This week, as the days are shorter and daylight seems but a memory, we have a gorgeous waxing Moon to illuminate our sky. With both Venus and Mercury in supportive aspect to Jupiter this week, the energy is spirited and convivial as we approach the Yule. The energy of the next few days is conducive to cooperative social efforts, mirth-making and heartfelt sharing of ideals.

 
December’s full moon, the last of the year, is called the Full Cold Moon and this year its magic brightens the world on Christmas evening. We haven’t seen a Full Moon on Christmas since 1977!
This Full Moon is in Cancer, the sign of its rulership. This Moon is a wonderful complement to the idyllic time of sharing gratitude, warmth and kindness during this season. The Cancer Moon harmonizes with the need for family and home, for connection with community and ancestors and anything that provides nurture and deep emotional security. The direct station of Uranus, also taking place on Dec 25th suggests some surprising revelations may come to light. May that which has been stuck become free and may the path ahead be clear. Difficulties constantly arise, but ease happens continuously, unnoticed.

I sincerely hope that all of your surprises bring joy!

 

My thoughts on this week reminded of me of this Sylvia Plath poem which I am about to share and before I do I want to thank you for appreciating my words and to wish you all the peace and happiness you can stand!

 
The Moon And The Yew Tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God

Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility

Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.

The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

How I would like to believe in tenderness –

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

Blue and mystical over the face of the stars

Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,

Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.

And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.