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yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: yours is the darkness of my soul’s return –you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars

-e.e. cummings

In celebration of our super blood moon…gather around a fire, anchor your soul to the earth and let your worries out with the waves.

Under a sky full of stars and a bright crescent moon they gathered on the beach after dusk, stoked the fire and shared their stories. Trials, heartache, lessons. Was it the lunar cycle or their age? No matter, it’s obvious these women are in the thick of it. Being in the thick of it doesn’t leave much time for introspection or grace or forgiveness. But they make time for THIS each month—to spark their intellect and seek self-truth, collectively.

The fire ring is always a special night. Around the circle they opened their hearts and overruled their heads, writing down their fears their mistakes their ugliness their anxieties—anything they ached to LET GO. And they did. They burned the very words that weigh them down, and force them to slog through each day wearing waterlogged boots in sticky black mud. Inhaling the smoke of sweet sage, they watched the papers burn and finally gave a deep exhale. Cue the shooting star…

As the moon set over the ocean they wove themselves into a web of cerulean wool–creating a giant truss to honor their connectedness, and leaving a token on their wrists (encircled 11 times, once for each member of the group). The sky was a deep ink by then, punctured delicately by millions of stars nearly crowding the constellations.

Eight silhouettes on a quiet beach, watching the whitecaps of waves pulse against the milky way and lap at the shore—an insistent invitation to the sea. They gratefully (and some quite bravely) obliged, peeling off their layers for salty nightswimming and starlit shimmying. Later, they dried themselves by the fire and passed around the last of the Prosecco, soaking up summer and the solace of their tribe.