Happy birthday, Dr. Seuss. 🙂
Double whammy. Not only is March when the spring equinox occurs, but also because it will host two full Moons—one today and another on the 31st (just as we had two full Moons in January).
The first full Moon is traditionally called a Full Worm Moon after the earthworms that emerge at this time of year.
Ok, Earthworms Full Moon here goes:
I let go of the same-ol.
I let go of getting it right.
I let go of should’s, could’s, would’s
I cultivate space for change.
I cultivate trust, oh-trust.
I cultivate the life force of creativity.
It’s the closest thing I’ve felt to death.
5 days of labor and pushing and pain and sweat and utter exhaustion.
Hours of almost readiness, a champ in the ring, waiting for her trophy.
And he arrives, at a perfect Godly time with absolute intention.
He comes uncracked, unwrinkled; life hasn’t stamped her good ol’ reality check on his skin. Not yet.
Why do we cry? How does it crack our hearts wide open?
We’ve all traveled this channel too. We have got to be as perfect, as divine, as uncracked?
Somewhere underneath. Right?
Clouds hiding the sun, type of shit. Right?
A son. A nephew. A gift.
Silence, even if it’s only for a few minutes
I come to,
Coming out of Salvador Dali dreams
I am peeking my eyes open, like a secret unfolding
I am breathing in the long night’s pillows and blankets
The smells of Dreamlandia
Silly, inconsequential memories arise
Like counting sheep
These dreams are colors, shapes, and the strangest of narratives
I believe them all
Like a child, all in
Scary yet familiar
Like Terminator; a stranger within a friend
Metal on vulnerable skin,
Oh silence, I salute you.
Fog, sleepy sun, empty streets
The greenery outside stretches their limbs from the long night
Yes, here’s the in-between
Here’s the gray
When the inner Self approaches and softly whispers to the soul,
“Today is a gift.”
Every day has its dawn,
Its soft and silent eve,
Its noontide hours of bliss and bale; —
Why should we grieve?
Why do we heap huge mounds of years
Before us and behind,
And scorn the little days that pass
Like angels on the wind?
Each, turning round a small, sweet face
As beautiful as near,
Because it is so small a face
We will not see it clear.
We will not clasp it as it flies,
And kiss its lips and brow:
We will not bathe our wearied souls
In its delicious Now.
And so it turns from us, and goes
Away in sad disdain;
Though we could give our lives for it,
It never comes again.
Yet, every day has its dawn,
It’s noontide and its eve:
Live while we live, giving God thanks—
He will not let us grieve.