July 31st, overcast, calm, stormy, as sun and moon turn toward wounded healer Chiron, there’s a version of us falling on concrete, scraping our knees, watching as blood paints our legs.
Crying out for help, it seems the guidance of the elders has been hushed and that we’ll find ourselves all alone in a rainstorm consumed by a giant orb of light, with electricity shaking our human constitution into something else unknown.
But first, awareness of the scraped bleeding edge sears and tears at our heart-strings. Or is it memories of the infinite wound-gushing from long ago?
The seeming impossibility of moving forward, when we look around, is met with a quiet guidance. An elder is present, witnessing the tender percolation of blood. Like the quiet of soft rain before sunshine, we, too, fall silent, as if digesting the powerful guidance uttered by mentors.
The cries for help tending to the boo-boos become grist for the mill of our consciousness and our own ability to transmit gentle counsel within those quiet spaces.
The blisters of rock-bottom don’t show us destroyed by that luminous orb, by the effulgent future-past wound; those blisters rather reveal us joyfully wielding the power of that same celestial thunder.