Dear Starlight,
I’m writing you from a resting position in my bed, cozy in a fresh pair of “comfy” pants—gray, like the sky out the window. I’ve just lifted my tired body from a hot bath and am already looking forward to sinking into another one later this evening. It’s that kind of Sunday.
I woke up worn out, with a hangover of thoughts from the night before. That’s how most days have started lately.
On Thursday, a colleague and I agreed—it’s been a heavier week. We both noted how we felt like the weather: moody, dark, uncomfortable.
And then, as if in chorus with the outer downpours, something deep within cracked open. An old, long-buried wound quaked. Like in Iceland this week, a fault line in me erupted—emotional magma gushing across the surface for twenty-four hours. Aries fire season. Queen of Wands. Fire water moods.
I’ve been visiting the river daily. It’s an invitation to notice.
The other morning, the fog was so thick the massive body of the lumbering blue mountain was gone from view. Hidden completely. I imagined the relief of not being seen. I imagined the mountain sighing, tired of being a symbol—of strength, of stature, of unending resource—and welcoming the invisibility like a soft cloak.
I’ve felt that too.
That being seen as strong or steady meant becoming available. Mined. Taken from.
Like the mountain, I’ve craved cover.
It made me wonder about the fog as protection. What if the fog doesn’t erase us, but protects us? If we weren’t afraid of being wrong or taken from, what forms might we find ourselves in?
I wondered if I even remembered what form I take—wrapped in fog for as long as I can remember.
I started a little story about the mountain and the fog:
Protect me, said the mountain to the sky. Sometimes I don’t want to be found or seen. I’m too big. I just want to disappear.
And the sky heard and sent a fog.
And what had always been there, still remaining, became invisible.