Mistress of the Moon

IMG_20160417_232429Her head wasn’t quiet enough yet.
She needed to wait until the stars came out,
Until she could feed on moonlight and bask in the cool inspiration of Night.

“When will he come back?”
She wondered.
Her heart ached for his touch,
For the gentle caress of his fingers down her spine.
His voice whispering in her ear–
It didn’t even matter what he said.

But he wasn’t coming back.
He had made that clear.
The Night had whisked him away,
In the form of a Gothic siren with dark purple lipstick and killer hypnotic dance moves.

No matter.
He could have her.
It wasn’t serious anyway, and she was just as enchanted with the Moon as he was with his siren.
She had begun following the cycles,
And planting seeds for her new beginning.
Any day now.
She could feel the earth ripening with potential,
Pulling her into its dance of the seasons.

She dropped her cloak,
And let the light of the full moon envelop her–
Cascades of stars falling down her back,
Into a glowing pool of light at her feet.

This was her home, now.
Here with the stars, and the moon,
And the pool of ancestral wisdom.
No man was needed,
No other voice–

But the voice of the owls calling through the night,
But the voice of the River flowing through her veins.
Whatever happened from this point on,
Whoever came and went,
She knew this much:
She too had surrendered herself to the call of Night,
And from this point, the Mistress Moon would do with her whatever she desired.

Mars & the Poet’s Oracle

Mars stationed retrograde this morning, so as you can imagine, he was pretty amped up yesterday.  (Last day of freedom, before being thrown in the pound for 10+ weeks!)

Here’s a little Mars story for you:

My copy of the Poet’s Oracle arrived yesterday.  (I’d been anticipating its arrival since seeing that it had shipped, a few days prior.)

Unfortunately, it arrived just before I left to meet up with the first of my three students.  So, I grabbed the package on the way out the door, hoping I would find a moment to open it.

I hopped on the Beltway, and got off 6 exits up the road.  Stopped at the 1st of three lights, in the left-most turn lane .
Ah!  An opportunity.  Brief.  Just enough time to wrestle open the package.

And going again, holding the cards in my left hand as I drive.  Another light soon.

Why is this car to my right keeping pace with me?  I ignore him.

Light number 2.  The guy pulls up right beside me.  Okay, fine, then.  Window down.  (He’s attractive, actually.  Late 20s?  Not a cop?  I hope.)

He shouts:
“Were you drawing tarot cards as you were driving?” (Whoa!)

“No!” I respond.

“Well, that’s what it looked like you were doing.”

“That’s because I opened up a new deck at the last light.”

“Draw me a card!”

“Okay!” (drawing from the middle)
“It says, “Hold fast!  Keep on sticking to what you’re doing, despite the obstacles.  It’s related to Mars.”

Light changes to green.

“Whoo!  I’m a Martian!” he cries.

Windows up.  He speeds off, pulls ahead of me, makes it through that 3rd light before it turns red.

I sit and wait to turn left, and look deeper into the card.

Card from the Poet's Oracle

Card from the Poet’s Oracle

We are all different hearts, beating as One (inspired writing)

“There’s something peculiar about the way she walks,” he said.
“I don’t trust it.
She walks as though she’s hiding something.
She walks as though she deserves to be exposed.”

“What do you think she’s hiding?” I asked.
“A secret identity of some kind?”

“Could be,” he replied.
“But I think it’s a plot.  She’s trying to undermine us.  She’s waiting for our weaknesses to become apparent, so she can pounce on them.”

“Could be,” I replied, and sat down on the bench, motioning for him to join me.
“But really, I suspect she’s just being herself.
And who she is is different than us.
We’re like different breeds of animal, intermingling.
We’re like a neon sunset, exploding from the Creator’s off-kilter box of colors.
We’re not meant to be the same.
And her being her, being different, really has nothing to do with us.”

“If you say so. . .”
He looked off across the lake, and was silent for a long time.
It looked like his brain had grabbed hold of something that he wasn’t at all prepared to let go of.  He was prepared only to devoured it, to rip it into shreds.

“You know,” he said, “when I think about it, you’re kind of funny that way too.”
He looked right at me now, and his face was soft on the outside, but steely underneath.
“You don’t really have any interest in making people comfortable, do you?”

“I guess not,” I admitted, turning away.
“But it’s not about that.  It’s not about making people feel uncomfortable.”

“Okay then.  What is it about?”

“It’s about opening their eyes.  And helping them to see things differently.”

“Mmm. . . Okay.  If you say so.”  He didn’t seem like he was totally accepting what I said as an answer. . . But, so be it.

“Look,” I said.  “It’s okay if you don’t like Jocelyn. . . That’s fine.  That’s not the point. . . The point is. . .”
Ugh.  This was frustrating.

“What?” He said.  “The point is, what?”

“The point is. . . She’s not you.  She walks to her own beat.  And that’s fine for her to have her own drummer.
Just like its fine for you to be all Mars in Cancer, and to care about the tribe, and to plunge yourself into taking care of all of us.
I appreciate that.  I think it’s a gift, and a service.  But you have to let us breathe sometimes too.  You have to let us be ourselves, and not take it personally.”

He nodded.  I could still feel the steeliness underneath, but he was melting, a bit.
“Fair enough.  I don’t want to be a dictator, or tell people how to be.  I’m just not sure who I can trust sometimes.”

He looked up, and we met eyes.  We both breathed deeply.  I felt the tingle, again.

“I know,” I said.  “I feel the same.  I can’t tell you to trust me.  But I feel your heart, even when I don’t know exactly where you’re coming from.”

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “And I feel yours.”

Writing inspired by this card, from the Poet's Oracle

Writing inspired by this card, from the Poet’s Oracle