Under the Aquarius Moon
—morning of May 29th—
The realization came strong, and I was suddenly stained with fear, breathless.
There would be change.
That's living, in some form or another, isn't it?
I cleared the tub, rinsed my skin, and cleaned through tears in solitude until there was nothing left to cry, allowing what no longer serves to escape by way of the bathtub drain.
There's always something to clean until it’s decided the cleaning is done.
—noon—
A friend and I met for a walk on a path where we avoided poison ivy that leaned in too closely, where the frogs screamed their songs, where the lotuses floated atop lily pads, where we sighed at the light against green and our bodies exhaled with the soft, fertile earth.
We spoke of our children,
of ourselves,
of ourselves,
and the aches of our ever changing lives.
—evening—
Regular massage clients become a beloved poem I've both read and rewritten.
Familiar but new, this evening's stanza was about the mysteries of a left shoulder.
Where's the source of the ache?
What's beyond?
Maybe some pressure on the lateral border of the scapula could provide relief?
Breath and a knowing will lead to the discovery of how and where, if anywhere in particular, there is a need for attention.
Bodies change,
sessions change.
Even in this room, no moment is the same.
—the call—
After my final client, as I was pulling sheets from off the table, cleaning, again, I answered a phone call with a voice telling me to sit down, there’s news. Sheets in hand, I slid onto a chair, learning that Esther, a matriarch of the birthing community, went to bed the night before and did not wake in the morning.
An Aquarius sun, she left this earth under the Aquarius moon.
I grasped the sheets, allowed the chair to hold me, morning cries resurfacing, realizing I had cleared to only shed again,
once again.
