Not much peace with this New Moon.
Too many energies at play.
Moon conjunct Pluto. Mercury square Uranus. Venus square Chiron. Mars square Saturn. Jupiter & Mercury sextile Chiron. Mercury conjunct Jupiter. Venus trine Uranus. Neptune square the moon’s nodes. Uranus stations direct. And Sun conjuncts Pluto.
That’s a lot… (And not even all the transits.)
Exhausted and bogged down, I recede into my inner world.
Inside I find a swamp.
Right-side-up now appears up-side-down.
Seems some Trickster has been at play.
Martian red contrasts with peaceful white.
Rushing in opposite directions, the threads pull tight.
Swamp roots are tough and knobby.
Water collects but doesn’t flow.
The smell is of mud. Mud and decay.
Oversaturation is a real threat.
Beware the leeches… poisonous snakes… parasites… brain-eating amoeba…
Creatures of the underworld rule here.
Looming in the background are mountains set aglow.
Solid structures melt and flow.
Who knew that earth could explode? Who knew fire flowed below?
The moonless night sizzles red electric.
At the center, a busy beetle toils.
The desert journey demands everything.
Mile upon mile of shifting earth rearranges with untamed winds.
Scorching heat, dry air, and a monumental task:
There is nothing to do but work with the shit.
It must be worked with determination and diligence.
The work is best done head low to ground. Again, above becomes below.
The way is lit by sun and far-off galaxy glow.
It is gritty, thankless, dirty work.
But it must be done. It absolutely must be done. Otherwise, so much is lost.
Otherwise, what had been stirred just stagnates, and then it’s just a shitty mess, a place where things don’t readily break down.
And that would be a shame.
Because this time *could be* so unbelievably rich.
It could seed new growth.
The muck could house a billion sparks of new potentials.
Our sap-covered wounds may indeed regenerate, facilitating new growth in directions none could predict or foresee.
All it takes is reading backwards in the mirror.
Or maybe standing on your head.
But definitely we have to roll up our sleeves, and get our hands entirely covered. Sink in down to the elbows.
Feel the squish? Smell that smell?
Good. Make it count.
Amber R. Balk, Ph.D. is a transpersonal educator, writer, researcher, and independent consultant who combines diverse educational and professional backgrounds to provide well-rounded and unique individual and group psychospiritual services. She can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.