I almost titled this post āsick day,ā but Iām not sick. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. I'm not physically sick, mentally unwell, or in the throes of emotional illness.
I just have really bad cramps, a backache, and a blank stare.
Not sick, no.
Just...
the void.
A few years ago, when I was deep in fresh study about menstrual cycle awareness and the blood mysteries of the sacred feminine, I tuned into a book that offered insight into the nuances and energetics of a menstrual cycle - how it reflects not just the lunar cycle, but also the seasons of nature (and of life.)
Bleeding is death, of course. Itās winter, the time of fallow energy, releasing, composting, giving nourishment back to Earth so that life can flourish again in the spring.
This book (Wild Power, for my bibliophile friends) also spoke to the subtle dimensions of our moon time, or Shark Week, if you prefer. The authors wrote about the blood days as a vision quest and time of seeking psychic guidance and insights for the benefit of our lives and the collective.
I havenāt gone back to reference what I retained from my study, so donāt quote me on the terms, but the five stages or subtle phases within the bleed (which often averages 3-6 days), were something like this:
- Separation
- Release
- Visioning
- Clarity
- Rebirth
Separation, for me, feels like the rage day that comes just before bleeding starts. Sometimes itās rage, sometimes the rage is just a response to being overstimulated and needing solitude, silence, and stillness. Not only is the lining of my uterus separating and preparing to shed and release, but I am also drawing back from the energy of the outer world, as my inner world comes into greater focus.
While I have good intentions to āseparateā peacefully, itās often one of the most challenging periods of my whole cycle, because I donāt know exactly when it will happen, and itās not always possible to remove everything and everyone from my life for a day, so I can rest in the transition to inner awareness. During separation time, I also usually need a really good cry. Of course, the healthy way to get that would be doing some breathwork or putting on a sad playlist and laying on the floor, but if Iām not acting as my highest and most aware self, instead, the giant crying jag usually comes from me picking a fight, not managing my (bitchy and short tempered) tone of voice well, rejection sensitivity, or straight up emotional overwhelm and a fragmented breakdown. Or just an angry cry in my room because I feel under-resourced and misunderstood.
Thank goodness (thank Goddess), the release always follows. Bleeding comes as a release and relief, albeit one that is accompanied by fatigue, sad panda vibes, and a tendency to close my eyes for long periods while talking so I can see (sense feel hear) what I am trying to say. Itās a day where I canāt quite get enough sufi grinds, cat / cows, and hip stretches, as my body speaks and asks for gentle, slow, mindful care.
Today was release day, and I didnāt stretch. I had good intentions of a nice walk on the beach, but instead I just walked from my car to the sand, plopped down and listened to the waves. Barney sat on a sand dune above me, keeping watch so I could let myself check out for a minute (or ten).
Between separation and release, each cycle holds the potential for conscious dying - letting go of something, surrendering it back to the Mother, giving blood as an offering, and trusting that in the darkness of the outer world and light of the inner, we might receive a vision of which way to go next. But - this is the Wild Power teaching - in order to receive that vision, we must actually stop, rest, and listen.
What we lost with the desecration, persecution, and dismemberment of the Red Temple, was partly this: stopping, resting, and listening - together. Not just the bleeding women of the community, but the wise elders and the girls not-yet-bleeding, who tended and cared for the ones slowing down, resting, bleeding, listening. We lost one of the taproots to our Mother Earth, and a way of attuning our collective visionary capacity - our collective knowing meant to serve the whole.
However, this kind of magic is only truly lost if we stop practicing. Iām reminded of this as I start to march through another moon week without really slowing down, stopping, resting, or listening. When I have honored this part of my cycle with greater care, even by taking a few hours during the day to lay in bed and listen to music, I can feel the revitalizing power of the darkness, of voluntary death, of seeking the vision.
Wild as it sounds (because it is wild), when I have practiced being in a circle of women in a restful retreat, or making space for deep meditation during the second and third days of my bleed, Iāve had some profound experiences - painful cramps turning into blissful waves of sensation almost like orgasm during meditation, a heavy bleed shifting from discomfort into a pulsating womb leaping with joy in the circle of women.
When Iāve set aside my period as a time of seeking a vision, conscious release, or calling in clarity, itās repeatedly been a powerful decision that bore the fruit I was seeking. In the five subtle realms of menstruation, clarity is said to follow visioning - but even when this clarity arrives, the guidance is to wait, not act. By sitting with clarity, it ripens and nourishes vital energy which can be directed in the follicular or ovulatory phases to aligned action.
Iām sharing this tonight because Iām just here on the night of day one, feeling like thereās nothing to say or do or create, all I have right now is the downward flow of life-giving blood asking me to surrender to the void again, to the not-knowing, to the mysteries of the womb and tomb, and trust that whatever needs rebirth will emerge in a few days time.
Whether youāre a womb-holder or not, whether you have a uterus that bleeds, or are in a body no longer cycling (or which never did), the wisdom of the void still stands: we need time to do nothing, create nothing, start nothing, and even be nothing. It reminds me of a piece of writing I found from December 2020, which echoes of the same whispers in my bones and blood today.
Maybe, if Iām wise, Iāll listen to the sentiments of my past self, and make some space tomorrow to practice non-doing, unbecoming, and being nothing.
***
Being Nothing
What about when nothing can be added?
I sit, waiting for a flash of creative inspiration, for the overtaking of my mind by the gentle clatter of fingers upon the keyboard.
Expectant, I wait for profundity to percolate from the depths, meaningful truth that strikes a chord upon searching hearts (whose?)
Who is my expression for?
A nod to my virgo moon. "Serve", she says, "but be sure you do it perfectly."
I turn away. Not today. There is nothing to give.
What if Iām never important?
What if my life doesnāt make an impact?
What if itās one blink from breathing, creating, expressing, dancing, living, loving, to the grave and dust, disappearing flesh and the dissolution of being into formless waves of energy?
What if I donāt matter?
I feelā¦
nothing.
This is a death year.
I know it in my bones. Each time I go to start something new, a tug in my spirit says, āStop. This isnāt for you right now. Go listen instead. Rake the leaves. Stare at the ocean. Let your gaze travel far, fixed upon nothing. You are only here to let go.ā
Itās unfamiliar: yielding, softening, surrendering ever more to unimportant, no-matter, inconsequential embodiment. All I have been taught is to make something of myself. To embrace my potential. To become.
But what of coming undone? Unraveling? Disintegration of the self fibers, a woven construct, a knitted together caricature posturing a desirable essence? What if I pull that thread, and begin to unwind myself? What if I lay in a pool of water until my fabric is stretched, soft, out of shape, and then float some more?
What of entropy? What about abandoning the facets of identity that Iāve collected like shells, once prized and treasured, now forgotten in a box on the shelf?
Iāve always wanted to be someone.
So right now, why does it feel deliciously self indulgent to be no one?
What gift is present in unbecoming?
A whisper says, ābeing.ā
Vastness gives birth to itself and expands, a deepening void of cocooning darkness.
Drawn into its center, absorbed in the fertile void, the boundaries of my flesh are stripped away and Iām left to drift in emptiness.
No expectations.
No plans.
No wants, or needs.
No one.
No where.
No thing.
Here, the corners of what was once a face turn up in a smile.
Inconsequential, I am delighted.
Unencumbered, I am free.
A body on a chair, patient, heavy, pliant, relaxed.
Allowing.
Being.
Until even narration discovers itself forced, and it too, surrenders.
I have nothing for you.
Only presence.
And you are very, very welcome.
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