As long as I can remember, I have had dreams of blindness. In these dreams, the world grows soft and I am gazing out through heady plumes of smoke. There are shapes that drift like shadowed storm clouds, but no light shines through. Wrapped in this inky cloak I am granted whispers and my body slowly begins to see in ways that defy rational knowing. Instead of fear, I am filled with an unfamiliar comfortability as I begin to see the world through texture, sound, and something else beyond recognition.
This is the dark moon.
The dark moon is sonographic communication and sleeping serpents. Those born under this moonless sky are born knowing. With the sky looming like an infinite obsidian pool, they come to rely on other senses.
In the darkness, eyes become a useless vestige of solar knowledge.
In the darkness, the body wakes up.
Dark moon natives are intuitive because they have to be. It is a matter of survival. It is a matter of trusting one’s own instincts over all else. They will not have neat and tidy answers if you ask them to qualify their assertions. Trust them anyway.
The dark moon is a beginning that doesn’t yet look like a beginning, a seed that has not yet broken open, that lies in wait under the blanket of fertile earth. Here, nestled in rich, black soil, protected from the harsh elements, a seed dreams. This moon is not so much the seed, as they are the dirt, the becoming.
On the dark moon, the sun and moon are joined together in the fecund darkness of possibility in a lovers embrace that sounds like a chorus of renewal. There is cohesion in a dark moon, the solar identity braves the chthonic depths to return to their lunar lover. To be born on this moon is to embody this wholeness. Dark moon people feel at home in themselves, find peace in the comfortable caverns of their being. It is a moon of unity between body and spirit.
The dark moon is a womb. It is warm darkness, the place of all creation and birth.
The dark moon is the pup born into blindness who instinctively roots and nuzzles their way to their mother; to the mothers milk, that nectar that sustains life, which we come into this world hungry and yearning for. We do not need to be told. We simply know.
The dark moon is an oat top, succulently dripping with lunar nourishment.
Oats? Yes oats. Those ubiquitous, common creatures escaping cultivation to thrive along roadsides and empty meadows. Oats are plants of the moon, soothing and nutritive, they ooze fertility. Ooze out lunar wisdom.
Oats are teeming with nourishment and overflowing with minerals. They provide the building blocks a body needs to survive. They fill the vaults of our body so we may have deep stores from which to draw from, from which to build our dreams up and out of our bodies into something tangible and real. Without this fortifying base, we falter. We may dream, but our fires burn low and we’re unable to actualize them.
Oats are the medicine of the moonless sky because they are mothers, giving of themselves so another may be fed.
Oats are a sheath for the nerves, they offer protection from the harsh and abrupt edges of the world. Dark Moon people are sensitive beings, splayed open and vulnerable to the onslaught of frequencies, intentions, projections and noise buzzing around them. Oats are the tonic, creating a shield of sanctuary around us so we might move through life with more ease.
As the moon grows, a story is told. Where we enter this story shapes our lives and creates the lens from which we come to know the world. Over the next few weeks, I will be sharing on the archetype of each of the eight phases and the medicine that they offer.