Sit with me for a moment as I heed the season’s message. “Be still … or be stilled.” With the rune Isa as a guide, I watch. The icicle melts and the dream within is free.
Be Still … Or Be Stilled
Sometimes, we have to stop. For a moment. Breathe. Cease movement. Gather ourselves … for what is coming.
Sometimes we just need to be silent. Steady. Still. Even if only for a moment.
Nothing moves in that moment. And that is exactly what is needed.
The Simplicity of Isa
Isa (ᛁ) is one of the simplest-looking runes.
Just a line.
No branches.
No movement.
No embellishment.
And that simplicity is the whole point.
We scramble and plan. We scatter ourselves and our thoughts.
We worry, we stress, we isolate … and still, in our minds, we justify it. Sometimes rightly so.
But it is exhausting to try to solve everything, all of the time.
Sometimes it feels like too much to bear … or even to exist.
I know.
I’ve been there.
We find ourselves turning inward too sharply, beating ourselves down over and over again. The weight shows up everywhere—high blood pressure, mental strain, that heaviness that keeps us beneath the covers.
The morning light feels harsh.
Evening song at Wolvenwood
And the quiet night—crickets, frogs, whippoorwills—feels like a gentler place to exist.
I have been there, too. And I know I am not alone.
But I also know this: I am still alive. And I still want to be. More than that, I still want to thrive.
So where do we find the energy to go on when the world feels like it is crumbling?
A Handful of Charms
The other night, I picked up a spool of hemp, a handful of beads, and my small box of silver Nordic charms.
I didn’t have a plan. I just wanted to touch something, to make something, to feel human again—even if it was only for myself.
My fingers moved absently over the beads until one found me.
Isa.
“Eeeeee … sahhhh.”
I said it aloud, softly, again and again—even to my cat. And I smiled.
The time of ice.
The time of stillness.
It was time to stop.
In my mind, I saw an icicle—alone, suspended in a gleaming sky.
It shimmered with color—crystalline, translucent—holding rainbows within its frozen form.
A wand of light.
A sliver of time.
At its tip, a droplet formed … and fell. Then another. And another. Slowly. Gently.
And then I saw it.
Inside the icicle was something small. Something quiet.
Something waiting. A tiny orb, dull and brown-green, seemingly insignificant. But I knew it held life.
“Eeeeee … sahhhh.”
The droplets continued to fall, shimmering like liquid sunlight, and something within me went quiet.
Not empty … but still. A feeling of oneness. Of suspension.
Time slowed.
The water touched the Earth, warming as it sank into soil and loam, fulfilling a promise it had always carried.
And then—the seed fell.
Awakening From the Dream
The Earth gathered around her and held her. The water softened her shell. She trembled and began to awaken.
She absorbed what she needed. She waited. She was still. And yet, she grew.
She felt the rhythm of everything—the sun rising, the storm gathering, the mist returning.
She did not know when she would emerge, or how. She simply grew … toward life.
There was no stopping her. It was her nature.
The icicle released its final drops, and the grey sky gave way to bright, billowing clouds. Spring was returning.
Isa is stillness.
Pause.
Suspension.
Containment without loss.
It is not death.
It is not failure.
It is this: nothing moves right now, and that is exactly what is needed.
A Sacred Pause
In the old understanding, ice was never simply cold. It was the moment when the world goes quiet—not forever, but just long enough for something to survive.
Isa comes to us when we are exhausted, yet still trying. When the body says stop, but the mind says go.
And she whispers: be still … or be stilled.
Not as punishment, but as protection.
If resisted, she becomes stagnation. But if accepted, she becomes a sacred pause.
She is the silence between songs. The winter that remembers spring.
That night, I didn’t just pick a rune.
I found myself inside a held moment.
And I realized that I was being held, too.
When It Is Time
Close your eyes for a breath or two. Imagine a single icicle hanging in still air. Inside it, something glows—not dead, but perfectly preserved. Nothing rushes it. Nothing demands it.
It will melt … when it is time.
And when it does, your seed will fall.
In the Old Ways, winter was never empty. It was always holding something—roots waiting, life condensing, power gathering in silence.
My wish for you this Beltane season is simple:
Plant your seeds.
They are waiting.
And they already know how to grow.
Wolvenwood, tucked away in the Missouri woods, is Beltana’s home. All photos including the feature photo are by Beltana Spellsinger, except where noted.
For more information about Beltana Spellsinger, including her collected articles here on Pagan Song, her bio, and links to her sites on the web, check out Bel’s author page here on Pagan Song.
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