Today is Ostara, the vernal equinox, the first day of spring. It is the year’s most powerful burst of energy, a magnificent roaring fire. In the pagan and astrological calendars, it is also the first day of the new year—when Mother Earth officially springs back to life. This is more relevant than it has ever been, for this last year has been the most draining—the cruelest, the most frightening, the most enraging— many of us can remember. Ordinarily this is the time for revelry and pageantry but let us embrace this spring as a softening—of the soil, the air, our hearts.
Take a moment to go outside, turn to the heavens, and imagine the world to which you’d like to return. How will you reclaim freedom and joy? Better yet, how will you serve it? Breathe into this new space, and gently request your highest spirit to build it out. Then tomorrow, if you have the means, plant a garden. Even one plant on your fire escape will help. Even one seed. We all need the wonder of something new and sustaining. We all need practical magic. Happy spring, sweet and salty friends. I bid you beautiful change.
This is an extraordinary time to divine new paths and release roadblocks. Schedule an intuitive reading this week.
I had it all planned I was going to watch the sun rise this morning from the Manhattan side of the East River, down at John Lindsay River Park. (Talk about a throwback of a reference.) Still delightfully depleted from May Day intuition readings, I felt a little too weary for such a strident call time. But even during Quarantime, Sunday is the only time when you can park anywhere in New York City, so my alarm was duly set.
Instead I woke to a soft rain coating everything and Grace’s little nose twitching as it does when she senses something extra fine. Her nose always knows, because the air smelled better than I remember it ever smelling in NYC–fresh, fresh, fresh, with none of that metallic rot that’s prevailed over the last 10, nay, 20 years of eco-terrorism. The peonies and lilacs by my bed only made the air finer.
So no sunrise, but coffee in bed, familiar and witch basking in the sweet smells and sounds–in the dueling songs of starlings, doves, pigeons cheerfully waging turf wars.
After you-hoo, I insist.
Oh, no, after coo-coo-you!
Only after I drank a second cup as well a big glass of lemon water–and, oh, sure, the last shrimp taco from Saturday supper–did I know how I felt and what was needed.
Which is to say: There’ll be no non-churchy church services this afternoon because this feels like a Sunday to receive rather than download information. And in Mother Mary May, we don’t heed quaranTime. We heed soul time.
It’ll be Mother’s Day, about which many of us have complicated feelings. So we’ll reclaim this Hallmark holiday–give it back to Mother May, Mother Earth, the Mothers we carry within us. More than that, we’ll celebrate the divine feminine principle.