In this last six-ish weeks of Winter, known as Imbolc or Candlemass, there is a feeling, an impulse rustling at the edge of crocus buds jutting, verdant, out of the frosty ground. You catch it in the sudden song of returning starlings, something offbeat, upbeat, swift. Like that dark moment before the movie starts. We sit, hushed, hearts thumping, wondering, “What will we see? What will we feel? What will we say about it?” There is a rush (in my opinion) in some Northern Hemisphere traditions to hurry through these last moments of Winter. To sweep Winter out the door with the Yule greens, giving a furtive nod to The Queen in White. But The Crone not only deserves Her time of year, She’ll take it, whether you offer it up willingly or not.