Living the Wheel: Seasonal Musings of the Pagan Year

Thoughts and musings of the wheel of the Pagan Year.

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The Child's Season


            I am home. It is Wednesday and I should be at work, but a migraine has commanded otherwise. I felt the first uneasy stirrings last night while hiding candy-filled eggs and overstuffed baskets for my sons, but I thought a good night’s sleep would set me to rights. Nope. Instead of working I am in bed, notebook propped on a pillow, a cool cloth on my forehead, listening to birds outside my window. I suppose there are worse ways to welcome Ostara.


            All is quiet indoors, the morning rush to get out the door is done. Remaining is the soft gurgle of the fish tank and an anticipatory hush, the waiting before energy and life come tumbling through the door when my husband and younger son return from work and school. My older son is home with me, but mindful of my current affliction he is silent, an almost ghostly presence, a gift he possesses which is in glaring contrast to his riotous personality.


            The chorus of birds perched in the crabapple tree outside my window are tiny mirror fragments of this; their cheeps and chirps an announcement of the season: “Here I am, come find me, it’s spring, come be with me.” The season has turned, their waiting is over, it is time for life to spring forth. Outside is frenetic anticipation: nests will be built, eggs will come, trees will bud and leaf. Chicks will burst out of eggs like my boy bursts through the door. A refrain of cries will follow them, “I am here, feed me, feed me!” not unlike my son’s “Mom we’re home! What’s for dinner? Can I cook?”


            Spring is the child’s season, I think. Everything is new, undiscovered, fresh. An adventure awaits every time they step out the door. There are worms to search for, birds’ nests to scan the trees for, and shell fragments to examine. My younger son is an avid collector of objects; whatever strikes his fancy comes home in his pockets or his backpack. Every flat surface becomes littered with evidence of his discoveries. Rocks, sticks, leaves, acorns, discarded wasps’ nests, dead beetles (and some live ones…I am waiting for the day a snake comes home); he delights in turning the dirt over in the garden to see what may be hidden beneath. Winter may be a time of magical mystery and summer glorious days of sun and water, but spring is something else. Spring is seeking, learning, growing. It is looking ahead and observing change. In the winter we look inward and contemplate change; in spring we act upon it.


            Nature has reawakened and will soon begin to grow. I observe this cycle in my son: at nine he is a bundle of energy, leggy as the colts that will arrive later in the season. He has recently had a growth spurt and those extra inches, combined with end-of-season cabin fever have sent him into a tailspin of movement and emotions. (Thank heaven for his Taekwondo classes or our couch-turned-trampoline would be no more.) Despite this, he still has moments of quiet wonder. The pussy willow branches I brought home from the store last night entranced him and he petted the puffs with a gentle finger, commenting on how they felt like our cat Momo’s fur. The full moon seen through the bedroom window this morning, brilliant silver against a cloudless sky stopped him in his exuberant search for his basket. He uttered a sincere “That’s amazing,” before charging off to continue his pursuit of candy.


            Like the new wildlife that will soon arrive, he will grow and learn. He will expand the skills that he already possesses and develop new ones. Young birds will learn to fly, he will learn how to skateboard. Fox kits will learn how to glide soundlessly through the undergrowth and my son will learn how to multiply fractions. In my eyes he is still a small child, this youngest child of mine, but I know that with each change of season, even with each new day, he is growing and maturing, learning about the world and himself, discovering who he is and what his place in this growing, changing world is. He will begin to come into his own this spring, this beautiful season of birth and new discoveries. As his parent I can only hope to guide him. I cannot command him; I should not tell him what is and is not. I need to let him discover what is and what can be on his own, and accept that my sweet boy, while still a child, is only a child for this brief period of time. I need to allow him to grow and change, but I can take solace in the knowledge that my boy will still come home to nest with me, snuggling in for a bedtime story or to read our favorite webtoon on my phone, or tell me a wild story of his imagined adventures from school recess.


            I wish you and your loved ones joyful blessings on this first day of spring. May the joy of new discoveries, the energy of the world’s new growth, and the hope and potential of this new season be yours.  


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I am a writer and poet living in western Massachusetts. I have a degree in English Lit, with a focus on the nineteenth century, and am working toward a degree in Women's Studies as well. My work has previously appeared in The Pagan Activist, The Pagan Review, GrannyMoon's Morning Feast, and The Montague Reporter. I am currently working on a series of children's books, a novel trilogy, and a poetry manuscript (I simply can't do one thing at a time!). I also have several random fantasy-based short story projects that I attack once in a while.   I am a Dianic Pagan and practice Kitchen Wicca, and am also a Reiki Master. For a glimpse into my own little corner of reality, you can stop in and visit me at Ellie.


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