Persephone's passage

Say you were split, you were split in fragments
and none of the pieces would talk to you
wouldn't you want to be who you had been
well, baby I want that, too

--Aimee Mann (from Humpty Dumpty)

Sometimes things collide—cars, shopping carts, worlds, energies, planetary alignments, moon cycles, people, expectations, past lives, triggers—and the result can be fantastic, alarming, or catastrophic—or all three. Typically, collisions create chaos--a splintering, splitting, cracking, crushing, messy, clean up in aisle 7 type of thing. This morning, I experienced a collision of sorts—of anticipation, anxiety, tricky family dynamics, shifting hormones, and assorted unasked for stimuli--and felt the chaos bubble up and out in an unraveling that, I suppose, began at the start of this process. The surgery, just days away, is weighing heavily, and though glad for the extra week to conquer this virus and infection, regain some strength and lung capacity (old Iron Lungs is feeling it!), and prepare for the coming weeks, the waiting—and anticipation—has been torturous. Too much time to think, and those over-thunk thoughts become worries that fly and pester about at times of repose and reflection, and as much as I try to swat the buggers away, they persist, a pestilence that infects heart and mind, and tries to chase away my better sense. Luckily for me, the impending full moon, goddess that she is, offers opportunities for reconnection to our neglected interiors and native beginnings, and spring is on the horizon. As well, the Vernal Equinox heralds the cycles of suffering, death, and resurrections, and the growth, rebirth, renewal and awakenings of spring. And accompanied by my own place in the moon and female energy cycle, my better sense, unless closely tended, is seriously at risk. Have I lost you yet?

Suffice it to say that the vernal equinox is here, the full moon is coming, my period is coming, and the surgery is coming. And I’m feeling a bit emotional. Got it?

I’m learning a lot about myself these past weeks—that I can be temperamental, given to changing moods when the moon speaks to me, the rain falls, or the winds blow; that I am highly sensitive and intuitive, impressionable and mediumistic; that I am vulnerable to the psychic information I receive from my surroundings, often have trouble screening and filtering out these spiritual and environmental cues and voices (oh! now she’s hearing voices!!), and feel overwhelmed easily, particularly at certain times in my cycle (like, now); that during these times, all the past unresolved trauma from childhood (yes, after all that therapy, there seem to still be unresolved issues) and beyond come roaring back with a ferocity that unseats my soul; and finally, that I feel things deeply, need to vent freely, and can be emotionally expressive (what a lovely euphemism—expressive is when the Italian blood kicks in, my hands go all over the place, my voice rises, my hair probably stands on end, and the look on the kids’ faces is priceless). Collisions often lead to fragmentation, splitting apart, division. This cancer has brought many collisions to the surface, but I also believe that ultimately my safe passage through this cancer will empower me to reshape myself—both literally and figuratively, and inside and out—and the life I live, pulling the pieces back together in different ways, a rebirthing, a re-sculpting, a re-incarnation of sorts. That’s what life is, right? Something to be lived, first and foremost, and something to rework, over and over again.

The world, after all, is not all that we see in tangible reality. The world is full of mysteries, sub-surface alternative realities, parallel universes, uncertainties, and unexplainable phenomena. This mythic Underworld—full of dreams, the darker side of life, the unconscious, our demons, the spirit world, the collective consciousness of humanity—has risen to my surface, forcing me to draw inward, reflect on my place and progress in this world, face the depths of my fear, sadness, anger, mourning, and seek the light through the darkness. Drawing me up and out has been humor, music, my children, friends and family, and the lightness and rightness of the natural world. Just yesterday our dog Daisy caught sight of a small jet-black mink running over the white snow in the field next to our house; she sped off after it, and lost it near our stream. By the time we arrived, the mink had left nothing but delicate footprints in the snow, and a nasty musky odor that floated about the stream. The dog shoved her nose into the prints and one by one, followed them back to the meadow, retracing her steps. The mink, it seems, swam its way out of trouble. But how beautiful to see it—and even smell it—and be lured outside to check back in, however momentarily, to the world unfolding around us.

The full moon arrives tomorrow, and as always for me it is a reminder of a woman’s role as calendar-keeper, as progenitor of keeping track of the moon cycles, which long ago, before artificial light flooded our homes and upset our circadian and lunar rhythms, predicted her own. The moon is a powerful entity—and women, despite modern trends to disconnect entirely from these primal tethers, have always been at its loving mercy—the amount of moonlight we receive triggering our hormones and directly influencing the alignment of our menstrual cycles with that of the moon. This harmony with the moon and the resulting menstruation—bleeding without being wounded, in a particular rhythm, and containing the absolute magic of creation—can be powerful stuff—and has often been feared vilified, and misunderstood (resulting in the persecution—simply because their menstrual blood remained in their veins—of thousands of post-menopausal women in the 17th century for supposed witchcraft). Over the years, its disparagement—and the taboos that have been created to protect society and women from this power—have led to our detachment and disengagement with our very basic natural, feminine essence.

Several years ago, I thought of creating a special calendar for women to be used to better track not just their cycles, but their moods as well, checking in with their cyclical archetypal personas to better predict and plan for activities, and emotional and physical needs. (I’m still working on it) After all, thousands of years ago, it was women who created the first calendars, out of necessity. Since their own natural body rhythms corresponded to observations of the moon, it was their way of keeping track, making sense, and keeping order. There are many examples throughout ancient history: Chinese women established a lunar calendar 3000 years ago. The great Maya calendar was based on menstrual cycles. Romans called the calculation of time “menstruation,” of “knowledge of the menses.” In Gaelic, “menstruation” means calendar. The Pagans, bless their hearts, infused their thirteen month + 1 day calendar with ancient symbols of matriarchy: night, moon, the number 13. And there is some thought that early menstrual rites were perhaps one of the first expressions of human culture.

Here’s your astronomy lesson: when the full moon arises tomorrow, the sun and moon will be 180 degrees apart. And we all know that the full moon is the time of "highest emotion, energy and sensitivity." I mean, can't you feel it? This week’s Vernal Equinox signals the time when the Sun is moving northwards along the ecliptic, crossing the celestial equator, and day and night are of nearly equal length at all latitudes. On a more symbolic level, the spring equinox "celebrates conception, the sprouting seed, rejuvenation, and feeling the balance necessary to begin anew," signaling a new year, and ushering in change and growth at all levels. It’s no wonder, then, that its arrival, coinciding with so many other energies, have helped peel back the layers of emotions and old, worn-out protective charms to encourage new growth to push forth. As I’ve said before, there are always silver linings, opportunities for good things to come out of “bad,” and that there is, just as Albus Dumbledore says, light and dark in everything, and in each and every one of us. This breast cancer represents, in many ways, a collision of the energies of which I speak—and the opportunities that lie within each. Symbolically representing the feminine, the female, and motherhood in so many ways, this breast cancer is illuminating the dark patches of my life, bringing clarity, direction, and a sense of purpose to my footsteps, beseeching me to place boundaries around myself, to honor myself, and allow the space and time for change and growth—in fact, to seek it out, to pursue it. It is asking that I increase my awareness of and connection to my self, to my natural and spirit worlds, while loosening the hold of the material. All good things.

And so, after wailing in my closet for about three minutes to jettison out the black psychic smoke that had filled my lungs and taken away my voice, I returned to my day, eager to continue the psychic cleansing, with puttering (all women know how grounding doing some tidying up can be) and writing, baring soul, dark spots and all, in order to illuminate and better understand these rough patches, and let go, let go, let go—

My mother told me a funny story today. On the occasion of my their 50th wedding anniversary, my grandmother approached my grandfather, who by this time was fairly nearly crippled from an old ski accident, and was probably putting away his leg braces or special socks when she came to him, opened her robe and said “Can you believe this is the woman you married fifty years ago?” My grandmother had breast cancer twice, the first time in her early 50’s, when she had a mastectomy—without reconstruction—on her left breast. Big scar, no lizard tattoo. Add to that a myriad of other scars: appendix removed, gall bladder removed, and multiple abdominal surgeries because of her crohn’s disease. Her medical history was unbelievable—because by watching her, and seeing her undeniably gargantuan spirit in action, one would have been awed by what she had gone through. Both my grandparents went through more than their share of medical and family trauma—and doggedly not only lived their lives, but lived their lives well. Just when things were at their darkest, they shone their brightest. They had moxie! I am eternally grateful to them for seeding us with their strength and courage, passing on their spirit and generosity, and infusing all they did with humor and grace. My grandparents celebrated the full moon each month with a gathering of friends on their boat, or someone's boat, and they'd pack a picnic dinner, drink lots of wine, laugh with friends, and howl at the moon. I do think they were on to something.

I leave you tonight with a Lakota blessing: “Follow your Grandmother Moon. Her illuminating cycles will transform your spirit.”

If we all head outside to bathe in true blue full-moonlight tomorrow night, we'll all be looking at the same moon face, drinking in the same moonshine, and feeling the same Grandmother Moon transformative energy. See you there--and don't forget to howl. I'll be listening.