Full Moon in Gemini: Motherhood and The Beloved Dead
Although I have been a pagan and considered myself a witch nearly all my life, I have to admit that I am not always much of a ritualist. Sometimes that calling does arise in me, and the stars align for me to take the time of small rituals, to honor the seasons of life. Last night was a full moon in Gemini, peaking at the perfect time, around 8:08pm. After putting my two month old son to bed, any tea in hand, I walked outside with my husband to moon gaze.
A beautiful round moon was casting her light, shining through the clouds, being dispersed across all the unfallen precipitation. She was illuminating everything in the dark forest surrounding our home. My husband and I relished a few sweet moments, shared soft kisses and reflections on a long day of parenting. We felt the wind and watched the trees rustling, and then we went inside to make sure our baby wasn't crying.
In a little while I found my way to my altar in the center of our home. Though I don't always, I lit a few candles and burned some sweet smelling sagebrush I collected last summer in Montana on our road trip to Glacier, Yellowstone and Grand Tetons national parks. I also burned some wood from our local forest. While gazing at photos of our beloved dead I fell into that soft, familiar meditative hypnosis, and began to pray.
• • •
During my pregnancy, I felt that I had received immense ancestral blessings from beyond the veil in ways I had never expected or experienced before. I prayed for their continued blessing on our lives. For a few moments I communed with my father. Holding his picture, I felt myself sink into my love for him, and the grief of his loss. It is interesting how the mind and heart can transport you back in time to those relationships shared, the way a person used to make me feel so seen. I sink deeper into the beauty of traveling in this life with him, and shed a few tears. I tell him he is missed, and I see him in his grandson. I thank him for being an angel to me, and to us. In pregnancy, my father came to me in a dream. We were throwing a party at my house and it was snowing outside. He arrived drunk and alight with a happy grin, and said “No one calls you an alcoholic in the afterlife!” He touched my belly, a warm loving smile spread across his face, and we danced. I woke knowing that his blessings were shining down on me, and on his grandchild.
I gaze at the photo of my son’s auntie Jasmine, my husband's sweet sister on her graduation day. I share my grief that she isn't here to play and relish in the love I know he would have had for her. Looking into her warm eyes in the photo, I can feel her grief in return. When I think of her now, a woman of 29 at the beginning of a life she would not get to fulfill, I think of the story of The Finger, a Jewish myth that inspired the film The Corpse Bride. Jasmine’s life was taken by cancer before she had the opportunity to fully enjoy her marriage or hold her own babies.
This summer, my husband cut his hair that he had grown for over two years to be donated and made into wigs for children. At that time, so many emotions came up for both of us.
I wrote this in my journal near the end of my pregnancy:
Thinking of Jaz and the story of The Corpus Bride,
Story inspired by the anti-sematic killings of brides in their wedding processions,
Those who would bare future generations of Jews,
Slaughtered, and buried in their wedding gowns.
Women who left this world before holding their own babies,
Those who die before they are wedded or celebrated, or have the opportunity to live fully.
And now I carry the only child born to her bloodline in this generation.
In my heart I cradle her bones,
Wrapping her gently in the black polka dot dress she wore on her wedding day,
That last happy day,
After full brain radiation,
In a hospital room.
Her hair is short but not yet bald beneath her flower crown.
Sipping a toast from heirloom goblets,
Just wanting to survive till 30.
I cradle your bones, Sister,
Aunt my Son will never know,
As I carry this child, I honor your unfulfilled dreams,
In a mothers heart I bury your bones beside calm water,
I wish you peaceful slumber.
It is amazing how the process of grief can unfold for so many years, as you reach new milestones in life, and wish that your beloved dead could accompany you on the journey. You hope that in some way, they do.
In my meditations during pregnancy, I had visions of the Well Ancestors, my Oma Caroline and others, older, healed, well intentioned ancestors holding our child before his birth. The message those experiences communicated to me was that they would hold him for us, until it was time to pass him through the spirit door to this life, and for his little body to be born into this world.
• • •
After a while of crying, praying, pulling cards and sharing tea with the ancestors and beloved dead, my son began to cry. I walked downstairs to comfort him back to sleep. Sometimes this process is as simple as putting a pacifier in his mouth and watching his eyes close before sneaking away. But this time I found him in loud unconsolable sobs, and picked him up to nurse and rock him back to sleep.
As he lay at my breast and I stroked his dark hair in the moonlight, I found myself marveling at how heavy he felt. He grows and becomes more robust with each passing day, sometimes with his little mop of dark hair and hand-me-down hoodies, he looks more like a proper kid then the squishy little baby I brought home only two months ago. Grazing on his sweet little face I began to pray over him. What arose in me was not like the prayers I had the ability to say or feel before becoming his mother. I have begun to pray from a deep, ancient, resonate heart of motherhood that I never before recognized.
I prayed that the Universe would hold and protect him, and give him a life filled with love, health, acceptance, and grace.
I prayed for him to grow and to be blessed enough to become old and wise.
I pray that he will feel part of a tribe, to be embraced by the community, and that he will experience the world and find love.
I prayed that his father and I have the time left in our lives to see him become a man. That we will have the patience and abundance to meet his needs, and teach him to be compassionate and kind.
As he began to close his eyes and fall to sleep against my chest I thought of the privilege of holding him. In my younger years, I felt that parenthood was something that I could take or leave. I felt it was something that, if it was meant to be- Great! And if not- No big deal. While I had sympathy for those who wanted children and were not able to have them for whatever reason, I did not understand fully the desire to work so hard or spend so much money to have a child. I can finally empathize and understand why people move mountains and travel to the far reaches of the earth to have the opportunity to become a parent. In those quiet moments, alone with my son in the dark on a moonlit night, there is nowhere on earth I would rather be.
