The Lamp in the Dark and the Water Tree

Looking out over the sea, life on land can feel as thin as the ecliptic. The ocean’s depths speak to us about the Moon, the Earth’s consort. A month ago I stood in the sea in the dark and felt warm rip currents, dragging. I know better but it felt so good, the water so smooth and inviting. I lost my head a little and moved in deeper and deeper, until finally I seemed to awake and realized the danger I was in. The Moon was high in the sky. I turned away from her* and her black-purple waves.

Like the sea, the Moon should be measured in fathoms yet she is unfathomable. I try to fathom her anyway. The Moon is an embrace, a lake of threads that tug, a hand across a harp, moving us in her rhythms and tides. The Moon is a Caretaker. Sweet Luna. But she is also of the sirens, the witches, the wolves, the poison-as-medicine. A dragon around an egg. The egg itself. She is tide-pulling, weather-making, heavens-manifesting. She is the creative force. She is the chaos of a crowd. She is omen and revelation and the darkness that drags us under. She is escape. She is analgesic and numbness. She is pregnancy and possibility. She is every bitter farewell. 

In the birth chart, the Moon’s placement describes your relationship with your physical-emotional body and the rhythms of your life. The Moon has something to say about what kind of nourishment we need. The Moon is about matter, the physical incarnation of a thing, and its cycles of growth and decay. This part of the chart is about care, yes, but also rip currents. The Moon walks with you through every threshold, every shedding, every fruiting — with twigs in her hair and dirt on the soles of her feet, soaked and glimmering.