Last night I went to the Herring Cove look-off near Halifax to burn old journals. Since the beginning of September, I've been purging in all sorts of ways, including getting rid of some material possessions. I've burned journals once before days prior to leaving on a great adventure to the Yukon. The journals I burned last night were filled with writing and drawings from that time. And some time after. 

As the pile of books turned to ash, I looked to the sky where the half-moon was finally rising and realized all the information recorded on those pages could still be accessed, it was just the container that was being removed. 

A week prior I was at the same look-off, with many other people, to witness the lunar eclipse. There were nearly one hundred bodies around, and three fires. The coastline was full of silhouetted groups cuddled into granite boulders, looking at the sky. I arrived at 7 p.m. to see the moon rise, and stayed with three of my friends, two of whom I randomly ran into there, until 2 a.m. Most people left when the moon was in the Earth's shadow, but we stayed until the end of the eclipse, when the moon was white again, alit by the sun.

How amazing it was to witness the moon go through a full months cycle in the span of six hours. Full. To half. To new. To half. To full. 

A few years ago I had dreams about two full moons. I was in the midst of a spiritual crisis, and I never understood the meaning of those dreams at the time. They left me questioning. Maybe that was the point. But unable to intuitively sort them out, I asked friends about their possible meaning, and even once (or five times) Googled "dreams about two full moons." Everything that came back didn't resonate. Only now, three years later, do I understand the significance and meaning. 

In the dreams, I'd look to the sky, see one full moon, but then it'd split into two full moons. Here's one of those dreams:

I'm home. Not a home I recognize, but I feel like I'm home. Near a coast. A hill. Old farm houses. It's night time. I'm walking up a road. I look to the sky to see the full moon. I recognize myself. The moon begins blinking. White to red. Then, like a cell, it divides into two full moons. I've seen this before, I say. And from in between them swirl out Northern Lights. 

I once heard that our subconscious mind is three years ahead of our conscious mind. While I don't think these things work in a linear fashion, I have witnessed the phenomenon of a vision saturating my waking and dreaming life and then materializing within a few years. In the case of the two full moons, I realized just a week ago that the dream was a representation of a lunar eclipse cycle, where two full moons are revealed in one night, one process. 

But the meaning extends deeper than that. This lunar eclipse was powerful and, for me, represents a turning point, a shift, a new beginning in my life. Something is being born. I don't know what it is exactly yet, but this desire to purge is really about opening up space for what is to come. 

Northern Lights?

A few weeks ago I sat at the beach with a friend, and she told me about the concept of automatic shifting in osteopathy. What I gathered from her simplified-for-me description was that the body has natural organizing fulcrums, forces that inform the architecture of tissue throughout life. Automatic shifting takes place when an osteopathy client is supported in deeply encountering these potent anchor points and, sometimes-but-not-all-times, they shift in response to this inhabited awareness — hence changing how things are organized in the body from there on out. I think this idea is applicable to every aspect of being, not just the physical, as I have been experiencing it emotionally and spiritually as well. 

Let me explain.

These past few years have been chalked full of spiralling-backward-journeys to personal histories and old patterns. These encounters, which seemed to culminate this year, allowed me to set foot in some deep, internal architecture. But once I entered the house, things began to shift. The structure was familiar, comfortable, but no longer inhabitable. For so long it informed my journey, but I had somehow connected with an alternative vision, a future that I could feel echoing backward, that didn't fit in this space. The house was no longer supportive of me and the ways I desired to grow.

The awareness and acceptance of this led to a dismantling process, which was a tumultuous ride in the beginning. Like throwing your body down a waterfall. But I have noted how calm some waters can be immediately after a waterfall.

A few months ago, while up North in the Yukon, I had a dream about crossing a river, leaving behind structures of various sorts. Down the river my name was being called, and I could faintly see structures there. The dream ended with me between these two places, the liminal zone.

I told my friend about the dream, and she said, "That's automatic shifting!" It's also what physicist Fritjof Capra calls the bifurcation point:

“…When the flow of energy increases, the system may encounter a point of instability, known as a “bifurcation point,” at which it can branch off into an entirely new state where new structures and new forms of order may emerge…This spontaneous emergence of order at critical points of instability is one of the most important concepts of the new understanding of life. It is…often referred to simply as “emergence.” It has been recognized as the dynamic origin of development, learning and evolution. In other words, creativity—-the generation of new forms—-is a key property of all living systems. And since emergence is an integral part of the dynamics of open systems, we reach the important conclusion that open systems develop and evolve. Life constantly reaches out into novelty.”

Another friend wrote me an e-mail a couple of weeks ago, sharing a dream she had with me in it. It involved labradorite and me picking a monarch butterfly from a treasure box. Labradorite are the Aurora in stone — solid but alive through movement and light. The monarch butterfly represents lightness, migration, ally-ship with the plant world and, of course, transformation. Interestingly, when a caterpillar begins transforming into a butterfly, it's body first resists. The new cells emerging are so different from caterpillar cells that its immune system fights them. But the cells continue to appear, forming their own resonating clusters, and, eventually, they reach a point where there is no turning back. I certainly have experienced the confusion and resistance that comes when things begin shifting, dismantling. The onset is difficult. I don't know a single person who is a stranger to that.

But the clutter has cleared, and I am resonating more and more with the new, mysterious vision. The amount of alignment and serendipity in my life is increasing, propelling me through the water. 


I'm making space for what is emerging — a thing I can't articulate, but that I can feel as significantly and mysteriously as the Northern Lights. I've reached the point where there is no turning back from this journey. I've let go of the old house. And I'm on the river, between two full moons, following what's calling my name.