One Woman Revival

Dusk feels like an auspicious time to write. My grandmother used to light a diya in the puja room around this time, in that between space before nighttime. My living room is growing dimmer but I feel at peace. Perhaps I am getting more spiritual as I get older or finally acknowledging that there are things I cannot understand or control. More and more I have been allowing myself to surrender to this unknowable quality. And see what it can teach me.

Last Saturday evening after watching a charming play set in a future run by benevolent AI at the Eclectic Box, I was in good spirits and enjoying a vodka-grapefruit cocktail with a friend when me invited to attend a new moon ritual at his place the following Monday. We had been talking about the need to create more traditions in our disconnected world and so while I did not know much about astrology, I decided to follow my impulse to accept his kind offer. I was told one or two other people may attend and was instructed to bring items to place at the altar. 

That Monday evening, I surveyed my apartment for objects that would be a meaningful contribution. I chose a candle that someone had sent me, a floating bird toy that my therapist had suggested would help me feel more grounded when I was first starting sessions and a bracelet of wooden balls gifted to me at Burning Man. I also took a notebook in case we had time to journal our thoughts. 

We lit the candle I brought at the beginning of the ceremony and placed it near a circular board with wooden disks marking celestial bodies in transit. Each of us took turns describing our intentions for the new moon and how the energy of late spring could influence us. We described times in the last few weeks we had been angry or sad and noted how life seemed to move in a cyclical fashion, repeating itself at intervals that we could not always predict. 

Our host had laid out snacks and poured us each a strong, rum based punch from a jar. The fruity concoction was delicious, and I was told it was made for a friend’s funeral service. I remembered ordering IPAs for my late husband’s memorial and wondered if mourners would drink rosé  all day when I died. Grief came up multiple times that evening though no one spoke of their specific pain. We imagined sorrow as a whale that could consume you. Our last ritual, after sharing our intentions and then journaling, was to draw on a sticker which we pasted on a candle to take back with us. I drew the whale that was my sorrow along with an octopus which represented the mania and anger that also lived in my grief. I was the stick figure trying to find balance between the two forces.  

Towards the end we turned the lights on as the living room, much like mine right now, had become dark. I wanted to chat for longer while snacking on charcuterie but had to head out soon after. I blew out the candles, the one I had brought and the new one I had been given, but felt a warmth in me which kept glowing.