Yer Ana, Mother Earth, received this kiss of fire deep within her. And beneath our feet, in the silence of the still-cold humus, the seeds that have slept since Paynagan are beginning to stir. The birdsong grows more joyful at sunrise. Koçagan, the spring, is ready to settle in.

İmre: the awakening

İmre, the spirit of snowmelt and greening, rises from the earth in the form of a light. Fragile. Trembling.

The ancient Turkic peoples said he makes the snow weep and frees the rivers from their crystal chains in a soft crack. It is also to him we owe the first drops that fall from rooftops and ring out like forgotten notes of music.

Yaşıl Han: the transformation

And when his work is done, İmre descends again, humble, silent, into the depths of the earth.

Nature can then dress herself in green. An almost fluorescent green after the grey of winter. It is Yaşıl Han, the Green Khan, the Lord of Verdure, who repaints the world. He is the one who gives life back to the plants. The sap that rises. The grass that pierces the cracked earth. The leaf that unfurls. The smell of wet earth after the first warm rain, that scent which may be the oldest perfume in the world.

Under his impulse, the İye emerge from the copper palace of Erlik Han, carrying the wisdom of the depths. The Yer iyesi, spirits of the earth, reclaim their place in the fields and meadows. The Su iyesi find their freed rivers again. The Ağaç iyesi slip into the budding trees. The whole earth trembles with their return.

It is a silent ascent. Invisible. But if you listen with the heart, you hear a vibration. A hum of life reclaiming the world.

In spring, the elders would offer Yaşıl Han a saçı, an offering. They poured milk, cheese and fresh bread into the rivers and lakes. A gesture of gratitude. Of recognition. The Green Khan asks that we nourish life as much as it nourishes us. That the cycle turns, generous, in both directions.

Umay Ana: the blessing

And as the earth greens beneath the steps of Yaşıl Han, as the İye dance once more in the fields and forests, a moonlight settles over the world. Accompanied by two sacred birch trees, the kayın ağacı, the trees of life whose very name, kayın, means “woman” in Old Turkic.

Umay Ana.

Her long silver hair falls to the ground like threads of living water. She wears a white robe and a crown of three crescent-shaped horns upon her head. The Mother with silver hair. And she smiles.

She is the spirit of fertility, the protector of women, of births, of children. Of life itself in its most tender gesture. Her energy is in every bud that bursts open like a small fist unclenching. In the newborn lambs stumbling on fragile legs, searching for warm milk. In the return of the storks, Cemre havaya, leylek yuvaya, the ember falls into the air, the stork returns to its nest.

It is said that babies who smile in their sleep are speaking with her. That when those children grow and leave the home, kuş yuvadan uçtu, the bird has left the nest, for in the branches of Umay Ana’s Tree of Life, cradles and birds’ nests are one and the same. The silver thread of her hair is the cord that binds sky to earth. The rope of the world’s cradle.

And there it is, spring as the ancients saw it. Complete. In three movements like a sacred breath: İmre who awakens from the depths. Yaşıl Han who makes green sing across the whole earth. Umay Ana who blesses from the heights. The earth, the world, the sky. United. Vibrant. Alive.

The universal echo

Spring speaks a universal language. Where Nevruz lights its fires and sprouts the wheat, Ostara, in the Celtic tradition, celebrates the same balance between day and night, the same promise of renewal. The two traditions answer each other like echoes from different mountains but carried by the same wind — the same Yel Ata, perhaps, who travelled from the steppes of Asia to the hills of Europe, changing names but keeping the same message: life triumphs. Always.

From Koçagan to Hıdırellez

And the season of Koçagan is only beginning. The energy continues to rise. The days stretch out like cats in the sun. The earth exhales scents of sage and wildflowers. Yaşıl Han dances in every blade of grass. The İye watch over every field, every spring, every tree. Umay Ana’s smile grows ever wider. And the breath of Yel Ata fills with pollen and promises.

Koçagan settles into the warming earth, into the green of the grass, into the fragrance of blossoming flowers, into the flight of the storks. Awaiting the day when Hızır and İlyas meet upon the earth.

🌿The day of Hıdırellez.

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With Ak Ay begins the Anatolian Wheel.
A cycle inspired by the spiritual heritage of ancient Turkic peoples.
It moves through thresholds and breaths.
Here, spring announces itself before it is born.

After the long nights of winter, after dancing with our shadows under the gaze of Karakoncolos and walking through the snow alongside Boz Kurt, a subtle change makes itself felt.

The icy breath of Yel Ata, the Father Wind, loses its bite.
His howls of Zemheri soften.
They become a whisper of renewal.

In the spiritual heritage of ancient Turkic peoples, spring never bursts forth suddenly.
It prepares itself.

It announces itself through thresholds: the appearance of Ak Ay, the White Moon, then the descent of the Three Cemre, the celestial embers.

Ak Ay, the White Moon

At the heart of late winter, when nature still holds its breath in a crystalline sleep, a new moon of singular clarity rises.

This is Ak Ay.

In ancient wisdom, the Father Moon is the silent guardian of the passage between winter and spring. His appearance marks a Lunar New Year: a sacred moment of purity and new beginnings.

Ak Ay does not ask for action.
He asks for space.

Cleaning the house, wearing something new, settling debts, honoring the elders: these gestures are not mere external rites. They are a way of letting the lunar light sweep away the last shadows of the spirit. A way of becoming an empty vessel, ready to receive.

In tradition, fourteen incense sticks trace a bridge of smoke between earth and cosmos: seven for “The Man with Seven Spots”, the Big Dipper, our anchor in the night, and seven for Ülker, the Pleiades, our stellar sisters who dance on the horizon.

The Father Moon whispers ancient wisdom: every true rebirth begins in the silence and fertile darkness of the new moon. To be reborn, he tells us, one must first accept emptying oneself.

The Three Cemre

Shortly after the appearance of Ak Ay, another miracle occurs. Invisible to the naked eye, but deeply felt by nature, and by those whose hearts still know how to read.

Three sacred embers descend from the sky: the Cemre.

They fall one after another and awaken the world.

The First Cemre: Air

The first ember falls into the air.

You will not see it, but you will feel it. It is that day when the cold suddenly seems less hostile, when an unexpected softness caresses the face. It is the first whisper of spring, the first change in the breath of Yel Ata.

The birds are the first to hear this call. Their songs grow bolder, as if celebrating a promise of fresh air.

The Second Cemre: Water

A week later, the second ember plunges into the water.

The ice that imprisoned the rivers and lakes begins to crack. Water reclaims its language. It begins to flow again.

Water is also the symbol of emotions and the unconscious. And when the world thaws, we are invited to let our own inner waters find their fluidity again. To no longer hold back what must circulate. To listen to the sound of life liberating itself, outside as within.

The Third Cemre: Earth

Finally, the last ember penetrates the earth.

It warms Yer Ana, the Earthmother, gently drawing her from her dormancy. In the silence of the humus, the seeds receive this kiss of fire. Soon, the first “ot” begin to pierce the still-cold soil.

The earth becomes ready: for new seeds, new projects, new dreams. She remembers that she knows how to carry life.

Yel Ata, the Wind that Softens

Do you remember the icy breath of Yel Ata during Paynaqan?
That wind that stripped bare, that revealed, that sculpted souls in the cold of Zemheri?
With the first Cemre, the Father Wind does not abandon his kingdom. He changes his mask.

He remains powerful. He remains present. But something in him tempers. Where he once howled across the steppes, there appear at times, between the gusts, brief, gentler silences. A whispered promise not yet proclaimed.

For Yel Ata knows all the winds: from the black Karayel of the north to the warm Kızılyel of the south. And at winter’s end, he slowly begins to trade bite for caress, howl for whisper.

The storks know this before we do. Hence the saying:

“Cemre havaya, leylek yuvaya.”
The ember falls into the air; the stork returns to the nest.

They sense this change in the breath of Yel Ata long before we humans notice it.

It Is Time to Sow

The period of Ak Ay and the Three Cemre is a sacred portal: a subtle dance between silence and whisper, between shadow and the promise of light.

A time to honor the fertile void left by the White Moon.

A time to feel on the skin the warmth of the embers, those kisses of fire that remind us that even in the cold, life prepares its return.

It is time to sow.
Not yet in the earth, but in the soul.

And by aligning ourselves with this ancestral rhythm, we participate in the magic of renewal. Alongside the Father Moon, guided by the renewed breath of Yel Ata, carried by the patient love of Yer Ana, we ourselves become the artisans of the spring to be born.

🌿 Next threshold of the Anatolian Wheel: Kosaqan, the Awakening of Nature.

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