Yesterday was one of those days. You know the kind. You wake up feeling cloudy, obscured, not right. Teary, for no reason you can explain. The weight of the past tugging at your fingertips all day long, like you’re living inside a Tom Waits song with thoughts of places that you’ve never even seen before yet miss nonetheless.
And then I find out that of course, it was a full moon, and what’s more, in my moon sign (Capricorn) to boot. I should have known, but for all my interest in astrology has not waned, my pursuit of it certainly has since Ava has been born.
My go-to astrology site says this: ‘you feel as if you are standing waist deep in a murky lake of sludge, looking for the quickest way to dry, clean land. This season brought a lot of toxic waste to the surface and now it is up to your sensibilities to decipher the best way to navigate the obstacles and clean off any residual mess. The ego and the emotions are united and protective about the present career position, any difficult issues within the more intimate of connections and how you are being judged by the public at large.
There is a complex situation where compromise is difficult to find. In this instance, the South Node relates to information and communications with difficult others, who have no intention of seeing your side of the situation. The quincunx aspect is unnerving as the solution to tensions is often illusive. In this instance, with Saturn’s hold on the Moon and your emotions, you are to deal with situations as they arise with confidence and calm authority. Be in command of your emotions and avoid the surface impulse to change course or dabble in petty quarrels of insignificance. You feel deeply where you have been unsupported in the arena of confidence and ambition, and where you have strived to gain attention only to be ignored’
Which about sums it all up….And today, well today the effects of this full moon has been reverberating rather strongly, and I have been thinking a lot about the past (shocker, I know), but in particular, America. (And when I write or say this word, I should mention that it’s always in Tori Amos’ voice bellowing out from within my favourite song ever, Pretty Good Year)
I’ve been on the phone with one of my dearest friends and we have been sharing our memories of that incredible time, nearly ten years ago now, where we plucked ourselves from the regularity of our ‘normal’ lives and spent a year (or for me, seven months) in different parts of America, going to school.
We talked about it, our feelings as we separately left everything we knew and boarded flights which would take us to San Francisco and North Carolina, those first real feelings of freedom and independence and infinite potential, of strength, change and a deep missing for the loves we left behind (that would, of course, never be the same again), all the while knowing that this was right and that we had to go.
My friend was in California, me in North Carolina. We visited each other and had some amazing kinds of fun. We grew there in directions that I hadn’t recognised were there before. And for me, at least, it felt like home. It felt like arriving.
I can’t explain why I felt that way, or why I knew it would feel that way long before I landed in Newark airport. I don’t know why since coming back I have always known that I would one day return, and return for good. But I do. I know that it is, or will be, home to me. I know that sometimes things like this happen and we have to find our way back to the place we are meant to be.
(A writing teacher at Goldsmiths told me her mother spent all her life knowing she was meant to live in India, arriving there for the first time when she was in her sixties, and feeling, finally, that she was home)
So tonight we talked fondly of all the things we remember, reminding each other of details we had each forgotten, laughing at things that even then we knew would become important. And I once again tried to measure these past ten years (as, somewhere else, my actual ten year reunion is going on), trying to understand what that means – ten years – how such a length of time can really be quantified, and thinking of a thousand other things too, in that space, that make me feel like a thousand different people and the same 18 year old all at once. Such is time, I know. Always time.
So, whilst all these disruptive energies keep me analysing everything at the moment, I gave myself a little break today by baking some scones this morning and some cookies this afternoon, reading a little, writing a lot, and talking to one of those people that make you feel really good, just by being themselves.
And every now and then (okay, more than every now and then) thinking back to that time, to lying on the lawn listening to the latest mix-tape sent over by my first love, to missing that love more than I thought possible, to wide roads, bigger spaces, Lucky Charms, books and books and books of the most wonderful American lit., to cinnamon bagels, to blonde hair, to Boy George, to long love-letters never posted, to Borders, to a teacher and friend who let me write, every day and who knew, in some way, her own wholeness and thus let me feel my own. To days and nights at the beach, awake and dreaming.
To all of the things I miss and long for. They are sacred to me, secure in me, and what I aim for when I think of what is still to come.