February 2026

February’s Whisper: The Last Stretch Before Spring

As January’s icy grip finally loosens, we step—perhaps with slightly less hesitation—into February, that quiet herald of change. The days that once crawled beneath leaden skies now carry a new rhythm. The darkness that stretched so long into afternoon begins to fold back, like a curtain lifting on a long-awaited performance. The sun, still shy, lingers a few precious minutes longer each evening, painting the rooftops in hues of soft gold.

It’s been a winter of shadows—weeks of grey days, relentless rain, and the snow storms that clung to the edges of our resolve. Many of us have felt the weight of those dark, dreary weeks, the kind that seep into your bones and whisper doubts about ever seeing green again. But now, just when winter feels most unrelenting, nature begins to conspire with hope.

Look down. Beneath the damp earth, life stirs. Snowdrops—those brave little sentinels in white—have already pierced the soil, their delicate bells nodding in the chill breeze. Nearby, crocuses push through in bursts of purple, yellow, and white, defiant blooms that seem to laugh at the cold. These aren’t just flowers; they’re declarations. The earth, restless and dreaming, is waking up.

And the days—oh, the days are changing. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible until you pause and notice: dinner hour now arrives with twilight still softening the sky, not pitch black. The morning light filters through your window with a little more insistence, coaxing you not to stay under the covers quite so long.

Here’s the secret that February knows: we’re almost through. With only 28 days until the official arrival of spring, we’re not just enduring winter anymore—we’re emerging from it. This final stretch can be the hardest, a kind of emotional and physical fatigue set in by months of shorter days and cold. But it’s also the threshold. Every crocus, every lengthening day, every bird call that carries earlier in the morning—they’re signs not just of nature’s renewal, but of our own reawakening.

So yes, there may still be rain. There may still be mornings where frost blankets the world in silence. But now, with every passing day, the light gains. The earth breathes deeper. And we, alongside it, take heart.

The dark days are almost over. Spring isn’t just coming—she’s already on her way, tiptoeing in on snowdrop stems and crocus petals. Hold on. We’re nearly there!

Shedding skin

It’s not just winter that’s nearly over—frost is fracturing underfoot, yes, and the light lingers longer each dusk, but something deeper is stirring. The Year of the Snake is shedding its silken, secretive skin, slipping silently into memory, coiled now in the wisdom of what was whispered and wound. And with a thunder of hooves against the thawing earth, the Year of the Horse surges forward—mane flying, breath steaming, full of fire and freedom. This is no gentle transition; it’s a charge across the threshold, a call to ride boldly into open plains of possibility. Where the snake knew patience, the horse knows momentum. Where silence ruled, now there’s a rhythm, a gallop in the pulse of the world. Saddle up—direction awaits!

February Moot

On 21 February, we'll be welcoming Tracey Gee who'll be talking to us about spiritual connection.  Tracey is a fabulous psychic and spiritual medium.  We're very much looking forward to this moot, when we'll also telling you all about our very own moot ghost!

Have a very blessed February

Annie J )o(

 

January 2026

Embracing the Stillness: A Journey Through the Celtic Dark Winter

As the earth curls into the heart of winter, the world between Yule (Winter Solstice) and Imbolc becomes a sacred pause—a hush where the light lingers in slumber, and darkness reigns with quiet authority. In the Celtic wheel of the year, this 6-week period is sometimes known as The Dark Winter, a time of stillness, rest, and inner reflection. It’s a stretch of days where the sun climbs just a little higher each morning, imperceptibly, but surely, and where the seeds of spring are hidden beneath the frost.

The Celtic Wheel: A Time Between Worlds

The Celts marked the year with four greater festivals—Yule, Imbolc, Beltane, and Lammas—and four lesser ones. Between each stood a threshold, a season of transition. The Dark Winter, nestled between the solstice and the first stirrings of spring, is a time of gestation as much as it is a time of cold. Yule, with its bonfires and evergreens, celebrates the rebirth of the sun. Imbolc, just ahead, heralds the awakening of Brigid’s flame and the subtle promise of new life. In between, the world is suspended in a cocoon of shadow, where the work of the previous year is digested, and the soul is invited to turn inward.

Themes of Rest and Introspection

Modern life often pressures us to do—to plan, to achieve, to move forward. But The Dark Winter invites a different rhythm. In the Celtic tradition, this is a time to rest, to dream, and to prepare. The land is bare, the nights stretch deep into morning, and nature seems to hold its breath. It’s a reminder that stillness is not stagnation. Just as the roots of trees grow deeper in the cold, we too are called to deepen—through reflection, rest, and intuitive work.

This is a season for:

Journaling: What does your soul need to release? What dreams linger in the shadows?

Dreamwork: Winter dreams are often rich with symbols—keep a journal by your bed.

Creativity: The quiet days invite crafting, writing, or art projects that nourish your spirit.

Honouring Cycles: Reflect on the turning wheel of your own life—loss, rest, renewal.

Rituals to Honor the Dark

While Yule’s fires may have died down, The Dark Winter offers its own sacred practices. Here are a few to connect with this time:

 

Create a Dark Winter Altar: Use evergreens, candles (white or blue for cold fire), stones, and symbols of patience, like holly or oak. Light a candle each week to mark the gradual return of sunlight.

The Cailleach’s Path: In Gaelic lore, the goddess Cailleach rules winter. Honour her by walking in the snow or forest, asking for her wisdom in endurance and resilience.

Imbolc Intentions: Begin planting intentions for next steps in your life. No need to act yet—simply set them aside like seeds, ready to sprout in February’s thaw.

A Night of Stillness: Choose one night to disconnect from screens. Sit by candlelight, meditate, or listen to the silence. Feel the depth of the dark as a cradle for growth.

Anticipating the Turning

Imbolc arrives with the first signs of spring: longer days, the melting snow, the first green shoots beneath the soil. This period is not just about enduring winter, but about preparing to welcome its opposite. Brigid’s fire will soon light the way; the goddess Cailleach may lay down her hammer. In the meanwhile, The Dark Winter teaches us to trust the silence, to know that birth follows hibernation.

In the Celtic tradition, this time was called Geimhreadh, the period of cold, but also the soul’s journey. As you move through January, consider:

What do you need to rest from?

What part of your life needs to “hibernate” to prepare for renewal?

What has Yule given you that’s ready to take root?

Conclusion: The Wisdom of the Midwinter

The Dark Winter is a gentle teacher. It asks us to slow down, to rest not as a last resort, but as an act of faith. In this stillness, we learn to trust the rhythm of the world—to know that after the longest night, the light will return. As you walk through these cold weeks, may you find the courage to embrace shadow, the patience to wait, and the quiet strength of roots growing deep in the dark.

When the first snowdrops pierce the soil in late January or early February, you’ll remember this—this sacred space between endings and beginnings. This is the magic of The Dark Winter: it is not a blank space, but a cradle of possibility.

May your days be warm with the lingering light of Yule, and your heart steady as you await the turning of the wheel at Imbolc. 🌿🕯️

Annie J )o(