Despite the thick haze, I was able to see the moon last night. From my vantage point, she didn't look much larger than usual. But there was a definite hush outside; it was so incredibly quiet. Everything was completely still. It was just the moon and the wood smoke, and it made me whisper to the quiet two words: Phoenix Magic.
Waxing poetically in text about how I'm going to tear things down and start over, is the easy part. Even the realization that I need to tear down pedestals, let go, burn it down, and rise again wasn't too difficult.
The hard part is in the follow through. It's frightening. When I think too much about it, I feel as if I'm on a ship at sea and can't find my bearings. So I hold tight to something solid and reliable, even if that doesn't serve my best interests.
So, last night, under the super moon, I cleared off and cleaned up the altar for the first time in months, and began to rekindle my light. And I found something heavy that I can hold on to when I need to be grounded, something to help point me in the right direction: a compass.
Often I've felt that my husband knows my heart and can feel the way the winds are blowing me before I'm even aware that there's a breeze. He gifted me this beautiful brass compass, and a wee anchor, for our anniversary last month inside of a box he made and inscribed himself.
Last night wasn't all about me, though. This has been such a hard and heavy few weeks for so many people that I know and love, and a lot of us are having trouble remembering to shine right now. So I'm holding the light.
For myself, and for all of you, too.
Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.