Hail to the beauty of the Libran New Moon. Hail to the Maiden who restores and brings the mysteries of her healing bubbling up to her surface. Hail to She who is cloaked in the mystery of tears and laughter, She who fills my soul with longing for her embrace and She who reminds me that deep within the darkest of nights and radiance shines brightly and fully awaiting its revealing in the fullness of my understanding.
My best friend has a mantra she says when her children are being difficult, "I love my child, I love my child, I LOVE my child …" and it helps to some extent when dealing with the upsetting behaviors of those we love. I've tried it out a few times myself, and it tends to lead me to laugh or at least to breathe and reconnect with my priorities.
Lately, the mantra hasn't been working for me.As a birthday promise to myself to change some of my own poor habits, I disconnected myself from Facebook for a month (still going), because it had become such a big distraction, it was bleeding into my writing time, my cleaning time, and worst of all, time with my kids.So, I set up a filter so all my notifications go to a special folder instead of my inbox, I deleted the related apps from my phone, and stop myself when I unconsciously start typing in the URL.
Two years ago, I bought a couple of calendula plants and tried to grow them in my container garden. They fared all right--I was still learning what conditions calendula likes--and I managed to make a batch of moisturizing balm out of their oil. When they died, though, I figured I wouldn't repeat the experiment. They hadn't seemed to like the hot, dry weather on my roof. I decided that next time I made oil, I would buy calendula blossoms in bulk.
Imagine my surprise when, last winter, a couple of interlopers sprouted in my garden: two new calendula plants, born from the seeds of the first two. In completely different pots, no less! Well, obviously one doesn't reject a healing plant, so I started to tend them. To my delight, they thrived.
While I was in labor with my stillborn baby, I remember telling my midwife that I spent the first thirty years of my life depressed and I would NOT allow this tragedy to drag me back there. She smiled through her tears and told me I might not have a choice in the matter.
It’s an oft-repeated truism in the literature on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that it never goes away. I’m a big believer in the plasticity of the brain and the strength of the human spirit, so I’ve always felt that it was possible to fully heal, just damned difficult. Part of the problem is that trauma affects everyone differently, depending on a number of factors — genetics, environment, parenting, the ages at which trauma occurs, etc. — which means everyone’s path to healing is different. Sometimes it can be hard to see where the next step is, much less where the path leads.
I’ve had plenty of people tell me over the years about their special one-size-fits-all “cure” for PTSD. Along with various psycho-therapeutic methods and magical and shamanic techniques, I’ve been urged to try EFT or acupuncture or any of a gazillion other different treatment modalities — and I probably have worked with most of them. But in my experience and that of many people I’ve spoken to in my work as an astrologer and tarot reader, you pick up some healing here, and some there, and a bit more over there, and pretty soon you’re talking real healing.But it takes time, it takes support, and it takes a willing heart.
"A goddess!" I exclaimed, as I approached a large rounded feminine figure in the National Museum of Ethiopia.
"No!" A man's voice echoed throughout the room.
When he noticed people's glances upon him, the museum guide lowered his voice: "That piece is a very, very old", he said hesitantly. "It is pagan. She comes from the Oromo people, the largest ethnic group here in Ethiopia."
I could not peel my eyes off the figure. The unexpected discovery piqued my interest.
"Does she have a name?" I asked hopefully.
Instead of answering my question, the guide told me about Ethiopia's most famous woman: