It is new moon, it is respite, yearning. It is the earth, her shadow upon the face of the moon. Her shadow calling breathless, calling in, calling home. Sing song call, to rest. Rest, nurture and reset yourself in the stillness of her peace. Quarantine Clarity. Shows me myself. In all things the constant, how…
Tag: prayer and soul making
Since the time of the desk
The last time I went on vacation I drove 45 minutes up the coast highway and landed in a cheap boarding house I’d booked the night before on a 3rd party finder. Room cheap like the plastic blinds had runners missing in halves and a busted fridge that smelt like hot breath cheap, and a…
Prayer Visions. Alchemy @ Solstice Tide
This time of year the darkness is a weightless velvet air cloaking everything. Darkness is, it becomes us we become it. A quality of being. On Tuesday morning there was no energy left for me other than the wane. Gigantic hush far bigger than me, but of me~a surrender in my soul. The moon was tilting towards her…
Full Moon ReBirth Blessing, 12/12
Our last full moon of the year, of the Fall, and Y E S! of this D E C A D E arrives…can you believe it? The sacred geometrics that underlie all of creation show up with a Mystery glimmer and twinkle from Time to Time, too…like our Mama the Moon peaking at Full overnight…
Full Harvest Moon & The Ancient Feminine
Happy Harvest Moon dear friends The ancient archetype of * Harvest * Tide * is so sweet and wonder-full, no?! For better understanding of what this means (for both personal or collective S O U L W O R K,) spend some reflection time with the Lunar Lammas-Tide post on the Wild Women Wisdom website,…
I went camping to soothe my soul: Thoughts, Final Harvest Moon
I walk a lot on empty beaches. It helps me breathe from muscly places in my belly that otherwise I can’t feel because they’re so deep. So last Monday I guess it was, walking along the roiled and wilen coast, beholding the brown and black and steel greys of Hurricane Maria’s deeps, there came this…
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…
