my heart out to “Brigid Upon the Highland,” including the two new verses that Craig wrote yesterday.
By the time I arrived at the assisted living home where my dad lives, it was pouring rain again. I spent an hour or two with him, paying his bills, doing the wash, making some phone calls for him, checking his email, setting up his medication box for the week. He fell a few days ago, and while he didn’t break any bones, his skin is quite thin and tears easily. I changed the bandages on the lacerations on his upper arm. Then I headed out to run some errands for him. When I returned a couple of hours later, the bandage was soaked through with blood — so was his shirt, his fleece vest, the pillow he was leaning on and the recliner that he sat in. Instead of calling the nurse, he had calmly waited for me to return. So we did the whole process again, this time adding more bandages and wrapping the arm a bit more tightly. I arranged for a nurse to come by to check on him. Then I washed the blood out of the shirt, the vest, the pillowcase, the recliner. It was only after I left that I allowed myself to come a bit unglued.
As I drove home, frazzled and sad, I thought back to a “meaningful coincidence” (the definition of synchronicity, right?) that had happened while I was running errands. I went to a local department store to have my dad’s wristwatch repaired, only to discover that it wasn’t worth the cost of repairing. So I went over to the accessories department, and picked out a similar watch in my price range. It was in a locked case and there was no clerk in sight. I found someone from another department to help me. She must have tried two dozen different keys with no luck, as I patiently waited. (It’s at times like this that having a Taurus moon comes in quite handy.) Finally she said, “That’s it, I’m going to call Brigit.”
What? My ears perked up. She made a call and a few minutes later, a big beautiful woman with flaming red hair walked up to us. Her nametag read, “BRIGIT”. I thought to myself, “This is not a coincidence!” Brigit picked up a small silver key, unlocked the case, handed me the watch, smiled and said, “There you go.”
We completed the transaction, me with a silly grin on my face. I couldn’t resist asking, “Did you know today is St. Bridget’s Day?”
“Oh, that’s right, I’d forgotten,” she answered. “Me da told me I was named for her. She did something with potatoes, I think, though I can’t remember what.”
“Well,” I twinkled at her, “She was a goddess before she was a saint . . .” She looked at me with a quizzical expression on her face as I thanked her and said goodbye.
I think the Lady just wanted me to know She was with me.
Here are two of my favorite articles on Brigit and Imbolc: