I am hungover for the second morning in a row. Still, I wake early, right before the day’s sun.
Permakitten and I pad into the kitchen, where I fix her food and warm up yesterday’s coffee. Just a little too hungover to deal with a boiling kettle for the French press. It’s unlike me to have more than two drinks in one sitting–usually I can’t bear ceding that much control–but during this Mercury Retrograde, I’ve been unlikely across the board.
It’s warm for a March morning–already in the high 40s–and so Grace and I exchange morning smooches and perch on the fire escape to watch the day rise. First light lifts the clouds into silver and peach. Then the rest of the sky starts to lift–indigo to lilac, finally a cool periwinkle.
This is the closest I get to meditation.
Since I was a small child, I’ve prayed almost every day. I’ve counted my blessings, requested guidance and protection, talked through everything consuming and confusing me. But I’ve never been much of a meditator, even when my yoga practice was most ardent. Perhaps because I already felt too susceptible. The first thing you learn as a clairvoyant is to establish shields lest everything assault you at once; for me, the surrender of meditation feels like walking down the street naked.
But this retrograde in big-sky, third-eye Pisces is opening me the fuck up. I’m not working with nets. I’m not heeding time. Frankly, I can barely find time–linear time, anyway. I dive into my book for whole days and then wander through the city, head pounding with new ideas and plot points. I’m always late. I forget plans, names, food– then forget to stop eating. Also drinking. My hypervigilance has slipped and I keep falling down. But also getting back up.
With this aspect, I devour every delicious moment the day offers.
There’s more to the story and probably I’ll share it–all the red carpets that unroll when you go with the flow rather than the clock. But the sun’s up now, and I’m going to go greet it. When Mercury, the planet of forward motion and communication, is in retrograde, the minuet of sun and moon, moon and sun, is all the rhythm you need. Follow that dance and you never falter for long.
I am hungover for the second morning in a row. Still, I wake early, right before the day’s sun.
I’m not working with nets. I’m not heeding time. Frankly, I can barely find time–linear time, anyway. I dive into my book for whole days and then wander through the city, head pounding with new ideas and plot points. I’m always late. I forget plans, names, food– then forget to stop eating. Also drinking. My hypervigilance has slipped and I keep falling down. But also getting back up.