"What goes too long unchanged destroys itself."
(Ursula K. Le Guin)
A few days ago I learned of today’s blood supermoon eclipse and a small sparkle traveled through me. I got excited. I love the moon. I love the full moon. I love the supermoon. I love eclipses. This was all of that in one beautiful feat. As I read more space-related articles about this particular moon and its characteristics, it became clear to me: “We need to burn things. We need to let go of things tonight.” And so we did.
Every morning for the last three months, I’ve been writing down on small shreds of paper the messages in my head, the aches of my heart, the dreams that wake me against my will, the wounds that have not healed. I write them down, then I put the pieces of paper in a sturdy old glass jam jar. I keep them there until I can’t stand looking at them anymore. Then I rip them into tiny pieces, pour water into the jar, and when it seems like the water is becoming stronger than the paper, I flush them down the toilet. While I watch them disappear, I tend to quietly whisper, “I am done with you now. I release you.”
It’s a powerful practice.
The moon amazes me. One of the reasons it amazes me is that it receives its light from the Sun (it has no light of its own), and then it immediately reflects that light to us. The moon is feminine for a reason; it is strong, receptive, and giving – all without effort.
Tonight I wanted to be more in rhythm with the moon. I didn’t want to overthink it or doubt my instincts.
So I told my two daughters that I had an idea for tonight. I told them about the moon and the particularly special event it was offering us today, and that after dinner I was going to write down on paper all the things I am ready to let go of – and I hoped they would join me.
They did want to join me. And we invited a friend whose heart needed this, too.
– – –
Dinner finished. I put on Chuck Johnson’s album Balsams. Our friend arrived.
I shared the general types of things we all might write down on our pieces of paper.
Everyone acquired at least one piece of paper.
We wrote things for a while.
Everyone gradually put down their pens and papers, and quiet but meaningful chatter commenced.
Then we all walked outside.
And we burned things.
No one took photos. We just watched together and bore witness to each other’s release.
– – –
I, personally, carried into this practice my freshly-written papers, plus my pretty-full jar of papers that had stacked up this week in my morning practice that I hadn’t felt ready to flush yet.
We all burned our new papers. I saved my jar for last. Everyone watched the tiny fires eat the ink and paper. Occasionally there was a small “wow” or “mmm,” as quiet as a breath. It was poignant.
My jar of papers took maybe 7 minutes to burn fully. I looked up at least once during this time and said out loud, “It feels appropriate that it would take this long.”
We all watched wiggling sparks tunnel their way through my words and all the space in between. Some ash rose to the skies.
As the paper turned black, I felt another veil lift. The very super moon and I collaborated in the direction of further freedom and spaciousness.
Then we all went inside. I asked if I could play them a song so we all sat on the floor and listened to “She’s a Rose” by Novaa. We cried some.
Then we ate pancakes. ❤️
One of my favorite illustrations from one of my favorite books, “A Hole is to Dig” by Maurice Sendak
Only as I sat down to write this post did this Ursula K. Le Guin quote find me. "What goes too long unchanged destroys itself."
Every day is a new opportunity and invitation to reach for change so that we are not destroyed. These are worthy practices that cleanse and fortify our Souls. This is our very worthy work.
Thank you, Moon, for leading the way today. 🌘