fool moon
Full Moon in Pisces; Fool Moon. In Pisces, sense goes awandering and returns with an imaginary friend, ‘can I keep it?’ continuing over leftways into an upside down whirl of an idea that swept in like wind from the trailing edges of a tale that unfolds kalaidoways, extrapolating madly from scraps of crazy poetry.
Oh, yeah, you can have fun with Pisces. But only if you enter it, and leave it again, because in that sea of dreams, nothing ever changes, it merely swirls and sways, flows and floats away in the wind, sameness enduring, fractal patterns of endless replication, evolution only a fantasy.
Keep your feet on the Virgo ground now, chillins, cause here is where the crazy poet crosses your path with pixie dust from fake fairies that takes you only into oblivion unless you are giving something back. Virgo is about giving back. Taking in the trash, turning it into fertile soil, planting, reaping, processing the harvest.
It’s a lovely time for the harvest, this moon; everything dissolves, expands, glamourises in its milky light, from garden or berry bush or tree to the dryer, the freezer, the jar in the pantry.
I have a dehydrator now, that’s my fool moon prezzie for self. I was on a mission to find the post office the other day, and after following a wild and false trail (the old post office I remembered is a museum now; Shopper’s Drug Mart had no post office counter, no post office to be found) I was told it was in the Home Hardware. Tripping down through road construction work, climbing through barricades, I made my way to the vast warehouse store where I’d never been before, finally finding the post office counter tucked into in a back and shadowy corner.
Right next to the canning supplies and food dehydrators. Synchrocity! I love synchronicity. When I am connected, spirit to body to emotions to mind, synchronicities light up all over the place.
I’ve been actively looking for a food dehydrator for a week or so now. I asked for one on the CV freecycle list to no avail, I’ve looked in various department stores as well as online. They’re not easy to find! But there it was, and I went home and asked my friend google about it and it’s a pretty good one. So I bought it. Now it’s whirring quietly (yes!) in the other room, drying a variety of things from bananas to blackberries (an experiment I’m not sure about, but I wanted to try despite advice to the contrary).
I’ve already had mango, apple, strawberry and nectarine results come in, and delectable they are. I do love dried fruit, especially soaked with raw oats and nuts. Nummous.
At this fool moon, I am prepping for the Virgo New Moon in a couple weeks, at which time I plan to make the switch to raw food. A dehydrator was a missing piece in my plans. And now I’ve got one.
Why raw food? I’m so glad you asked.
For a long, long time now I’ve been on the edge of changing over to a raw, living food diet. It appeals to me on every level.
On the level of spirit, I like the raw food lifestyle as a conscious way to live, with gratitude, with awareness. Eating raw helps me to respect and receive the subtler energies of that which nourishes me.
On the physical level, I love how I feel when I am eating only or mostly raw. I feel light, vibrant, energized. My body thrives on raw food. I don’t become too thin, and my energy levels skyrocket.
My mind loves the idea of raw food. I love the idea of eating food that was grown by people who care about the Earth, about health, about their own bodies, people who are willing to put their shoulders to the wheel, as it were, to adopt a way of living that adds to the weight of numbers of people doing it.
Numbers matter. The more of us there are living in a conscious and respectful way, the more collective weight our point of view will have. My mind finds this knowledge satisfying as I personally change my life radically, down to the root, in a way that challenges me to grow.
On an emotional level, well, dammit. I hate how it feels to eat the bodies of beings who have lived their lives in slavery, who suffer terribly in order to become somebody’s gorgefest at random steakhouses. I feel sickened and appalled by such wasteful suffering, and I have done since childhood, where I grew up in a family that hunted.
I grew up with carcasses hanging in the woodshed, the kitchen converted to a butcher’s block, many hands working together to divide the meat that was shot by one of my uncles, all of which was divided amongst uncles, cousins and neighbours.
We loved the animals whose flesh fed us. This is one of the many profound gifts I received from my childhood. I know how it feels to eat the bodies of those who lived free, and who chose to cross the path of the hunter that bags them.
I know how it feels to be taught to respect the laws of nature, to look my food in the eye and to accept its gift as a choice to give, given by beings who had the power to choose otherwise.
Only one deer in the forest at a time falls to a hunter’s bullet. The rest live as they are allowed to live, which is another story.
Hunting is better than eating the products of a slaughterhouse, a killing floor where people tread on the entrails of beings slain to feed the greedy maw of flesh growing on the couch, or at the computer, or in the car, or on the snowboard, or the bicycle, or the tool that distracts the minds from the reality of the world around them.
My emotions cannot stand how it feels to eat these things or to support that industry. That feeling applies on a varying scale to factory farmed food of all kinds.
Because, I suppose, of the diet and lifestyle I was raised in where the most common meal was moose or venison steak with pancakes and huckleberry syrup, I have an predisposition to prefer living, natural food. Not because my family were ‘natural’, just because we were poor and wild food is free. But oh, so good!
A side note about the northern huckleberry: If you have never encountered this queen of berries, please do not judge it by its paler southern cousin. The northern huckleberry is huge, blackish and among the most flavourful things that grows in the wild. Oh glory! But be prepared for bears, who know a good thing when they come across it.
In the north, everybody hunts the ever-elusive huckleberry, highly prized, picked by the trash bag full and stored in the deep freeze against the lean years when no berries are found. Every two or three years, they return in profuse abundance, to vanish from sight for a year or so. And they don’t grow in the same place twice.
Oh God, huckleberries. What I wouldn’t give for a handful (or a bucketful) right now.
But then, blackberries are good too. All praises to its prickly goodness.
I propose that we return to a hunter, gatherer, grow it yourself economy (as much as that can be possible). If we don’t move in a more sustainable, life-loving direction voluntarily, we’ll may have something like a hunter-gatherer life forced upon us in a less life-loving manner when this top-heavy, unstable civilization falls.
“Mutate now, avoid the post-bomb rush.”
