Tonight is the harvest moon, and for all the writing on it, I find the symbolism a bit too literal for a jumping off point, and my space a little too dark to feel thankful for the ‘bounty.’

One thing, however, is new to me, and intriguing. Apparently, the amount of daylight lost each day decreases briefly around the harvest moon, slowing ‘time’ and providing not only a brighter bit of moonlight but a little more daylight (relatively speaking) as well.

I don’t know what I’m harvesting right now, but it’s truly painful. And the extra ‘time’ provided to do so feels almost mocking. It feels like all the things I’m waiting for (a visit to my ocean, a break from the kids, news on a new job, a lightening of spirit, even my cycle) are all delayed, with time stretching longer than usual and making things unbearable.

Tonight’s meditation has brought a little insight, however, for better or for worse. Part of the harvest is the moving indoors- - with the last bounty pulled from the fields, there is the trading of gardens and orchards for kitchen and hearth. Historically, this would be the beginning of a time for rest and rejuvenation. And I think this is part I find most distressing, and until now I didn’t know why. I don’t feel at home- at home. I don’t find strength, or rest, or rejuvenation here. I don’t find ‘here’ a place of comfort. I don’t find ‘here’ home at all. In fact, I am often a stranger here, chastised and spent, with needs that aren’t met and generally assumed ignorant or excluded from things. For all my efforts I am without a home.

I’ve written here before about the role my home has played in my peace of mind and sense of well being. I am most sound when I can tidy my mind through order in my space, honoring the internal with external ritual. And I thought I was moving toward resolution, patiently watching for the pieces of my new prayer to present themselves in my new space. But how do you find a prayer for yourself in a place that isn’t yours? I see now that perhaps I squandered the summer with my efforts elsewhere, and am now sowing a disappointing personal harvest as a result - one of my most enduring emotional thorns is now all I’ve gathered from the fields- The last ‘home’ I had is now 1 year passed and 1500 miles away and I fear I will never see feel like that again. We have made family decisions, and I personal sacrifices, that will perpetuate the feeling of ‘otherness’ in my own life. As harvests go, this one is not exactly good for eating over the next 6 months.

Unfortunately, tonight’s moon has offered only questions, no answers. My deepening depression keeps me from reaching out to others, even those who own the space I so much need to reclaim. I am tired of having to ask for myself, my needs, to be recognized. I am tired of every twinge of pain I feel touching back to the move. I am tired of feeling like I’ve given away everything of myself to be here, in a place that does so little for me and makes me feel so small and disconnected. I am tired. And no extra daylight, no brighter moonlight seems to help. I only hope that the next month, and next moon, are a little more forgiving.

Tonight's moon is the strawberry moon, and a search for its symbolism fittingly revealed little philosophy and a great number of events. Who wants to be inside reading with a moon like this? Action appears to be the theme of this June moon.

The strawberry moon is relatively straight forward, being the time of the strawberry harvest. It is a time of rapid growth and fleeting fruit. Since the last Strawberry moon, I have witnessed the rapid growth of a newborn baby to a toddler full of life, light, and attitude. I have watched a shy and hesitant toddler bloom into an articulate and engaging little boy. I have witnessed Rob grow as a musician, as a husband, and as a father. I have experienced an insane amount of change, transforming and transplanting almost everything in my life. And through all this, I have experienced a challenging stretch of personal growth, finding unknown inner strength, my breaking point, my voice, and a few more steps on the patch toward being a whole person.

Yet all this change seems haphazard, and successful navigation of it outside my control, Like the frenzied growth of a strawberry patch. Only by happenstance have I arrived here intact and a better version of Jade.

One source I could find pointed to a Coyote mother as teacher and anchor through the Strawberry moon's time of change, and I couldn't help but wonder who my Coyote mother is. In last year's Strawberry moon, it was Nettie. While I waited for Sophia's arrival, a change that already manifested for me and was about to, unbeknownst to all of us, rocket our family into a year of nothing BUT change, Nettie moved me to act. She helped move me to the ocean, to the field, to my kitchen, and to the Goddess. It was in those moments of simple action that I was able to harness and experience the change that swirled around me.

In the ocean, I drew Sophia's name on the beach and let her know that I was ready for her. I conquered my fear of early labor and allowed myself to visit the sea, miles from my midwife. We collected sand and water and said our thanks at the frothy hem of the Goddess's skirt.

In the field I was moved to laugh, to eat, to satisfy and manifest my vision for Sophia's pregnancy. I was moved to embrace my round body's strength and desire and take pleasure in the earth that had grown such a beautiful and healthy baby.

In my kitchen I was moved to capture that fleeting perfection, to find a natural stasis that would allow me access back to that field after the moment had passed. In my kitchen I connected that moment in my life with that of many women before, harvesting the peace and bounty of one time for the unknown to come.

And with Nettie's help, her calm presence and stability with the one thing that scared me most about going into labor, I was able to give myself wholly to the experience of birth, communing with the Goddess and finding that well of strength it took to move Sophia into this world.

So I take that lesson of action in this Strawberry moon and wonder where it will manifest. So many changes have found us in the last year, and I know there are more waiting for us. Dylan has an incredible big year ahead, with a world around him expanding at a pace none of us can fully comprehend. Sophia has ahead of her the patch Dylan took last year, but filtered through her wind-in-the-face personality. For me, I don't know. For now I'm just tending my home, my family and my garden, enjoying the moment of summer bounty.

Last week we had a heck of a wind storm, and when I got up in the morning I noticed that the makeshift gate for the chicken coop had blown down. The girls, obviously pleased by this, were scratching around the yard, looking for some tender 6am bugs. (early bird, you know....)

Already dressed for work, I stepped into the backyard and rounded up the ladies, careful to keep the hem of my slacks out of the garden dirt. With the girls secured back in their run, I returned to the kitchen to finish getting my coffee.

While I puttered around the kitchen, I thought about how silly a pre-work chore chicken catching is, and just how much I like our "farm" chores around the yard. There is something very right about caring for the animals and plants as the sun rises, slow and intentional sustaining of the things that sustain us. I wandered through my thoughts for a bit, and found myself slowing down and enjoying my morning routine. Which is quite an impressive thing at quarter of 6 on a Wednesday.

It kind of made me sad- first, for the speed that the rest of my day would take once I left my kitchen and started toward work; second, for the years I was in such a hurry to get somewhere or be someone that I would have been irritated, not amused, by such a humble morning space. It's odd, really, how fast we expect life to move, and how much we feel we don't have time to do simple things. How much time would it take before we had time to spare?

We have microwaves, dishwashers, clothes dryers, and robot vaccum cleaners, tools to do things faster and unsupervised, to remove ourselves from the mundane- to free us to other things. But what other things, though? What are we doing with that time?

My morning chasing chickens, my afternoons hanging laundry, and our evenings tending the garden remind me that the mundane is not something to categorically avoid. The mundane, when embraced, is often the only part of my day that replenishes my perspective, connecting me to the people and world around me. Sometimes, in this mean and hurried world, shooing chickens back into their house is just what I need to move everything else into its place.

The equinox is a time of balance, with the scales tipping tomorrow toward light, growth, and activity. We see the sprouts of what incubated dormant all winter, and we have the planning and promise of summer. For me, the balance between these two seasons is a turning point.

The things we planted last fall were rushed and haphazard, like a dropped box of mixed seeds. I don't yet know what we planted, or where, and I don't know how these things will fit into who I am or where I am going. It's still to early to tell, and there is some thinning that will be required.

Summer, however, carries the promise of planning and planting, of intention. We are to a point in the year, in our life, that we must conscientiously decide what seeds to plant in our garden, in our children, and in ourselves. While cause and effect are ever present forces, we are in the position to decide our causes. To live intentionally, conscientiously; to manifest growth, joy, and beauty.

Blessed be!

All of us, even those who are not attached to any formal religion, have need of that which silent prayer satisfies. It is the need of gathering one's inner resources. –Felix Frankfurter

I used to pray. Not the kneel by the bed with hands folded kind of prayer- more the silent gathering of resources. I had my ritual. Every morning once the sun rose, I would open all the curtains (and windows, if it was warm enough). Top to bottom, front to back, starting near my alter, I'd welcome the morning sunshine into our home. I'd get my cup of coffee and ring my great chimes, which hung in the living room. Once counter clockwise, to clear our space, then once clockwise to bless it. I'd stand near the storm door if it was warm, drinking in some beautiful (summer) Oregon sun and fresh air, then I'd go on with my day. It wasn't much, but it centered me.

When things got too harried in the house, I'd smudge before everyone came home. Cedar counterclockwise, sweet grass clockwise, chimes to carry the intention to all the spaces I might have missed. This was my home-grown silent prayer.

I haven't prayed in 7 months. My alter, chimes, and herbs were in a box for 6 of them. Now my chimes are hung, but instead of being centered in our house, they hang on the edge in the sunroom. Their music no longer touches every room. My alter is still packed somewhere with knick knacks. My herbs are buried under orphaned remnants of hurried packing. My prayer was an organic part of my day, the space we lived in, the way I worked. I needed an external ritual for my inner space, and now that we've moved, my prayer is gone too. I start over.

This space will not accommodate that prayer because it didn't grow here. This rediscovery process will just be part of re-planting my roots. What grounds me here must grow here, and become entwined in this new space. My new prayer will be born of time and space- it will meet needs I didn't have in Oregon, and abandon those that did not move with us. It will be a natural extension of my old prayer, connecting these two places, but be unique to here and now, moving beyond that place and supporting me as I move beyond the person I was there. I just have to be patient and wait for it to grow.

Last Night's moon was the Long Night moon, and we celebrated it in a snowy mountain, glowing pale blue by the full moon, sharing light and food with my brother and his family for yule.

It was this, the lighting of candles and feeding an adult relationship with my brother that made me think of Long Night as a dark and cold night, full of fear and discomfort, waiting for the light to return. And indeed, things do look terribly dark right now. Our house in Oregon has been on the market for almost 4 months now, and it could be as long or longer before it sells. I fear overstaying our welcome with my in-laws, and already feel vividly the strain of not having our own space. Work is not what it should be, and I am not the person for the job, or environment, that I have. But I am the provider now, and a job hop doesn't seem like a good idea right now. Strain with my mother and terribly profound grieving for Oregon, where I found my peace, strength, and center, round out a deep deep depression. Indeed, things have never been so dark for me.

So I keep wondering when the trend will turn, when the sun will return and I can feel warm joy again. I thought first that this is what Long Night moon means to me right now. And while it's hopeful of a new turn next month, it's still a dark space to dwell in.

As I researched this moon, however, I found a more hopeful interpretation.

Long Night moon would be the time, in more rural communities, of rest and waiting. Today, of course, there is as much or more work this time of year and no natural lull when winter falls. The ground slumbers, the fields lay fallow, and men rest, waiting patiently for a spring they cannot rush. The coming year they cannot know. They can only rest themselves for the effort that lies ahead. We must wait and accept the time it takes for the seasons to turn.

And in this thought, I think I have found my answer. I cannot force Spring. And while it is dark and cold and painful now, I must accept and endure it because it is the natural motion of these things. I can merely light my yule candles and wait for the warmth of the sun to return; I can and must rest for Spring, and the back breaking labor that comes with it.

Blessed Be, and bright holiday wishes for whatever you choose to celebrate!

Today's moon is the Wolf moon, which obvious jokes aside, I don't get a strong sense of. It is supposed to refer to the hungry wolves howling in January- quiet a different image than that of yule's abundance. I guess that's how January feels to a lot of people; they hear their inner stomach grumbles after the abundance and gluttony of the holidays.

I have a different kind of hunger now though; aside from the ravenous pregna-appetite, of course.I feel empty emotionally- my stores are depleted and I have begun to hoard the very last crumbs that lay there. I do not know how to replenish, and like the wolves, lament and fear the possibility of perishing from want. I am going to the coast at the New Moon to do some work releasing the hurt I have had such difficulty moving past- I hope that in the course of that process, I can also get a glimpse into what it would take to feed myself a little as well. Plant a few seeds, if you will, providing myself something nourishing to look forward to in the near future. Blessed be.