Sacred Flame
A Poem
Sometimes quiet is best. Today’s letter is brief. A simple offering at this turning point in the year, a time many of us call Imbolc. This is the moment when, in the old lands of my ancestors, baby lambs are in the belly, the first stirrings of spring—a season far from apparent here in western Québec.
Early Wednesday morning, stepping into the car to drive north, the air at minus-27 degrees Celsius, I watched the sun rise over the woods and crystalline fields. I was on my way to a local elementary school to give a day of workshops on the topic of courage, something we never stop needing in a human life. Our shared project was the creation of a school poem. At several instants, throughout each class of themed readings and discussions, impassioned blurts, dynamic chatter, and the scribbly whir of crayons, a quiet thought ran through me: what a thing to honour poetry in the presence of the future. Children.
For courage and comfort, poetry has always been a place to turn—to read, to write, to speak.
Later, hours after I was home, I lit a candle for healer Alex Pretti and poet Renée Good, and all the other recent victims of persecution in my neighbouring country to the south. I drummed for a long, long while, the firelight steady, the blind on my window open to the night sky.
For many across Ireland, Britain, and mainland Europe, the Celtic goddess Brigid—who is also a Christian saint and the spirit of light we honour at Imbolc—is the goddess of poetry. She is the goddess of smithcraft: the bending of metal to flame. Brigid is the goddess of healing. And she is not exclusive to one place or people.
You’ll find her everywhere—even here, in the still-cold winter. Her fire, a reminder that dictators will never stop the beating heart of poetry. That’s why they fear poets so much. Our spirit can’t be bought. It can’t be broken.
I wrote these lines in a quiet moment.
Sacred Flame
Here is the pen black-blood scrawl, scissor-slick and spidery Here is the pentacle, five points The Lady Here is the chrysoprase dream-spinner crystal Here is the altar votive, globed Rose floats alone Here is the black robe with golden thread; inhabit this gown Here is Owl on a card, my vow Here is beeswax soft, pliable sweetness Here are lines on a page, Hers and mine, what I must follow © Robin Blackburn McBride
Thank you for a heartwarming ode to, and from, the Muse, Robin. On these frigid mornings, when the ice is a frozen white over snow, to hear a whisper of spring rising from some sacred spot deep underground is a gift.
And in the heat of the day--or what may pass for that at 0 degrees Fahrenheit (minus 18 Celsius), we are dealing with a different ICE--just as lethal. Thank you for remembering the poet, mother and activist Renee Nicole Good, and the VA nurse and Good Samaritan Alex Pretti. We must speak and write their names--and hold a torch against being frozen out. And now, we add to that list independent journalist Don Lemon, whose alleged offense was to speak to those on the ground in Minneapolis, and the other journalists being monitored for their truth-telling.
Finally, we must warm the path of the survivors of Epstein and Maxwell's evil-doing. These are brave women--way too many; violated way too young. s a group, we say their names. https://www.bbc.com/news/live/cpwywe5ee84t
Robin such a beautiful message on that cold morning in Eastern Quebec. I used to live in Saint John.
I listened to your recording and how you went to a school to chat with the kids about courage. It would have been amazing to be a fly on the wall.
A friend of mine and fellow Substack author @WomanRising sent me a beautiful deck of cards meant for families and teachers to share with their young people.
One was I AM Brave. So I thought about you and your class.
I am glad I found you here. Keep on sharing the flame. ✌️❤️😌