Older than the Moon

Older than the Moon

Greetings from an ice spangled hilltop swathed in the greys and browns of a land asleep, the summer grown structures ligneous and forbearing in the frozen landscape, each stalky creature a silent testament to that which survives the death of a season

A New Year is coming, born now, in the darkest turn of the year. A time when the bones of life are all that is left. A time when things are born, but yet unseen. How long until the outer exuberant exudate of that which is silent and eternal, unseen and prone to mystery, is lifted and pushed out into the world? 

And who cares? Why leave the season? Rest here, now, in this quiet tucked-in Cave of the Heart and replenish. There is elixir and medicine in the velvety black, medicine for our tangled neurons and over synapsed connexons, for the highways of lightning fired along the wrong route for too long, highways of habit that lead to burnout, anxiety, and collapse.

There is a deep exhale, a counterpoint to the urgency and static if only we allow our attention the seachange it is longing for, and invite the tide to pour back in to You.

The furthest turn of winter is earth wisdom, calling you home into the dark and internally focused silence that flows a balm of quietude into the weary bones of the soul, loosening the ligaments of the centuries, pouring newness into the sinews of travail. 

Join the land, the deep sleeping earth. Allow the blanketed silence and muted hues to calm your mind and open a fresh palette of soft reflection, walk with the little animals, liquid eyes bright, and duck into their burrows, curl around and gaze out, safe and fat in your nestled home. 

Blessings in the New Year, and may you find the quiet ground of your being, abiding patiently beneath the tumult and flourish of life. Here when it began, here when it is all said and done. 

As the ocean once reminded me, you, Ancient Child, are older than the moon.