“Off in the twilight hung the low full moon,
And all the women stood before it grave,
As round an altar. Thus at holy times
The Cretan damsels dance melodiously
With delicate feet about the sacrifice,
Trampling the tender bloom of the soft grass,”
The fullness aches. The pregnant moment arrives, the moment of it’s-going-to-happen-no-matter-what-we-do is here.
Look at the moon.
I wander in the movement toward fullness, pulled and dragged at times.
Do I dare?
“As the Moon at the full was complete, so all its potentialities were at their height: it was either the Healer of sorrows and Muse of poets and dreamers, or the Afflictor of madness or blindness.” ~ The Moon: Myth and Image
Do I dare to be as full?
Do I dare to want the fullness?
I make an altar of my sacred vows and promises. I place mugwort and lavender and rose petals in a circle to hold the magick, to hold my heart.
Breathe into the space between. The space of growing desire.
Breathe out the tension of becoming. The dull reminder of doubt.
Ground. Sink deeper into the movement of lungs and ribs and shoulders and belly.
Ground until I can reach down and touch the bones. Feel the heat of the core.
Rise up, rise up until my arms can touch the stars and the galaxies and the infinite.
Come down, come down to the place of my heart. My right hand rests on my breastbone and my left hand below my navel.
Still. Present. Here.
Light the candle, light the promise, light the bright glow, the spell.
The moment before the burning, the strike, the flash, the intention.
Sweet Moon, I call out for healing. The uncertainty. The fear. The world. The earth. My unsteady heart.
Sweet Moon, I call out for the brightness that is the illuminated place of shadows and clarity. If only in that moment.
Sweet Moon, sing into me. Sing me. Fill the places that have wondered and wandered from the space of quiet to loud and back again.
The low full moon.
Tonight knows there is a sacrifice to be made. Before. A restlessness to shake off and dance down to my toes and up through my fingers.
I look to the shape of the inside of my heart and notice the edges, the chambers. A guest house of hesitation, a cupboard under the stairs where hidden things stay, where loneliness has claimed a drawer.
There is a room inside that has become too cluttered. As though there were an intruder. Uninvited.
Sweet Moon, I call out and wake up the visitors. I call out and cry out.
Sweet Moon, may beauty drip down in streams of pearl as I raise my arms to you (again).
Let this nectar cling to the trembling. To the place that needs balance (again).
To the places that need to be reminded. To be healed.
And let the candle burn for as long as it will. Let the sacred round of the altar remain.
Let the spell reach out its arms and collect the visitors, wish them well, and send them on their way.
Make the room ready again.
Fullness is the welcome guest.