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Imbolc, the Celtic spring festival, honors Brigit. The Druids called this sacred holiday Oimelc, meaning "ewe's milk". Held on February 1st , it celebrated the birthing and freshening of sheep and goats.



This festival was christianized as Candlemas or Lady Day and Her Feast day, La Feill Bhride, was attended by tremendous local celebration and elaborate rituals. Her festival is also called Brigit. Brigit (the Goddess and the Festival) represents the stirring of life again after the dead months of the winter, and her special blessings are called forth at this time.







She was the Goddess of Healers, Poets, Smiths, Childbirth and Inspiration; Goddess of Fire and Hearth and a patron of warfare. She is said to be present at every birth.

As the Goddess of Inspiration, she blesses poetry, creativity, prophecy and the arts. She was even esteemed as the patron deity of language, having inspired the alphabet. As the Goddess of Smithcraft, she blesses blacksmiths, goldsmiths, and other crafters of the household. As Goddess of Healing, she blesses physical and spiritual healing, fertility of crop and livestock and mid-wifery.

Many legends are told about Brigit. Some say that there are three Brigits : one sister in charge of poetry and inspiration who invented the Ogham alphabet, one in charge of healing and midwifery, and the third in charge of the hearth fire, smithies and other crafts.



Brigit Lights Her Own:

Of the first fire, she sings -

of the first fire of Spring, she sings,

Her voice ringing clear in the cold winter air,

as she rises and gathers her things.

In the first light, she yawns -

in the first light of dawn, she yawns,

The grove is asleep in Brigit’s fair keep

and the door fills with mist from the lawns.

In her bare feet, she walks -

in her bare feet, in the frost, she walks -

She walks to the well, her buckets to fill,

where they’ve hung strips of colorful cloth.

Like water the Spring shall rise -

like water, the Spring, she cries shall rise!

When weather is harsh, and the reeds in the marsh

bend with the snow and the ice.

So sweet is the song of the water -

so sweet is the singing of fire and water

She pours in the pot all the water she’s got

to heat for her sons and her daughters.

Of the sacred fire, she shouts!

The sacred fire’s gone out! she shouts,

But no one hears through the sleep in their ears,

she’s the only one up and about.

So singing she carries the wood -

so singing she carries the load of wood.

She might as well sing, she’s done everything,

yet her people are kind and good.

But sometimes the people forget -

sometimes the people, says Brigit, forget.

So she kindles the flame, and she calls it by name,

and it rises and comes to her yet.

Of the first fire, she sings -

of the first fire burning, she sings -

Then she disappears, like the smoke in the air,

like the unseen beginnings of Spring.

–Edwin Chapman