Blessings for the New Moon and the start of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, on Sunday evening. Lots of new–mirrored by the summary card here, Death. Everything is changing and it’s coming at us fast. It feels like, every time we turn around, something else in our lives changes, things we thought were foundational are leaving. This leaves an open space, both bright and dark, looked over by the Goddess of the Void, the New Moon. We are shelters for each other, we must never forget that. We feel deeply now and must give ourselves that space to fully appreciate and accept our feelings and experience with a loving heart. We look inside to our own goodness and focus on our breath, as this one thing steadies us, is steadiness. Breath and water and quick dusks. The sky coming in closer and closer, revealing its secrets to us. Thus it is with our own hearts now. Our own inner wisdom and bright lights at home and loving embraces are the melody. Offerings and fertility and sweetness of new beginnings. It is a chance to start fresh, an opening in the sky, the gates of Heaven, or whatever your name for the Divine Space is, are open. Pray with your words and poems and actions–right language, right action. Let the five precepts guide you in all you do. You are the same person in all situations–your consciousness and compassion is throughout. We are not fragmented beings. We are whole and union. 🌌🌠🌄
Equinox reading and end of Mercury retrograde today.
First, take a long, slow, deep breath. And hold onto your 🎩. It is starting to get interesting. As if it hasn’t been interesting enough. 🍀
Bright things are coming but they must be earned. There is vigilance required of us now–and we need to check in with ourselves that this vigilance doesn’t turn into paranoia and overdramatizing. There are powerful energies surrounding every event this fall. With the release of the reins as Mercury retrograde ends, energy spills out and could use a bit of containment and structure. So many new ideas, and especially one or two incredibly powerful new relationships, could test our limitations and what we think of ourselves and what our lives are, what gives us meaning. Purpose and action are highlighted as many fires burn–again, the herald here speaks to managing our emotions and activities and schedules–micro to macro–in order for peace and loving thought, word, and deed to be our matrix. And matrices shift and settle–the shifting is, in fact, a settling, coming home, a solidification of ideals and magic into tangible being. The transmogrification of elements, thoughts, creative pursuits, is supported this season. We have so much to transmute. Everything changes this season. Known to unknown, unknown to known. We can shift our consciousness to miracles. Miracles are self-power and unconditional love ❤️ manifesting. Love is a physical presence. 💚
It is up to each of us to embody love towards ourselves and others. We make the world. As so many pressures are converging on us, as the summer releases itself and autumn 🍂 comes, reaching, demanding, with its beautifully shorter days and golden light, the sun lowers in the sky, the sky itself lowers towards us.
It can be so hard, and frightening, and the weight of the air can feel burdensome, as so many things converge in the next few months, but we have help–within ourselves and our own conscience, our collective well-being, our connectivity as a global organism. 🍁
Let things be as they are and have courage to see things as they are and the courage to change what needs changing. All is within our grasp. 🙏
See everything in terms of light. Think of things in terms of light. This is the last rush of the heat and light of summer, ends are fraying so much that the cloth you’ve made over and over again is a new cloth. New materials being forged. Summer was a cauldron that simmered, stirred up, and alchemized. We are reaching into the stretches of season and weather. The Sun looks over this reading and bows its rays over us, body and soul. This is the last round of this cycle, within this full moon cycle, we come to the end of Mercury retrograde and have an opportunity to lay old cycles to rest, creating new patterns and mental and emotional grooves that propel us forward into deeper joy and security. The eclipse further encourages this transition that enables us to live our dreams. So many opportunities spread out before us, like so many rays of all the different elements. The Sota and Caballero – Page and Knight – of Wands offer us the fire of our own souls, burning to illuminate the stunning array of geography and light. Filled with all manifestations of light, we move with our power nestled in us. We are finally come home. We are home. We hold onto what we love most dearly, and allow ourselves the rest we crave. The chakra in focus here is the sacral chakra, imbuing us with flexibility, fluidity, the natural movement in our mortal selves to forgive, dancing, swimming, allowing joy, sensuality, sexuality, fertility, and love. We are our perfect creation of love. Love that is born of fire and knowing its power and courage. Love is power. Judgment and The World are in our core now, the hot, molten center of the earth. We fight as a natural expression of our most sacred self so that the fight becomes a moving of energy in sacred path–the knowing of doing no harm guiding us, the protection of the ancients, guarding us as we face the truth of our earth and ourselves. We know what is important and valuable. We do not compromise. We stand fully in our power and rejoice. #tarotuniversaldalí #fullmoonreading #eclipse #harvestmoon #ganesh #joy #love
for August 18, 2016
Tonight’s Full Moon is known as the Sturgeon Moon, Full Red Moon, Green Corn Moon and Grain Moon. We are still in the full throes of summer in the Northern Hemisphere but we can feel fall’s shadow. So many cycles begun even as far back as childhood are ending now and we are making our way in a new world. The change of season is close and it can feel like the shorter days and slope toward autumn is bringing many chapters to their completeness and ending. The endings in this case are solid and made from a place that we have dug deep to get to this summer. Upheavals are taking place but we are well-equipped to handle them and we generated them. We made choices that have led us here, and sloughed off false and illusory masks of ourselves. We have prepared the ground of our lives for this and are ready to be truer selves. This means using all of the insight, protection, self-knowledge, and magic we have acquired and stepping out into the new world as ourselves. Not needing to pretend or feel guilt or shame over who we are. The truth under the truth. This space we’ve opened in ourselves and our lives offers us comfort and the knowing that we are on the right path and that we have chosen this path with our bones and heart.
Sustenance will be a huge factor in the fall as we learn to provide for ourselves in a real, rich way.
We know how to sustain ourselves now.
What comes our way in the fall will be life-shifting in a powerful way, the stars fall our way, the sky is lit up with our language.
The deck I am using is the beautiful Goddess deck by Kris Waldherr.
May all your transitions be gentle,
A long time ago, I wrote to you: I am hesitant in revelation. Today is hard. I am semi-determined to not despair. The half-nature and negative construction alludes to much that I am not saying. So we enter an age of paradox, where the door we’ve opened onto the night reveals both light and dark. We are of nature in this. We are both tricksters of the light and perfume sellers.
And of what I told you, I add a postscript:
Words are of service when they are not words. Words of sky and rain. They carry the whole of language, the whole body in them and then let them go. They release meaning and the need for meaning. They sacrifice themselves like insects drowning in water. They are water and the insect becoming part of the water, dissolving and decaying. I write, and language decays. The world pronounces itself from a syllable. There is no difference between me and a syllable.
More of what I could have told you but didn’t:
We are widening into orbs of light. We carry fireflies in our stomach. We try to digest the world, when the world looms large, a closed factory, and our senses reflect more back to us than pain and concrete. We know there is more out there or in here but we’ve lost the thread. We are haliphones; we drink, measure outcomes. We are the worry of the rain. We are its untangling.
In a ceremony, we declared that we are hope and peace. We live within the molecules of rain becoming something else; we become rain when we hold the sky as weightless weight. The weight of water measures death and transformation. We hope and grieve and weather; we make weather from sighs and the space inside. We breathe strangely. We are aliens and constructions of paper and light. We have hope in a strange light that we know is important somehow and comes with a key to decipher it.
We are history. We carry it in us like a desperate orphan. It claws and cries and becomes silent as we look at the future, without listening to its stories. We have so many stories inside us. The truth of the world is in us. The patterning of the sky under the eyelids. The chalky residue of stars in skin. We are residue and completion, returning to water and space.
On Tuesday, I wrote:
The worry of this day.
The worry of the sky.
And, finally, in a letter I never sent:
The ghostly presences in our lives harden against the implacable gloom or magic of imagined pasts and futures. There is no way to know what will happen as we press ourselves into the mystery of the present.
Our mattering lies in our hands like a newborn. We barely know what to do with it but we know so much. We know its first breath and we care for it, making sure it gets enough food and water and air and space. We are nautical engineers under oceans where our descendants learn to make light and food out of water.
You were born.
And at some point, I’ll write this, but I won’t remember:
Moth wings rub together in low light, the light is music, we sit in the shadow where light doesn’t fall. We do not fall. We try not to. All our might, mouth scrunched up in tense exhaustion. We are tired of being scared. Dreamless nights, we wake from a nightmare, the dream was scary in our bones and our body trembles because it’s a kind of truth. The truth of dreams in the bones hums like an animal making breakfast, aware of her surroundings and body and lilt in song. The fire under the kettle, the scream of the kettle, the history of water. But that’s too rough. The dawn shows through a little. The green blinds in the kitchen are lighter with a square outline of morning light. This is safety or security or a semblance of those things, which are theories. We don’t live in theories. Safety can’t be figured out in the mind. After waking from a nightmare, we know that. We feel it in our arms, hearts, beating quiet and rough, in our breath that can’t quite collect itself.
Safety is formed in the cells, which have souls. Every cell has a soul.
THE BALLAD OF
PEPPER & WHISKEY
“Harm’s way doesn’t
really bother me,” Pepper told
Whiskey and made an
arrow catching face with
both hands. A biscuitful of
remorse. Whiskey thought
about mailing one’s self to
where the bears are.
The bears were thinking about
fish, thinking feelingly. Pepper
felt a strong bird song rash
coming on and unbuttoned.
Together they reconstructed
the scene by dancing
the map of muddy footprints.
Whiskey mostly rode crosswise,
ass in a splint. That is, after
the accident. This is during.
Whiskey loved Pepper’s birdcage
chest and river talk. Pepper
knew boats, was afraid of water,
happened faster in unnatural light.
Whiskey knew all this.
When they were
planning the lasso party,
plenty small trees needed
to find feet. None did. I guess
the upper hand is underfoot
and all the losing lost.
A bimbo possum in
a dirt oven is Pepper
and Whiskey’s common
ground. As is
the viscosity of
a graveyard giggle.
Goggles to goggles in
the circle of
the square dance, they’ve
got boot-polishing eyes
for each other. They’ve got
high tone alibis and a library
of single string fiddle tunes.
Pepper is banking on
next week’s knocked over
train candy. Whiskey is
dreaming Pepper as
a team of mules
doing card tricks.
Now, they’re bed-rolling
the riverbank. Now,
they’re a shiver
past the mark.
Pepper wanted Whiskey’s house
to be more honest about
its chicken feet, its
spending habits. A full
frontal clock tower two
minutes in gets Whiskey
all aghast and scholarly.
Angel Gecko is one man’s treasure
hunt, one man’s two-timing man.
I just see it like they call it out.
Pepper wanted Whiskey.
That set up the river and night talk.
Whiskey wanted a bucketful
and got more than.
Pepper liked Whiskey so
they walked down to
the river and kept changing
its name until they forgot
the “original.” Pepper
floated out spread legged
on the rope swing while
Whiskey cajoled the local
wolf man out of his coat.
A brawl, a fire, a spit later,
Pepper and Whiskey had
a feast , a swim, and a large
hole dug to bury
the evidence. God bless.
You can check out more of Jen’s and Mike’s fabulosity at www.horselesspress.org.
in Polish, the silence- silence, hush, abatement, appeasement, subsidence
A cold paw reached in and touched his fevered forehead. He didn’t react except for a slight tremor in the breath, lay still as a plank of wood, and even in wood, there’s movement. The dog pattered away, tail between his legs, head down, and settled on the worn path between the kitchen door and the stove. He lay on his stomach, sad-eyed head between two huge front paws. His ears monitored any kitchen activity, which was minuscule, known only to him, twitching backward and forward as his eyelids slowly closed, surrendering to the dense quiet. It was a quiet filled with the sound of insects buzzing in orchestral awe, then suddenly quieted. The sound of birds cooing and harmonizing then abruptly drowned in primordial silence.
The night remembers and trusts the inkhead sheep and brown-eyed cows of Scotland’s countryside. It forms a coded black around us as it dissolves into sleep.
June and July passed in a hot silence.
On Sundays, we look for nourishment, paws scratching in the half-damp of the unwatered, dewed garden. Have the deer eaten our flowers yet? A family, bright-eyed, waits in the tall grass beyond the bathroom window. We wink as we mutter as we shade our eyes from the cold,- [humid] light pouring through the clean pane. Looking for comfort in the hours of daylight ahead. Everything in us tilting, waiting, like flowers, towards dark. Flowers whose survival depends on the dark cover of night, the opposite of light, the soothe of the velvet night sky against our bodies.
We try to feel what we feel. And not reach for an easy excuse out of feeling. We try to be whole, meaning whole with experience but it is hard right now, the wonder of what lies ahead, rosebed, if the night will become ours, days and nights of wondering and uncertainty. We’ve grown used to them, this unknown love of the territories, we know this love, in our bones, mouths, around our eyes. It’s weird and inexplicable and wondrous and the wanting and longing and desire are pronounced and jutting, physical, premonition of objects battering at the soft edges of the world.
We were [are?] quiet here.
Right now, we are waiting to turn into something else, like the color of air when a curtain is swept aside. Waiting for alchemy, for the heart to remember its roots.
The blue needle longed for magnetic north.
– Borges, Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius
We will make it through. We are in the water. The loneliness and companionship of water, sunset beyond windows, within view or darkened prematurely by blinds. We’re in that blind and then blinded by a midday sun. There is no loneliness, we tell ourselves, we’re married, we have families, we have jobs. We have people we talk to every day.
The promise of water.
After all this time, I’m still the adolescent girl in my parents’ Dodge, lying down in the backseat, reading, as one or the other of them, usually my mom, bangs on the window, startling me out of a book, demanding I get out of the car and enjoy whatever view of whatever attraction at whatever national park. I’d still rather be in the backseat, reading.
Over the moon and under the sun, my reading encounters Borges and the Map of Uqbar.
Love presupposes language- silent language, one that is felt and heard in the body- we are existences of each other, one silent alphabet that unites all languages, dead and alive, posthumous recognition of the experience of all beings.
Ursprache: primordial language / proto-language
[what is moored in a presupposed or ore-(mineral, water, composite elements of matter)
Pre-imagined – what comes before imagination in the cosmos –
energy is what leads to pure being]
We go, as always, from desire into solitude, from solitude into desire. We unravel the effects of decisions we made in the past.
The new horizon is visible and there is so much light.
We can look at parentheses as a kind of sleep, which would be most accurately described by synonym slumber. What is held in parentheses is a dream. We are not quite sure if it’s physically real or if it is part of some imagined dream world.
The nine copper coins of Zeno are secret history, unknown waters, invisible presences, apparitions, the mystery of what came before and what will come and what is hidden now, the inner seams of the material of time and how it flows within matter, physical bodies, the earth, other planets, and love.
The premonition of objects and the sea.