My Chaotic Realm

I did not brace against the wind this month. I let it move through me and around me. There were moments of standing in public witness— signs raised, voices joined, honks and waves reminding me that even small bodies in motion are part of something larger. There were moments of quiet tending— palms gathered and placed, spaces prepared, traditions held not as obligation but as living threads I chose to carry. There were moments of almost-losing and gentle finding— a misplaced wallet, a retraced path, the reminder that not everything lost is gone, and not everything found needs to be dramatic. There was food made and shared, tables extended, grief given a chair and a plate, and gratitude spoken in the presence of absence. There was laughter in ordinary places— a wheelbarrow assembled to the sound of questions and answers, hands busy, hearts light, joy arriving without announcement. There was responsibility accepted— not as a burden, but as a steadying of hands around somethi...

I was following. Not lost—just not leading. Two cars ahead of me, people I knew, people I trusted. I stayed behind them, watching where they turned, letting their movement shape mine. At some point, I left my own car. I climbed across hoods—awkward, exposed, determined—and slipped into theirs. First one, then another. I was welcomed. I belonged there. I knew how to be with each of them, how to fit, how to move between spaces without friction. But when I arrived in the lead car, someone looked at me and asked, “Who are you?” And I didn’t answer for myself. I pointed backward to the car in the middle. “Ask her.” As if I could be explained by someone else. As if my place was something reflected, not rooted. Still, we arrived. A gathering of women. Like-minded. Aligned. The kind of place that feels like an exhale you didn’t know you were holding. And I knew, without question, I belonged there too. But then—quietly, without panic—I realized: I didn’t have my car. At some point, in all the m...

I did not rush the thaw. At Imbolc, I made a quiet agreement with myself: to soften at my own pace, in my own way. No forcing. No performance of becoming. Just the slow, sacred return of warmth. And now, the wheel turns. The Spring Equinox arrives not as a demand, but as a balance point— light and dark holding equal space, neither rushing the other off the stage. This month, I have lived inside that balance. I have stood in uncertainty—unemployed by choice, unsteady in identity, learning to sit with the question marks instead of frantically trying to turn them into answers. And still— life moved. Not in sweeping transformations, but in small, undeniable proofs of aliveness: A wheelbarrow assembled with laughter and Jeopardy in the background. The simple satisfaction of being useful, of being in rhythm with another human. A “lost” wallet found in plain sight— a reminder that sometimes what we are searching for has not gone anywhere at all. A kitchen filled with food made for ot...

 At Imbolc I told myself: I did not rush the thaw. I let it come at my own pace, in my own way. February proved that was true. There were quiet mornings, shared meals, sunrise coffee, wrens waking the cardinals, moments of joy I did not force, only allowed. And now the full moon rises. We woke at 3:30 in the morning, rested enough, and left the kids’ driveway at 4am,, coffee in hand, the road dark and open ahead of us. A weekend of family, grandchildren, old friends, noise, food, and careful conversations behind us. On the way home, the notice came... work has separated me, effective today. I waited for fear. I waited for anger. Instead, I felt steady.  Tomorrow’s Worm Moon breaks the ground open whether we feel ready or not. The thaw does not ask permission. It only insists that life will move again. My life shook once more, like an Etch-a-Sketch in someone else’s hands. But the screen is clear now, and this time I am holding it. Nine months stretches ahead of me — not empty,...

February did not roar. It did not explode into transformation. It thawed. This was the month I stopped gripping. At the beginning of the month, I was still inside the tight container of work stress — rotating through understaffed shifts, holding more than was mine, carrying payroll problems on my nervous system like they were a moral failing. And then something subtle shifted. I began separating what was mine from what was not. There was a day when I felt the anger fully — the hot, justified kind — and instead of swallowing it, I named it. That anger wasn’t volatility. It was a boundary, forming bones. And then came relief. Not fireworks relief...Body relief. The kind where your shoulders drop without you telling them to. I chose to resign. I chose to step out of consensus and into alignment. An oracle message echoed all month:  “Don’t worry about the effects of going against the grain. When we are who we are in truth, we attract the support, protection, and energy we need to thriv...

Waking the Hands, Waking the Flame Imbolc arrives not with certainty, but with sensation. A faint warmth under frozen ground. A loosening. The quiet knowledge that the Deep has done its work. January did not ask me to leap back into the world. It asked me to prepare for re-entry. At Imbolc, I did not rush the thaw. I kept myself warm while the world stayed cold, and I returned to motion gently, at my own pace, in my own way. This year, January was a threshold month — a time of returning not to momentum, but to my body, my home, my hands. After a long season of holding and pushing, the work became smaller and more intimate: tending what was closest, listening for what wanted warmth. Physical tending took the shape of hearth-work . Hands-on. Slow. Intentional. Even trying new recipes. The primary project this month was modest by design: tending one small area of my home that had grown heavy with neglect and winter pause. I cleared it slowly, touching each object with a sin...