41. it is done
I honestly donât even have words right now.
Probably because I wrote over 270,000 words in the last 30 days, in one of the hardest and most labor intensive work crucibles I have ever created for myself.
The last one was just sent.
It is done.
I need to have a moment of silence for the version of me, may she rest in peace, who naively, optimistically, and foolishly began this quest in late October. She was wide-eyed, energetic, enthusiastic, and confident that preparing thirty comprehensive year ahead astrology reports was just a monthâs work, an easy-peasy-mac-n-cheesy task that would snuggle right in between winter holidays and float off to the clients in question on clouds of solstice fairy dust.
She, who had apparently forgotten the wisdom dispensed to her by her Self of Yesterday, who, in January of last year, wearing her Cosmic Companion hat, issued a grave warning to all who would listen that nothing - and I mean nothing - of importance should be scheduled between December 6, 2024, and February 23, 2025.
Somehow, buoyed by ADHD time blindness, myokines, and a teeny-tiny daily dose of amphetamines (sweet little blessings from the neurodivergence Gods), Self of October 31 and November 1 just plain forgot this essential advice, and cheerfully offered to take the deepest dive sheâd ever dove into the energetic weaves of thirty of her beloved friends and clients.
Self of Today sits, back stiff, eyes glossy, face stoic, thinking about the road sheâs traveled to get here. For the entirety of Capricorn season, she climbed the mountain that was hers to climb, unflagging, despite relentless obstacles heaved and hurled upon her by That Little Fucker, Mars retrograde. As the Sun conjoined Pluto in Aquarius, sign of liberation, she found herself in the ring of fire of the cosmic birth canal, pushing towards her freedom, towards a new life, towards existence beyond the unending sea of star-charts.
She found herself humbled and with few options but to laugh at the Universe that was laughing at Her, and together they cackled maniacally until it subsided into uncertain chuckling, which inevitably turned to crying through the guffaws, until only exhaustion remained as the tears of insanity rolled down her cheeks.
In a few more pushes, including the afterbirth, which dragged her labor on yet another week, she finally arrived, spent and stunned, perhaps in shock or disbelief that she could finally say to herself, my love...
It is done.
I have no lengthy lecture about the lessons of this foible, except to say this: it may have been foolish, and it may have been totally fucking delusional to understake this amount of work (yes, definitely for what I charged for it), but there is one thing it was most certainly NOT, and that is a failure.
It was a smashing, glowing, raving, confetti-strewn, destined, illumined, glorious SUCCESS.
Because IT IS DONE.
So tonight, at 11:11pm, I will toast myself with a cup of rose and chamomile tea. I will sit by the fire and let my glossy glazed eyes roam across the flames as my mind rests in sweet, peaceful oblivion. I will take the 3 week holiday I planned for myself, though it may be abbreviated slightly into a 1/7 of a week holiday (thatâs tomorrow, Sunday - insert cackling again), and I will REST.
I mean, I have 2 kids and one of them has a stomach bug and has been puking and pooping liquid all day but I will take care of him and let him watch Paw Patrol and together we will REST.
Because, my love, Self of Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, you did it. You showed the fuck up for yourself, your craft, your people and your commitment, and you gave it your all - your TRUE all, not your ADHD 80%.
You can be so incredibly proud of yourself, just as I am so proud of you, of us, of this doing. You did it! You did it!
It is done.
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