…why does that matter? Because as the sun throws itself way out to that far ol corner of the sky, and its light comes down no longer orange cast or even yellow but that sheer white color of September and long shadows–so too does the moon, who keeps us in soul time, remind that this…
Category: Women’s Mysteries
Dark moon to New…the end begins again
A good day to look back over your month and consider the growing cycle, as well as mindfully tend what’s been active in Psyche all weekend long…
Lunar Lammas. First Harvest Moon.
This weekend’s full moon peaks around 11 tomorrow morning. This is the First Harvest, or Lunar Lammas. Soul wisdom arises from within: your bounty is in front of you, your own fruit is what is alive within your own two hands, in your one precious life! Surrender to the life in front of you, give…
Lunar Lammas moon tide prayer, oh Goddesses of bikini poem burrito.
At the peak of the summer it makes sense, I have no underwear and haven’t since I got back from school. Meaning I haven’t gotten to the Laundromat. I give thanks to the goddess of bikinis who oversees summer’s peak. I have so many, the tops and bottoms never match, yesterday at Sleepy’s I scrounged…
Lammas tide in Huntington Beach
When I sleep on the couch at Derynne’s my body refills itself the same way that happens when I am in the back room at Grandma’s. I don’t know how it happens or why it does this. The couch is sort of lumpy and often the cats scrounge around on my chest and make the…
Waking UP: Women’s Cycles & Earth Cycles as One.
And it is here: heart of summer, hearth of soul. I am ovulating, or pre-ovulation, which as a woman I know means I am at the height of my vitality. I am sparkling, vivacious, full of energy and ideas and intuitive, big-eyed ideas that seem to naturally connect like a live line of fire sizzling…
New Moon: She takes up pen, again.
It’s been a million days of this I think, and as I write such words I see the gray slant of my ceiling in the morning, the days leading up to, but especially following, Aunt Mary’s death. Grief, which sits like a bone in the air. Its smooth, cold, calcium-yearning. Always there, blocking the place…
The Women’s Work
Two Thursday’s ago, in the low, monastic candle-lit room here in the hobbit house in the canyon wall, I prepared wordlessly for an important initiation. Not that of an ancient rite or mysterious sect. To all appearances, in fact, it was little more than a scholastic necessity. I prepared to drive to Santa Barbara, to…
Beltane Moon
On the rise
Wild Women Wisdom 