Old Woman Sleeping, Cornelis Bisschop
Bear with me.

The bonds that normally hold me onto my reality are softening, loosening. And I don’t know whether I like it or whether actually it’s a little bit frightening.

I think it’s about the moon and the blood and something a bit like synchronicity but not quite. Coincidence that isn’t; not really, not in my soul, where it counts.

I mean, I knew this was all coming, but I didn’t expect it. I knew in a part of me that I don’t often talk to, but which makes decisions surprisingly often. Decisions I don’t even notice being made until the whole thing is done and dusted. So somewhere inside me I knew it, but in the part that I pay attention to I’d forgotten all about even the possibility, and long since given up thinking about it as something that might apply to me. It’s been over three years and I’d forgotten all about this, yet my secret guidance system knew and prepared me and now it is time to bleed.

I’ll try and say this all again, in words you’ll understand.

I have not had a period for over three years – pregnancy, breastfeeding, Mirena. In all that time I said to myself that once my periods restarted I would maybe get a mooncup or something, but they never came and so I never did and then I stopped thinking about it. But then, there I was at the Big Green, by the mooncup place, and I said “oh, I’ve been meaning to get one for ages” and I bought one and brought it home and tried it out. And then I realised that actually I don’t get periods anymore, so the whole thing was a bit of a daft charade. Except somewhere inside me I just had this feeling that things were changing now and that I should shut up and listen to the feeling.

Guess who was right?

But it was never like this before. Never this opening up to possibilities unknown. Never this sense of rightness. Perhaps I cherish the cramps a little because of what they make me remember. Maybe I’m just letting the Goddess in.

I want to be an old woman.
I relish being the full moon.
I want to grow into a blackened crone in a cottage growing herbs.
I want to be Mother.

To bleed, to weep, to salve.

The rational part of my mind, the one still clinging on against the tide, is telling me that none of this makes much sense. The part of my mind that thinks with my belly, my blood, my cramps that hurt but don’t hurt – that part says don’t worry about it, there is a reason for this and this is how it’s meant to be, and it’s all going to be OK.