A Meditation on the Spring Equinox

It is just before dawn. You stand outside, your eyes closed, just breathing in the spring air. Birdsong is clear, a happy cacophony of trills and warbles, as the birds call out for mates, and greet the sun that rises earlier each day.

There is a different sound to the breeze; instead of the quiet click of bare branches, there begins to be soft rustlings, as flowers dance and new leaves flutter in joy, drinking in the sunshine.

You open your eyes, and look down at where you are standing. Imbolc’s mud is gone, and you see instead grass springing from the land, sweet and succulent, beckoning the deer that have subsisted on dry winter forage for months.

You look to the west, where there is still darkness; the rising sun has not yet touched it. Think about the winter just passed, and what you wish to leave behind there. Spring marks new beginnings, and new beginnings call for fresh ideas, fresh views, and a yearning to create.

See a compost heap in the western part of this meadow. This is where projects that no longer have a place in your life rest, their parts and seeds decomposing to create fertilization for those things you wish to bring forward now.

You see a fenced off area a few yards away. This is your growing ground for the year. What does the fence look like? A short, white picket creation? Tall and netted, to prevent the woodland creatures from taking nourishment before you can harvest? A simple wall of stone and mud? Look carefully at this wall, and ask yourself if it serves the purpose you have in mind for the year.

You move toward the garden. Do you climb the fence, or is there a gate? Let yourself in.

The garden needs clearing. There are stones to move. There are old, dead plants to pull up and take to the compost heap. There are tools waiting for you — rake and hoe, spade and shovel. And there is a huge basket that holds seeds — — but they don’t all look like seeds.

Some are pens for writing; some are bells for calling; some are tiny hammers and saws for building; some are sheets of music for dancing or singing your ideas into the world.

“Lots in there to choose from,” says a warm voice. You turn, recognizing those cheerful tones, and it is the Sun Child. You met him first as a newborn on the Winter Solstice, but now he is a rangy teenager. His grin is infectious. He is dressed the way a child might imagine a farmer to dress: overalls and a checkered shirt, mud boots, a big straw hat and gloves in his pocket.

“I think the stones need to go first, don’t you?” he remarks. He gestures. “I can’t lift these, though — they’re yours.”

He tosses you a pair of sturdy gloves, and you begin.

On each stone is etched a little picture, symbolizing what the stone represents: a story you used to tell yourself that you’re done with. A relationship that withered in the winter cold. Manuscripts that went nowhere. Things you were told you had to do, or be, or have, that you know simply will not grow in the soil you claim.

Finally, the ground is empty of rocks. Then you start on the wizened stalks of last year’s beings and doings. You tug, you pull, you break up the soil that still holds them fast to the ground, and you take them over to the compost heap until the land in the garden is bare and ready for something new.

The Sun Child hands you a hoe and works next to you, helping to break up the packed soil, evening it out for planting. For a while, there is only the soft sound of metal scraping against the ground, dislodging the occasional pebble or getting caught in a tangle of stringy roots. “I watched you clean your house at Candlemas,” he muses. “Did that feel good? Getting all that old energy out? It’s going to be even better out here.”

At last, the ground is ready for planting. The Sun Child plops down next to the seed bucket and gleefully overturns it, the contents spilling onto the soil. “C’mon,” he says. “Get a little muddy and really look at what you’ve got.” You hunker down next to him, and go through the seed packets, the tokens of new ideas and new plans, sifting, weighing and deciding what you will plant and nourish.

You lay out three piles of seeds — three choices of creation — in front of the Sun Child, piling everything else back into the basket. He nods, smiling. “Looks good to me.” He holds out a hand and hauls you up, and the two of you make fine, neat rows in the garden, planting the seeds carefully, covering them well, adding fertilizer to help them grow strong and steady.

When you’re done, you swipe at your clothes, dislodging mud clumps and a few errant worms. You see that the Sun Child has already moved out into the field, and is lying on the grass. You join him, feeling the meadow welcome you.

He gestures. “Clouds look busy today. Lots of play up there. What do you see?” And you lie back, watching the clouds form — birds and dragons, lions and rabbits, and creatures you have no name for at all.

There’s a noise, and you raise yourself up in wonder: all the animals that you saw in cloudforms have landed in the meadow — sleeping, playing, enjoying the warmth and the comfort. “Why are you surprised?” chuckles the Sun Child. “Ideas are always floating around in your head before the come to earth in form, don’t they?”

You look around, fascinated by the creatures that seem made of mist and wind. The Sun Child hops to his feet, once more offering you a hand to stand. “Just remember that what you think and what you dream are likely to show up between now and Solstice. So think good things and dream your desires. Don’t waste what we’ll give you.” You get a brief, warm hug and the light flares; you blink, and you are alone in the meadow, the sun high in the sky, already warming the ground where your new projects are ready to sprout.

You go to your garden and lean in, silently cheering on the new growth, and promising to tend it well.

If you enjoyed reading this but want to go a little deeper into the meditation, I’ve recorded this for you: go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=muj1iJd8Lew for a full experience!