The luminous Full Moon woke me last night. She was sailing into the west when she spilled her light through the round window above our bed. Oh so lovely, to lie there listening to my man’s heartbeat, both of us bathed in moonlight. A moment of grace.
The Moon Mother is dressed in her Libra gown. It’s woven from balanced, harmonious shades of green and yellow, interwoven with black and white threads. She’s the first Full Moon past Spring Equinox, which carries its own message of balance, yin & yang, half and half. I found myself meditating on the border between the two over the last few days.
I felt as if I were walking a tightrope over a chasm, with dark on one
side of the line and light on the other. Almost like a harlequin’s
face. There is so much wonderful stuff in my life, so very much to be
grateful for. I am charged and excited about the changes I’m making in
my personal life — my commitment to healthy eating and daily exercise,
cleaning up my personal finances a la Suze Orman, meditating with the
Holosync CDs, making solid progress on the Gaian Tarot and envisioning
it in the hands of the perfect publisher. I’m grateful for my home, my
partner, my circles of friends and sisters, this magical island where I
live. I’m grateful for my health and my body which is so beautifully
and gracefully aging. I’m grateful for juicy books to read and music
that makes me dance or weep. I’m grateful for the swans I saw flying
north yesterday and the hummers hovering around the red-flowering
currant. Oh yes, my gratitude list could go on and on and on.
And on the other side of the tightrope? Grief, sorrow, depression,
illness, inertia, fear, despair. All those things that threaten to
overwhelm me from time to time. When I’m caught in one of those
cycles, I try to remember my strategies for getting out of them —
getting outside, going for a walk, listening to uplifting music,
smiling, asking for a hug, talking to a friend, journaling . . . none
of those ever sound good when I’m stuck in a negative rut. But once I
do one or more of them, everything changes. Fake it ’til ya make it,
I find myself wondering at times what the difference is between denial
and refusing to give attention or energy to the "bad" things that
happen. It seems to me that’s another fine line to walk. Sometimes
grief or despair indicates a core truth that we need to face and
acknowledge, before we can begin to strategize solutions. On the other
hand, I’ve spent a lifetime leaping to the worst-case scenario of any
given situation (oh that shadow side of Capricorn). That needs to
This weekend I was caught up in a tide of emotions, washed over by
memories of my father, my mother, my son Jake . . . all of whom have
gone into the Great Mystery before me. I cried. I cried because I
missed them, I cried for misunderstandings never resolved, for words
not spoken, for words that were spoken. I cried for the loss of a
teenager’s young life, and for the beauty of an aged life so
well-lived. I listened to Lucy Kaplansky’s moving songs about her own
father’s death and cried and cried some more.
I sat in my overstuffed drawing chair in my studio, pencils and
sharpener at hand, jar of water nearby, and the omnipresent,
oh-so-necessary iPod. I was working on the Four of Water, which shows
a young woman gazing into the waters of Chalice Well. Is she sad and
grieving? Is she at peace? Is she scrying the patterns on the surface
of the water? Is she contemplating the mysteries of the Red Spring?
Is the Lady of the Well whispering in her ear? Is her own personal
well empty and in need of replenishment? Or is she full and flowing
from a hidden underground stream, not unlike the Well itself?
Full and empty, half and half, both at the same time. Full moon in the
darkness. Waxing, waning, full, empty, filling, spilling.
Ever-changing, never-changing . . . ever faithfully the same.