The New Moon in Aquarius was exact on Monday February 8th at 6:39 am PST. This New Moon marks the Lunar New Year, Year of the Fire Monkey, just a few days past Imbolc, the deep of winter. The New Moon in Aquarius is a reminder of what sustains us, renewing the practices that feed our Spirit, keeping us moving, refreshing our minds. This year I was called inward. I couldn’t find the words to write an astrology post, so here in this post is my deep winter mediation. May you find peace and guidance along the Path, wherever it may lead you.
I let myself sink. Into the water, the mystery, the gentle place where this world blurs into Spirit. I relaxed my mind, open to receive. Then I went looking for Death. The symbols had come to me, vague but consistent, so I went looking for understanding. The first version of Death who came was familiar: huge and terrifying, swift and threatening, corvid feathers and a cape of decay. Xenakrom, he who takes what no longer serves and he who guards the gateways. He swept me through the gateway before I could look twice, before I could ask what was coming next.
I found myself at the foot of the cemetery fence on the edge of worlds. The fence is tall but crumbling, easy enough to climb if you’re careful with your footing. Bone Girl looked down at me, from her perch on the fence, her wild tangled hair standing out behind her. She lifted her simple white wooden mask. Her face is streaked with grave dirt. She keeps watch over the bones of the watchers, the guardian angels that walked with us in life.
She invited me to the top of the wall, and there at the edge she showed me the souls that were ready to let go of their charges. Their missions complete, she gathers their bones and grinds them down. Then they are free to be reborn. I asked her what I needed to know, what she had to teach me.
She showed me the bones of trauma that were left in my body. Prickly little bones hidden in soft tissues, places that became hard with trauma and abuse, and she removed some of them. She poked me in my sore rib. She showed me it was my provider bone, that my fear of caring for myself and my family that made it sore. She reminded me that a little bit of fear is good, it’s healthy, it shows us where our limits are, when we stop listening carefully. Right below my heart, in my spine, is a golden vertebra. Solid and shining, the gift. If I live from my heart, the rest will sort itself out, even the money. She held me down, reached in through my back and reordered my ribs, connecting my providers rib right to that golden heart piece of spine.
She showed me strange little bone sticking out of my neck. One that stops me from speaking my Truth. As soon as she pointed at it I felt excruciating pain from all the times I didn’t speak up for myself. She did not remove that little bone. I’m not ready to hold that part of myself yet. I’m still working up to it.
I asked her about my inner addict, the scared little girl I am so careful to take care of, to meet her needs for connection and affection and clear strong boundaries. She showed me that girl is the same girl that inspires me to make friends, to trust other people, to care for my animals, to give my heart first. She is my strength as much as my weakness.
I asked her about my career and my partners career, would we be ok, would our jobs keep going? Change is constant, she said. Stasis brings sickness. She brought me back to the star shining in my spine and reminded me: all I have to do is live from my heart, and the rest will sort itself out.
I asked her about my dream of a family. I talked to the women, the mothers. They all took years off of work after birthing to raise their children, I may not have that option. What if my children are raised by strangers? Bone Girl looked up into my eyes, deep dark iris pupil pools shining from an orphan’s face. We are all strangers, she said. It takes a village, and we are all strangers. One or two people looking out for you as you grow, checking in with the others, coordinating, is a blessing that many children will not receive. Being a Mother means letting go, holding space for everything and letting it all go at the same time.
She took me to the grave of my black cat, my Familiar who died. He’s been inspiring me and guiding me, sometimes directly in dreams and visions; sometimes in glimpses, memories of love, lingering patterns. He was once a River Spirit. He incarnated when I could not hear his wisdom in my dreams. He helped me let go of the last vestiges of my addictive pattern with alcohol. I cried fat wet tears on the dust and ash at his grave in the cemetery at the edge of worlds.
I knew it was time for him to change. She had come to collect his bones. She would grind them up and allow him to move into the next phase of his existence. She did do that to some of his bones, but some of them she stitched into mine, carefully integrating his bones with my muscles. She showed me how to use the ones she gave me, to sit like he did, to walk like he did, to glance curiously the way that only a black cat can. She showed me how to reintegrate his love, that I can be him any time I need to. Bone Girl taught me to become a Black Cat. He and I were brothers. Our Spirits are part of the same fabric.
If I become Black Cat I can walk along a fence until I get the graveyard at the edge of worlds. Bone Girl will meet me there. She is not a herald of Death to come, she is a healer of integration with Death that has already happened. Our deepest wounds are our greatest allies, but sometimes we need help to understand them. When I’m ready to speak my Truth she’ll help me remove that bone sticking sideways out of my neck, if you haven’t already. And as long as I live from my heart, the rest will sort itself out.
In Death, In Life, In Love.