Imbolc: Hello Brigid! Have you met my friend, Pan?

Imbolc is the pagan winter festival that arrives just at that moment when many of us dearly need a reason to hope that spring will arrive. (or autumn, for our friends in the Southern hemisphere, wishing for cool breezes). Of course it is no coincidence that this day is also celebrated secularly as Ground Hog’s Day, when we wish to find out when, or indeed if, spring will come. (My light-hearted comparison of the two holidays, which includes moments of groundhog appreciation, was a classic from my seasonal series for Witchvox and may be found here).

I love this festival and look forward to it each year. Like many pagans and witches, I am aware that it is a festival that many celebrate with rites dedicated to the deity Brigid, Celtic goddess of poetry, fire, smith craft,  healing, and other necessary winter activities. And I honor her, in my way, both privately and publicly. I have seen Imbolc poetry blogging initiatives and taken part in them. I make a Celtic-inspired Imbolc incense each year. However, my own magical tradition celebrates Imbolc as “The Feast of Februa” and it is Pan, lusty male god of the forest and fields and animals, of sexuality and wild abandon and mischief, whom we honor at the time. I’ve written about this thoughtfully in the past, about liminality and thresholds, stoking fires and wafting Arcadian breezes…but it occurs to me, seeing my fellow pagans’ posts about Brigid this week all over social media (including a nice post from The Wild Hunt), that it might be interesting to consider the ways in which these two might find common ground.

And so, in the tradition of Mallory Ortberg, and her hilarious and incandescent send-ups of western culture on The Toast, I present: Pan Converses with Pale Goddesses who are Probably (or Totally Could Be if You Squint or Just Get Over Yourself) Brigid

Hey

Hey yourself

I like your pale red hair, and you have a very straight part

Okaaaaayyyyy….

As you can see, being a woodland god means that hair hygiene is a very important thing for me.

Yes, so I gathered. Are you trying to flirt with me? Because holding my head at the same level as your crotch is a little too assertive for me. You do kinda smell intriguing, though. Do you know any poems?

Poems? I AM poetry! I’m the fucking god of Arcadia! I inspire people to great works of art and love and industry. Well, maybe not industry. But love and art, definitely. Or at least, drinking and screwing,and maybe some dancing. Speaking of…

Okay. Are you buying me a drink first? Also there better be a deer hide or something around here, because the ground is kinda dirty.

Wow! These grapes are, like, SOOOO ripe!  They’re so juicy and fragrant!

Yeah. They’re to honor Pan. We need to put them up to his mouth and then, I dunno, something cool will  happen.

Wait, I thought YOU were Pan??!!!?? So you mean I have to feed these to that statue?

Yes. I thought I told you, I’m just wearing this costume to embody Pan. These leggings are made from burlap and goat fur. I brushed it from the goats. I didn’t, like, KILL any goats or anything. That would be weird. I think that’s what Satanists do. I’m not a Satanist, I’m a Wiccan.

Oh. So…you’re not really Pan?

No. Sorry. (pause) Does this change the way you feel about our plans for tonight?

Naw. It’s cool. But can we at least eat some of these grapes? They look so good!

No, they really have to go to Pan. Otherwise I think we might not get invited back here. And hurry. You’re heavy.

Oh please. I keep telling you. Pilates. It’s the Pilates. Muscle weighs more than fat, ya know.

So. Hey. Hi.

I can’t hear you.

Um, I was gonna ask, do you wanna hang out later?

Can’t hear you; I am imprisoned in this tree and I am made of mosaics. Mortals worship me for inspiration. I am a muse of nature poets. I am also a goddess of healing. If you worship me I may grant you a boon.

Oh. Well. That’s cool. Do you like to smoke weed?

Can’t hear you. Tree. Mosaics. Goddess.

You’re pretty.

Please go the fuck away.

You’re so manly. So lusty. So strong. We’re perfect for each other.

Yeah, about that.

What?

I’ve been thinking. This whole Ziegfeld thing, it’s wearing on me. You’re, I dunno, high maintenance.

Look, dork face, you know I’m a goddess, right? A freaking goddess. With powers and all.

Yeah, but what does it matter? I’m not in love with you anymore.

Let me explain to you what’s going to happen now. I’m going to encase you in shellac and glitter. And not the soft plastic kind, either; the pointy metal kind! And then I’ll dance on your face with Capezio’s and pour cheap champagne all over you. Really cheap, like freaking Asti Spumante, you bastard.

See, that’s kinda what I mean about the high maintenance thing.