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.

Tonight's moon is the Barley moon, a night to contemplate the cyle of life. Tonight also ends the first full day after confirming our miscarriage. It seems appropriate then that the full moon in all her round mother glory is obviscated by clouds tonight.

We have, in an instant, touched both life and death. While our baby was little more than a growing bit of life, I shared a few weeks with another spirit and that does leave an imprint. I do not believe her spirit is lost. I believe she may choose to return in a more viable vehicle, if that is part of the larger plan-- because of this, I dont grieve as deeply as I expected I would.

My grief is not tempered by a lack of time or the logic that an embroyo is only half a person. I grieve only for the loss of the dreams we shared, as a family. I grieve for the loss of being pregnant and sharing my space with another wonderful human being who has chosen to be our child.

And while this grief is real and whole to me, it is not all consuming. It merely points me to the future when the opportunity and dreams will again be ours to share.

In this, I realize that this is the peace that people's faith provides them in times of crisis. In affirming my beliefs on my journey to an outward faith, I feel that I have connected to that greater strength and that infinite wheel.

This is the first time in my life that I have been comforted fully by my faith rather than suspicious of it, testing it. For the first time, I have found my spiritual center and a place of peace. Blessed Be!

Today, I think complexity is an unavoidable part of age.

Common, and not so common, events in my life have reopened old emotional scars and resurrected fears I thought I had buried deep enough. But, for once in my life, I feel that the phrase "think before you speak" is just the tip of the iceburg. I think some of what I'm feeling should never be spoken at all.

When we are young, we say what comes to our mind. We do not care what others will think because we have no comprehension that what they think will be any different than what we think. As we get older, we watch what we say, ever cool, for fear that what we let slip will be turned as weapons against us in the terrible war that is modern adolescence. We find ourselves, and open again, convinced that those around us will accept us for who we are.

I don't know what happens next, however, because I'm still stunted and learning how to open. However, I realize that words are very delicate and dangerous things, even if they are never released. And I know that the things I don't say, won't say unless I'm cornered, will color all parts of me, becoming one of those historical experiences that makes me more difficult to understand or anticipate (and probably more difficult to deal with-- we'll see).

It's been one of those days. And the thoughts and feelings that have come of it will only pour into all the other histories, layering into who I am and coloring time going forward.

It's amazing how far we go, only to return to where we began.

Let Go
(5/5/03)

Run away
and take it back
take back the life you once knew
would be your own

Reclaim your passions
your wild abandon, your wonder
shrug off the mantle you've so eagerly sought
leaden and dark
and run naked in the sun
unencombered and laughing

wrap yourself in wine, the warm glow of infatuation
and chase this flight of fancy
sing the songs you've silenced needlessly

allow yourself to soften
let time move past without care
it was never yours to manage anyway

drift along with pleasure
appreciate, reciprocate
you'll only know it when you stop demanding it
and allow yourself to be moved

It's not as dangerous as you've believed
Let go
and discover who you have this chance to be

This is how I exorcise my demons. This is how I find my light.

I remember you, but do not miss you. I have defined my success by you for too long- It is time I break my dependence on you for my self-worth. You are not the yardstick I choose to measure my life by. I am building a new yardstick.

I will find my own definition of success. I will seek out what fulfills me to fill in, once and for all, the gaping emotional hole you left me to deal with. I will not longer need your approval, nor feel the need to give you mind out of filial obligation.

I am no more obliged to be your daughter and honor your memory than you felt obligated to be a father.

I am my own to live. I made the right choice one year ago to walk away. My anger has resurfaced and now moves me to act. And to tell you how I really feel. You are gone, and should remain so, regardless of the time of year. For your memory to haunt this season is unacceptable. You are at rest, and my issues with you are dissolved as well.

My relationship with the dawn has changed over the years, becoming deeper and more meaningful as it has worn on.

When I was in middle school, when my tics were at their peak, I experienced a bout of insomnia that introduced me regularly to the dawn. That is when I fell in love with the crisp sweet summer morning smell you can only find before the sun moves into the sky. Growing up, the dawn was a time of anticipation-- each year at the balloon fiesta dawn was celebrated with the roar of propane and all of our faces, cold and upturned, watching the great ascension.

Before moving to Oregon, I woke up one morning with the dog, pulled a chair to the window, and found some peace in the painful world that was my life. The dawn was crisp, cool, and full of promise. It inspired me to plant a garden-- which later inspired me to move my own roots elsewhere.

But the dawn never meant as much to me as it did the day Dylan was born. As the sun came up over the marshlands outside my birth room window, which I could see out of while in the birthing tub, I pushed him into the world. For all the archetypes of dawn as birth, it was truly a symbol of such.

The birth of my son, my birth as a mother, and the birth of us as a family, all took place that morning bathed in the soft light of an Oregon Spring dawn. The rising sun gave me strength and a constant reminder that we were almost there.

Dylan was born at the dawn of day at the dawn of Spring- bringing with him opportunities for rebirth and a dawn of awareness, of intentionally living.

While in the San Juan islands for our 1-year anniversary, Dylan woke me at dawn to eat and while he nursed I drank in the beauty of morning in the harbor. With my boys in bed sleeping and the sun gently lighting the water and our room, I watched the world wake up in a crispness and my greatest gifts sleep side by side. I felt at peace.

Someone said that we are closest to spirit at dawn and dusk, and I believe it. I have never felt closer to God than in the quiet moments when the sun pulls itself over the horizon. There is a stillness there, like a chapel or cathedral, but there is also a more organic wildness that man has never been able to capture or reproduce. It is a goddess perhaps-- still and quiet but full with life, with hope.