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MEG HANSEN

Meg Hansen, Founder/CEO, Metaphysical New York & Metaphysical Ireland, is an intuitive researcher, hypnosis expert, and author of Always Face the Hounds: The Negotiation for Osama bin Laden (2017), What You Don’t Know Can Kill You (2019), Psychic Archaeology in Ireland: Unravel Ancient Mysteries and Propel Your Life Forward (2024), and Psychic Archaeology in New York: The Timeless Resonance of New York’s Stone Chambers (December, 2025).

In 1996, Meg met Dick Sutphen, a pioneer in metaphysical exploration, psychic research, and past life regression. Over 25 years of collaboration and friendship, they explored, tested, and refined individual and group psychic processes. Meg has been practicing hypnosis since 1998, offering complex research and experiential sessions with doctor/psychologist referral only, past life regression sessions, guided explorations of relationships, excessive worrying, guilt, stress, phobias, reprogramming habits, and improving relaxation, moving forward through obstacles and blocks, cultivating positive thinking and creative inspiration. She has taught hypnosis and advanced hypnosis and assisted with psychic and advanced psychic seminars in Sedona, Arizona.

Meg holds certifications in Hypnotherapy, Metaphysical Counseling, NLP, Hypnosis for Patients with Cancer, Hypnosis for PTSD, Hypnosis for Autoimmune Disorders, and Hypnosis for Seniors, and she is a Specialist in Hypnosis and Grief Recovery. She is a member of the National Guild of Hypnotists, American Hypnosis Association, and International Hypnosis Federation. She is also a member of NEARA.

Professionally, Meg also has decades of experience as a music executive, working with major labels including Universal Music Group (Universal Republic, Geffen Records) and Sony Music Entertainment (Columbia Records, The Work Group). She holds a Bachelor of Arts from the New School for Social Research in New York, NY.

Born in Queens, New York, Meg grew up in Putnam Valley, moved to Manhattan for work and college, and later moved to California to work for Geffen Records, and moved back to New York for 2 years and then to Malibu, California for work and lived there for nearly 23 years until the Woolsey Fire destroyed her home. She moved to Drogheda, County Louth, Ireland, in 2021, then to Coleraine, Northern Ireland for research in 2024, and returned to New York in November 2024.

Metaphysical New York and Metaphysical Ireland were created to advance experiential research and provide those who are drawn to soul growth with inspiration and tools to explore what’s possible using their own minds to transform their own life and assist others. Psychic archaeology audio programs are available on all major digital music networks including Apple Music and iTunes, Amazon Music, YouTube Music and Spotify.

With 30 years of experience conducting psychic research with experts, Meghan invites everyone who loves Sedona to explore New York’s stone chambers. Psychic Archaeology in New York: The Timeless Resonance of New York’s Stone Chambers was released in December, 2025.

Meg is currently writing Psychic Archaeology in Sedona: The Wisdom of an Open Heart. Coming this Summer, 2026.

Contact Meg via email at meg@metaphysicalnewyork.com

Meg's Blog

January 24, 2026

Imbolc: The Wisdom of Waiting and the Promise of Spring

How Ancient Celtic Wisdom Teaches Us to Rest, Dream, and Trust the Darkness

There is a moment, you've felt it, when something shifts beneath the frozen ground. The light, barely perceptible, begins its slow return, and the earth, still sleeping under her blanket of snow, stirs. She’s not yet awake, nor ready. She's just dreaming now; dreaming of what she will become.

This is Imbolc.

February 1st or 2nd in the modern calendar, though the ancient Celts knew it by the feeling in their bones, the quality of light, or the first promise whispered on a bitter wind. In the belly—that's what Imbolc means. In the belly of winter, something is quickening. Not yet born, but forming, gathering itself, and preparing.

The ewes, heavy with lambs, begin to lactate. The sap, still frozen in the trees, remembers its upward journey. And, you feel it too. It's that restlessness; a strange mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. It’s the year that wants to begin, but it isn't time yet. Not quite.

This is the sacred pause, a liminal threshold. The space between.

The Celtic year was never a linear march from January to December. It was a wheel, always turning, always returning. A spiral dance through darkness and light, death and rebirth, ending and beginning and ending again.

Samhuinn, what we now call Halloween, marked summer's end. The gates between worlds thinned, and the ancestors returned. The veils parted. Darkness descended, and the people prepared to dream through winter, to rest in the belly of the year, and to let the old world die so a new one could be born.

Bealtainn, May Day, is celebrated as summer's beginning. Fires leap, people dance, and life explodes in excitement and abundance. The earth, fully awake now, offers herself in green profusion. Everything that had been dreaming bursts into manifestation.

And Imbolc? Imbolc is the sacred halfway point. Imbolc is the liminal space between death and life, between darkness and light, between the dream and the manifestation. It is the moment when the tide turns, imperceptibly at first, but undeniably. Winter will end. Spring will come. But not quite yet.

The waiting itself is sacred.

We live in a culture that fears the dark and equates productivity with worthiness, motion with progress, light with goodness, and darkness with something to be overcome, escaped, or banished. We push through winter as if it were an obstacle rather than a necessity. We resist the rest our bodies crave, the stillness our souls require, the gestation period that all creative work demands.

But Imbolc whispers a different wisdom.

The waiting is not wasted time.

The darkness is not empty.

The pause is where the power gathers.

This is ancient feminine knowing. The seed doesn't apologize for its time in the soil. The baby doesn't rush its months in the womb. The artist doesn't skip the period of incubation when the work is forming, still shapeless, still becoming, held in the creative dark before it can be born into the world.

Imbolc is Brigid's festival. Brigid is the Celtic goddess of poetry, healing, and smithcraft. Fire in the hearth and inspiration in the darkness. The sacred flame is tended by priestesses through the longest night. Brigid knows: the fire must be kept alive during the winter, not after it. The creative spark must be protected, nurtured, fed with quiet attention while everything external appears frozen and dead.

What are you gestating in your own creative dark? What dream is forming in the belly of your winter? What wants to be born in you when spring finally arrives?

Imbolc says: Don't rush it. Let it form. Trust the darkness. Tend the flame. Wait.

Brigid holds three flames, and each one teaches us something essential about this liminal time.

The Flame of Poetry burns in the realm of inspiration, creativity, and divine downloads. At Imbolc, when the outer world is still and quiet, the inner world becomes loud with possibility. Ideas arrive, visions form, and words flow. This is the time when poets, writers, artists, and dreamers receive their gifts from the invisible realms. The muse speaks most clearly in the silence of winter's belly.

Are you listening? What wants to be written, painted, sung, and created through you? Imbolc says: Receive it now. Write it down. Sketch it out. Hum the melody. Don't worry yet about perfection or completion. Just receive the transmission. The creative dark is speaking. Listen.

The Flame of Healing burns in the realm of medicine, both physical and spiritual. Brigid was invoked by women in childbirth, by the sick seeking wellness, and by those whose hearts were broken and needed mending. At Imbolc, we tend to our own healing, not through force or striving, but through rest, through nourishment, and through the radical act of allowing ourselves to be held by the darkness rather than fighting it.

What in you needs healing? What wound wants to be tended in the quiet of winter? What part of yourself have you been pushing, driving, forcing, when what it really needs is rest, warmth, the gentle touch of your own compassion? Imbolc is the time to turn inward and offer yourself the healing you've been seeking outside yourself.

The Flame of Smithcraft burns in the forge, where raw metal is heated, hammered, and shaped into something new. The smith takes formless potential and gives it form. But first, the metal must be heated until it glows, until it becomes malleable, and until it can be worked. Too soon, and the metal is rigid, and unyielding. Too late, and it cools back into rigidity.

Imbolc is the heating time. You are in the fire, but you haven't been shaped yet. You are glowing with potential, soft with possibility, ready to be formed, but the hammering hasn't begun. This is not the time to force yourself into shape. This is the time to get hot enough, soft enough, open enough that when the Spring Equinox arrives, you will be ready to be shaped into your new form.

Trust the fire. Your time in the forge is not wasted—it's essential.

For the Celts, the new year didn't begin in the dead of winter. It began at the Spring Equinox—when day and night balanced perfectly, when light and dark held equal power, and when the tipping point arrived and life began its unstoppable surge toward summer.

This was the true beginning, the moment of manifestation, and the point when what had been forming in the dark of Imbolc could finally break soil and reach for sun.

The Equinox only has power because of Imbolc. The manifestation only has meaning because of the gestation. The birth only happens because something rested, and waited, and gathered its strength in the dark.

Right now, you are in Imbolc.

Perhaps you feel it, the restless energy and the sense of something wanting to emerge, but you can't quite name it yet. You can't quite see it, and you can't force it into being no matter how hard you try.

Let it form, and let it dream itself into existence in the creative dark of your own depths. The Spring Equinox will come; it always does. And when it arrives, you will plant your seeds with intention, with clarity, with the deep knowing that comes from having honored the waiting.

For now, rest. Dream. Keep the flame alive in the darkness. Trust the liminal time. Trust the pause.

This is Imbolc's teaching. This is the gift of the sacred halfway point between death and rebirth.

How do we honor this threshold time? How do we resist our culture's demand for constant productivity and instead sink into the sacred pause? Here are some practices for this Imbolc season:

• Light a Candle, Tend the Flame: Brigid's sacred flame was kept burning continuously by nineteen priestesses at Kildare in Ireland. The flame was never allowed to die. You can honor this tradition by lighting a candle—any candle—and sitting with it in meditation. Watch the flame. Breathe with it. Feel how it illuminates the darkness without banishing it. This is the creative spark within you, the inspiration, and the life force. It needs tending, especially now, in the belly of winter.

• Create a Brigid's Cross: Traditionally woven from rushes or straw, Brigid's cross is a four-armed equal cross, sometimes enclosed in a circle or diamond shape. Making one is a meditative practice, a way of working with your hands while your mind drifts and dreams. Hang it above your door or in your creative space as a blessing, an invitation to Brigid's inspiration and protection.

• Journal Your Dreams: The dreams that come in sleep, and the metaphorical dreams forming in your heart. At Imbolc, the veil between conscious and unconscious is thin. Pay attention to what arises. Write it down before it fades. Don't analyze yet—just receive. The meaning will become clear later, at the Equinox, when it's time to plant what's been germinating.

• Rest: This may be the hardest practice of all. Give yourself permission to rest, to do less, to say no, and to hibernate. You are not being lazy. You are honoring a natural cycle that our culture has forgotten. Seeds rest in soil. Bears sleep in caves. The earth herself is resting, and so can you.

• Feed Your Creative Fire: Read poetry. Listen to music that makes you weep or laugh or remember old times. Look at art. Take long walks in whatever weather comes. Let beauty and inspiration fill the well. You're not producing yet—you're receiving. You're gathering material for the work that will come later. This is essential, and sacred.

• The traditional Imbolc food is dairy—milk, butter, cheese—honoring the first lactation of the ewes. Warm a cup of milk (or plant-based alternative) with honey and a pinch of cinnamon. Drink it slowly, feeling the warmth, the nourishment, and the sweetness. Let this be a ritual of self-care, of honoring your body's need for comfort and sustenance in the cold.

This is the question Imbolc asks: What are you birthing?

Not what have you already accomplished. Not what should you be producing. But what is forming in you right now, in the dark, in the quiet, in the space between? What wants to be born when spring arrives?

Maybe it's a creative project—a book, a painting, a business, a garden. Maybe it's a new version of yourself—healed, whole, integrated, or maybe it's a relationship, a move, a career change.

Maybe it's something you can't name yet, something that's still too new and too unformed to be spoken aloud.

That's okay. That's exactly where you should be at Imbolc. You don't need to know the full shape of it yet. You don't need to have it all figured out. You don't need a plan, a timeline, a five-point strategy. All you need to know is that something is quickening in the belly of your winter. Something is forming and something is coming.

Your job right now is not to force it, not to rush it, and not to drag it into the light before it's ready.

Your job is to tend the flame, and rest in the dark. Trust the timing, and wait, with intention and presence and reverence, for the moment when what's been forming in secret is finally ready to emerge and meet the light.

The Sacred Pause: An Imbolc Meditation

This Imbolc meditation will help you honor the liminal time and connect with what's forming in your own depths.

Find a quiet place where you won't be disturbed. Light a candle if you wish and let it be Brigid's flame, your light in the darkness. Sit comfortably and close your eyes.

Begin by breathing deeply. Take three deep breaths to settle into your body. Feel yourself here, now, in this moment suspended between winter and spring.

Imagine yourself in a warm, safe space—a womb, a stone chamber with a coat and a warm comfy blanket, or a cozy room with a fire. You are held here, and protected here. The world outside is cold and frozen, but inside, you are warm. You are resting. You are safe.

Place your hands on your lower belly. Feel the warmth there. This is your creative center, your womb space, regardless of your gender or anatomy. This is where things form before they're born, and this is where your dreams gestate.

Ask yourself gently: What is forming in me? Don't force an answer. Don't analyze. Just ask, and then listen with your whole body. Images may come. Feelings. Sensations. Words. A knowing. Or just a sense of something present but not yet visible, like a seed beneath the soil.

Whatever arises, or doesn't arise, simply say: "I trust you. I trust this timing, and I trust the process." You are giving permission to whatever wants to form in you to take all the time it needs. You are honoring the sacred pause.

Breathe here for a few more moments, feeling yourself held in the warm darkness, feeling the presence of Brigid tending her flame, feeling the whole earth resting beneath you, and dreaming her own dreams of spring.

When you're ready, imagine yourself receiving a gift from Brigid. Maybe it's a word, or a symbol, or a feeling, or a color. Accept it without questioning. This is your Imbolc gift, a reminder of what you're birthing.

Slowly and gently begin to return from meditation. Feel your body in your chair or on your cushion. Hear the sounds around you.

When you're ready, open your eyes and place your hands on your heart and say aloud or silently:

"I trust the darkness and I honor the waiting while I tend the flame. Spring will come."

Write down anything that came through during this meditation. Don't judge it or analyze it yet. Just capture it. These are seeds. At the Spring Equinox, you'll know what to do with them.

Imbolc is a promise. It's the earth whispering: Spring is coming. Life will return. What seems dead is only sleeping. What seems absent is only forming in the dark. Trust me. I've done this before. I'll do it again.

You are part of this earth. You follow the same rhythms, and you need the same cycles of rest and growth, darkness and light, and death and rebirth.

Right now, you are in the sacred pause, the liminal space. The belly of your own winter. Something is quickening in you. Can you feel it?

It's not time yet to birth it. it is time to acknowledge it, to honor it, to tend the flame that will eventually light its way into the world.

Spring is coming. The Spring Equinox will arrive.

The new year—the real new year, the one that honors natural cycles rather than arbitrary calendars—will begin and when it does, you will be ready. Because you rested when it was time to rest. You dreamed when it was time to dream, and you trusted the darkness and tended the flame.

Imbolc's teaching is the wisdom of the sacred pause.

Happy Imbolc. The light is returning. But not yet. Rest now. Dream now. Trust now.

Spring will come.

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