Imbolc, for me, wasn’t about blooming yet. It was about making conditions kinder: for the chickens, yes, but also for myself.

The Wolf Moon rose over the field last week, silvering the frost and casting its quiet power across the land. Beneath it, a fire burned: small, steady, alive with movement and warmth. There was something in that pairing: moon and flame, stillness and energy, that felt like a message for this time of year. Winter is a season for resting. For integrating. For noticing the small things and holding them gently, knowing they are the symbolic seeds of what will grow in spring and s

2026 is a fresh chapter. The soil has been tended. The lessons, both from the land and from within, have been absorbed. The beds will be rebuilt, one by one. And though the memory of 2025 will linger as both warning and teacher, it will not define what grows next.