IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT. I’m alone in the house with the two cats, listening to a thick rainstorm in the midst of a Moon Pluto square. There are brussel sprouts searing on the stove behind me, their scent giving the air inside a tang of bitterness that might be a good metaphor for the edge I feel like I am balanced on. I’ve had a lot going through my head lately. I’m sure you all can relate.<\/p>\n
The Thursday before last, when Mercury stationed direct and began its progress through shadow phase, I decided to quit my job. There was a murmur at the bottom of my heart that told me if I did not start to live my life creatively it was going to get pretty shitty, pretty soon. Now that I am half way through the two-week period and my temper has cooled, I am starting to believe that this was probably the worst decision of my life. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s the best one I’ve made yet. It’s been one of those weeks.<\/p>\n
I’ve had this incredible feeling that I am floating through my own life: I have been divided by the self that demands I submit to suffering and the self that seeks the spiritual side of every struggle. I call them the Emperor and the Artist. Both of them are clowns, preferring to undertake the most extreme side of each situation. Then you have the one who they are arguing over: the Me-self. She’s in there between the two thrones, trying to figure out who she should listen to, and in the meantime not able to make any forward movement.<\/p>\n
This is a prime example of what it is like in shadow phase. I’m sure that there are many times when Mercury is acting normal when a person feels this way, however, the main topic of the destiny I hold in my hands (and hands, mind you, are ruled by Mercury) is about creativity. I cannot decide. Both voices are taking on a resonance that I never expected. It’s like watching two people yell at one another in a boat-roofed cathedral and hearing the sounds of their voices bounce from wall to wall, animating the expanse of the church until it the words no longer matter and they are just elements in a montage of confusion.<\/p>\n
I woke up this morning unable to smile. I bought some winter squash for later in the year and considered against building the cold-frame that will give us greens over the winter. It’s too rainy to handle hay and dirt. I called my friend Jess. She’s a potter\/fabric artist with a complete studio and kiln in her back yard and a heart so generous and playful that she is to the very fibre of her being a Leo. So off I went to her house.<\/p>\n
The rain slid down my windsheild like the illusion of liquid glass. The sky was the color of a dirty sheet. But the water was already boiling for tea in the kitchen when I got there and after we had some smokes, we went into the studio and began to work.<\/p>\n
Now, I don’t know how many of you out there have ever sat down at a throwing wheel and worked the clay, but I believe it is one of the most Divinely Feminine things a person can do, aside from giving birth and possibly baking bread. I sat with the wheel spinning between my legs and hunched over a lump of reddish-brown clay. My hands slipped and burned by turns as the wheel spun the clay around. In order to throw a symmetrical pot, you must first center the clay on the wheel. This is achieved by digging your elbows into your thighs and pushing with all of your strength until the clay stops pushing your arms in all sorts of crazy patterns. It’s a lot like trying to hold a living fish in your hands without crushing it.<\/p>\n
So I did this for about a half an hour: getting pushed around by the clay, holding my breath, biting my lip and trying to assert my will over this earth-flesh, getting my ass kicked every time no matter how hard I pushed or gripped. Finally I stopped the wheel and I leaned back, ready for a cigarette and a beer and a goodbye — my temper was beginning to flare up. Then Jessica looked at me from the bucket of glaze she was mixing and said, “Can I give you a suggestion?”<\/p>\n
“Yeah.” I said.<\/p>\n
“You have to ground the clay first.”<\/p>\n
“Right.” I muttered, but I knew what she was saying. She was right. When there are uneven swells at the very bottom of the plate, your hands will move in an unpredictable way, and you’ll never be able to move the clay how you want. You have to collect these pieces and either toss them in the slip bowl, or push them into the walls of your soon-to-be-born creation. I wouldn’t be able to make my mug until all of the material was accounted for. That’s just the way it is.<\/p>\n
I added, “So, it’s like that time you said to me ‘if you find yourself fighting the clay, you’re fighting the clay’, remember?”<\/p>\n
“Yeah!” She chuckled.<\/p>\n
I laughed too. It was the first time a sound like that came out of my mouth all day.<\/p>\n
Sometimes, when everything around you seems so close it threatens to dissolve your being, you must ground yourself before you move forward. There are a thousand different reasons and ways to worry, but none of them will bear a solution. In order to take full control of my life, I must continue to ground myself. Otherwise, I could either fly off the wheel, or become a thick, unworkable twist of mud. That’s just the way it is. Thanks Jess, for showing me.<\/p>\n
Merry Met,<\/p>\n
Genevieve Sophia<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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