Find a quiet space where you can be undisturbed. If possible, create a small altar with a blue or indigo cloth. Place upon it a bowl of water, a stone or crystal that feels heavy in your hand, and something that represents hope to you—perhaps a seed, a feather, or a small light. Sit comfortably on the floor or in a chair with your feet firmly planted on the ground. Allow your hands to rest palms down on your thighs, connecting you to your physical form. Take twelve slow, deep breaths—one for each day that has passed in this month—allowing each exhale to be longer than the inhale, creating space within. If your body wishes to sigh, allow it.

Air an dàrna latha deug den Mhàrt,Eadar cadal na talmhainn,Agus a dùsgadh a-rithist,Tha mi a' seasamh ann an dubhachas.A Mhàthair na talmhainn, cùm mi nad ghàirdeanan.

On this twelfth day of March,Between the earth's slumber,And its reawakening,I stand in depression.Mother of the earth, hold me in your arms.

Feel the energy of mid-March—the twelfth day—a time when the earth itself seems caught in transition. The ground thaws and freezes, the sky brightens and darkens, mirroring the fluctuations of the depressed spirit. Yet beneath the surface, hidden processes continue—roots stretch, seeds swell, life prepares for emergence. Notice the quality of air around you, how it holds both the memory of winter and the promise of spring. Visualize your depression not as a failure or flaw, but as depth—like the deep waters where many creatures go to renew themselves, where pearls form around irritants, where transformation occurs unseen.

Tha dubhachas mar loch domhainn,Làn de sheann bhriathran agus cuimhneachain.Tha e a' teagasg dhuinn èisteachd ris an dorchadas,Mar a dh'èisteas craobh ri geamhradh.

Depression is like a deep lake,Full of ancient words and memories.It teaches us to listen to the darkness,As a tree listens to winter.

Place your hands on the bowl of water before you. Water is the element of emotion and the unconscious—it holds, it reflects, it cleanses, it transforms. Touch the surface of the water gently with your fingertips, creating small ripples that expand outward. This is the touch of the Mother Earth, who knows that even in stillness, subtle movements continue.

Bring your awareness to your body. Where do you feel the heaviness of depression? Perhaps in your chest as a weight, in your limbs as weariness, or in your mind as a fog that obscures clarity. As you locate these sensations, acknowledge them without judgment, just as the earth accepts both drought and flood as part of its experience. With each breath, imagine the Mother's compassion flowing into these spaces—not to instantly transform them, but to accompany you in their depths.

A Mhàthair na talmhainn, thig sìos don doimhneachd leam,Far a bheil na faclan a' call am brìgh,Far a bheil an solas fann agus fada air falbh.Teagaisg dhomh nach e cadal am bàs,'S nach e dorchadas deireadh an t-solais.

Mother of the earth, come down to the depths with me,Where words lose their meaning,Where light is dim and distant.Teach me that sleep is not death,And darkness is not the end of light.

Take the heavy stone or crystal in your hands and close your eyes. Imagine yourself descending a spiral staircase made of smooth, ancient stone. Each step takes you deeper into a vast underground cavern. The air grows cool and still. The light dims to a soft blue glow that seems to emanate from the walls themselves.

At the bottom of the staircase, you find yourself standing at the edge of a vast underground lake. Its waters are dark but not threatening—they hold a profound stillness that feels like a presence. Here, in this deep place, you sense the Mother of the Earth approaching. She does not appear as a separate being but as a subtle shifting in the air, a warmth that envelops you despite the cool surroundings.

"You have traveled far to reach these depths," her voice resonates within your mind. "Many fear to come here, yet you have found the courage. This place you call depression is not separate from me—it is one of my faces, one of my seasons, one of my teachings."

She guides you to sit beside the underground lake. "Look into the waters," she invites. As you do, you see reflected not only your own face but glimpses of forgotten wisdom, creative sparks that have been dormant, parts of yourself waiting to be reclaimed.

"From these depths, new life will eventually rise," she assures you. "Not through force or will, but through surrender to the process. Just as I do not rush the seed in darkness, I do not rush your journey through these waters."

Feel her presence surrounding you completely, creating a sanctuary within the depths. Remain in this connection for several minutes, breathing slowly and deeply.

Take a moment to contemplate:

What wisdom might be forming in these still, dark waters of depression that could not form in lighter, more active states? How might this descent be part of a larger cycle of renewal rather than a permanent condition? In what ways does the March landscape—caught between seasons—reflect the truth that all states of being are temporary, even when they feel endless?

Tha mi a' toirt taing dhut, a Mhàthair na talmhainn,Airson do cho-fhaireachdainn agus do làthaireachd.Mar a thèid gach geamhradh seachad mu dheireadh,Mar sin gheibh mi solas a-rithist.Tha mi a' giùlan do dhoimhneachd leam.

I give thanks to you, Mother of the earth,For your compassion and your presence.As each winter eventually passes,So too will I find light again.I carry your depth with me.

Gently return the stone or crystal to its place. Touch the symbol of hope you have chosen, acknowledging that even in the deepest waters, it remains. Finally, touch the surface of the water once more, this time observing how it reflects whatever light is available, however faint.

Rise slowly, carrying the earth's compassionate wisdom within you. Know that just as the twelfth of March stands in the transition between seasons, you too stand in a transition that, though difficult, is not without purpose or eventual renewal.