Musings Ritual

The End of Scorpio Season: On Loss and Letting Go


Scorpio season is always hard and I have to say I’m glad it’s over. Happy December, everybody.

Loss is so overwhelming. I almost don’t have the words to process it, to make sense of who I’ve been and where I am. Bright branches full of berries get cut to the ground without warning, sap blood limns the earth, sour and brown. Scythes and sickles struck abound, stuck. And: I wonder where the straight blades are, linear decisive cuts, wills wishing for things-in-particular, unwavering. I wonder, where is that clarity now? Surrounded by barren trees, gnarled branches and leaves whose lives have dried up, died, I wonder.

The compulsion to be with others to process grief contrasts sharply with a knee-jerk reaction to be utterly and completely alone, kick even my cats out of my bedroom so I can sit on my perch and look outside with only my eyes. I vomit it up. I show it here in a way that is private public, us both writing and reading alone in our bedrooms, on our phones. We come to meet each others’ words when we are ready, when we know we have the headspace to hear. It is important to rip up my abdomen for you to see the insides. I must do this. We are all going through something. I can feel it in the air, taste it in my brittle bones. I Inhale crisp fall breath of the earth. I exhale angry heat into my cold room. I lay it out there.

It can be hard to shine when haunted by dreams of possible futures, when you wake up having heard almost-made knocks on the door, like answers to questions you never asked and only thought about. It all comes back. There are certain things I say and I know: that was so-and-so inside my flesh; a body-memory of a person I have been. I remember each moment of mannerism. Sometimes we take others into ourselves like a sickness. It makes our stomach churn, confused; we spit it back up, up. Loss.

It’s not your mind or your hands: no; process roots in the stomach; we gestate, begin to become born. Birth comes first from the belly: we ingest, we process, we churn, turn it over this way and that. Absorb it into our selves until the boundaries between one and the other are a blur. We get rid of it. We wonder who we are between all of what we take in and all that we expel. A shape, a form with our mark and those of unseen hands, too; shaped, shaping. We have let something inside of ourselves and we let it out again, like a sigh. Surrender. Let it go.

Things cut away. People, habits, places, lifelines, support systems. We lose it and it is gone, and: we lose it. Sometimes we see it float away in a stream and sometimes it’s just gone and we are left with the sudden shock of theft.

How can we find our way after loss? We can notice mystery once more. Loss asks us, please: embrace and welcome me, like an old friend. Loss, too, can be a gift, once you wade through the grieving. Loss shows us. Its power is in exposure – it touches us and we feel fleshless, more than nude. Bodies shift in ways seen and unseen; all of a sudden slipped away; gone. Left. And here we are, still. Silent.

Listen: we can find liberation here, in this hollow place. It is there, intrinsic; a whole hole can be a space made new. Our organs slip and slide, compensate: mundane aliens assembling themselves, redecorate: become home, until next time. We can concoct new rituals. Run in different directions. Defer to the mystery. And let go.

I did a reading that said:

Go deep within, alone and quiet. Face your demons: in being broken lies completion. Forgive yourself and also whoever brought you here.

I did a reading that said:

Find your flame and let it breathe. You have lost it but it is there. Find it. Find it. Let the fire carry you, warm, held: touched and untouched. You are safe.

I did a reading that said:

Don’t spend time with those who would rather you extinguish your fire so that they can feel big. In revolt and also for yourself:

Shine bright.

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1 Comment

  • Reply
    December 1, 2015 at 8:46 pm

    Yet the Universe loves you to the depth of your soul.

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