My grandmother Alice was an exceptional woman. Though she received very little formal education she was an autodidact par excellence and well-versed on topics ranging from train engineering to transcendentalism. But what I loved most about her was her great equanimity. Though she lived most of her life in an especially intolerant corner of Massachusetts and died in the Reagan 1980s, she was brilliantly open-hearted when it came to matters of race, sexuality, religion, gender, class. Her only true bias was against Presbytarians, whom, for whatever reason, she found ridiculous. When I’d ask about that, she’d shrug. “Everyone has a bias,” she’d say, “and that’s mine.” Well, I’ll be super super honest. When it come to dating, my only true bias is against vegans. As far as I’m concerned, a romantic connection that works on many levels is so rare that it’s ridiculous to rule anyone out on the basis of gender or age (within the realm of decency) or race or class or physical type.* But I will never date a vegan again. Life is too short to maw impossible burgers when there’s sirloin to be had.
*I have my preferences, but that’s for a different post.
Archive | Past Matters
Astro PSA: Mercury Retrograde Week 3
If you’ve been physically and mentally tired this week, you’re not alone. Trust that it’s not just because of daylights savings time. It’s because of the profound, subcutaneous change demanded by this Scorpio Season, when linear time has been collapsed into soul time, and regeneration has been the name of the game. All month we’ve been grounded here while Mercury, which enables forward motion, has been retrograde. We’ve experienced breakdowns, yes, but also breakthroughs, and our shifts have been seismic, even miraculous, as we’ve released old wounds, patterns, masks. But this has been a lot, especially after Tuesday’s full moon in stabilizing Taurus cleared out more flutter and clutter. So the rest of this November–holiday season be damned–defer to the sacred silence where each of us started. Don’t fight it. Don’t do anything. As much as possible, just….be. Only in this lush and pregnant hush can our cells reset themselves to their true form.
This Side of the Snow, This Side of the Haze
All stories end in death if you want to tell the truth.–David Simon
I’m afraid of endings, always have been. I am not alone in this fear, of course; many of us fear endings. Not just death but departures, demises, denouements–the invariable deflation of crossing a finish line. But my fear is acute, to the point that I privately view success as dangerous, possibly even fatal, because it will end life as I know it. (Glamourously underachieving is pretty core to my current existence.)
I’ve had so much time to acknowledge this fear since last month’s hunter’s full moon, which was the night my back went out. A catalog of the reasons why it did: loose joints; a rigorous, not entirely mindful exercise practice; shame about my middle-aged midriff; the 10-year anniversary of an acute neck and back injury.
All those contributing factors are real. But if there weren’t a deeper reason, I think I’d be better by now. After all, my list of treatments reads like a 1970s self-help saga: I’ve done acupuncture, astrological readings, Alexander Technique, reiki, physical therapy, and so many herbs and homeopathics. (I”m not really a painkiller girl except for the occasional whiskey.) I’ve meditated, prayed, danced under the light of the (next) full moon. And it’s all helped. Continue Reading →