At the Edge of Winter: Imbolc, Thresholds, and the Return of Light
image by Michele Walker
I’ve always struggled with celebrating the New Year on January 1st; it feels out of sync with both the earth and my body. It arrives as a sharp crossing, asking for momentum when the land is still resting. Over the past two years, I’ve been observing the Celtic quarter and cross-quarter days, and this shift has offered a more spacious and aligned way of moving through the year. I feel more attuned to the rhythms of the land, and my body recognizes these moments as thresholds—natural pauses where one season loosens its hold and another begins to approach.
Following a seasonal flow has shown me that January is not a month for getting busy, but a threshold month of long nights and short days. It is a time of standing between—between endings and beginnings, between rest and renewal. This is not a season for doing; it is a season for being, for lingering at the edge rather than rushing across it.
February 1st marks Imbolc, the Celtic cross-quarter day that falls halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Imbolc is often translated as “in the belly,” a reference to the time of year when lambs are born. When I consider this moment nestled deep within winter, I feel myself in that belly—held by darkness, earth, and moon—gestating at the threshold of what is not yet formed. This is a time for rest, dreaming, reflection, and tending the seeds of longing within me. I am not yet growing; I am preparing. Preparing to cross.
Imbolc is also a season when the earth begins to stir, when the earliest signs of spring quietly announce themselves at the edges—lengthening light, softening ground, subtle warmth returning. It is a threshold moment when winter has not yet released their grip, yet spring is already making themself known. To me, Imbolc feels more true as a New Year—a gentle crossing from winter’s deep dreaming toward awakening, carrying forward the spark of life discovered in the dark. It is a time for clearing what no longer belongs and making space to step, slowly and intentionally, toward what is becoming.
Threshold Walking: Listening at the Edges
Imbolc invites us to meet change not through urgency, but through attention. Threshold Walking is a practice of slowing down at the edges—places where one state meets another—and listening for what is beginning to stir.
Preparing
Begin at a doorway, gate, or natural boundary near your home. Feel your feet on the ground. Let your breath settle. You might quietly say:
I enter this walk with attention. I am willing to linger at the edge.
Allow the walk to be unhurried and without destination. Let the land and the more-than-human others shape your pace.
Walking the Thresholds
As you move, notice where thresholds appear:
where forest meets field
where snow thins and earth shows through
where water is frozen at the edges but flowing beneath
where light and shadow touch
When you arrive at one of these places, pause. Let your body settle. Notice who is present—trees, stones, water, birds, wind, the ground beneath your feet. Let them be companions and witnesses rather than scenery.
Listening at the Edge
Rather than seeking answers, listen with your senses and your body. You might gently wonder:
What is loosening here?
What is quietly approaching?
What is not ready to be crossed yet?
Allow the more-than-human others to speak through sensation—a change in temperature, a sound, a subtle pull of attention, a feeling of expansion or contraction in your body.
Crossing, or Staying
At some thresholds, you may feel invited to cross—to step from path into forest, from snow into mud, from light into shadow. At others, you may feel invited to remain exactly where you are.
Imbolc teaches discernment. Not every threshold is meant to be crossed yet.
Trust that staying, waiting, and listening are also forms of movement.
Offering and Closing
Before leaving a threshold, offer something in return: a breath, a word of gratitude, a moment of stillness. When your walk completes, pause once more at a doorway or boundary near home.
Place a hand on your heart or belly and acknowledge what you are carrying—not conclusions, but seeds.
I cross gently. I allow becoming to unfold in its own time.