Second Chances of the New Moon

August’s theme is “Light and Dark.”

Yesterday was the new moon - a mystical time ripe for setting intentions that will grow and develop throughout the course of the month. The new moon, a thin crescent of light in an otherwise darkened sky, reverently awaits its time to wax, grow full, and illuminate our paths.

Its this shadow time that brings out my worries and doubts and can leave me heavy and stuck in the murk of self-neglect and self-doubt.

This morning, I pulled myself out of my recliner and headed to my gardens to pull weeds. I am ashamed to admit that during this wretched heat and muggy days that bring thunderstorms and more humidity, I have been neglectful of all that’s growing. I love being outdoors except during this stretch of time when the heat causes my skin to dry up and itch to the point I break out with smatterings of dermatitis all up and down my entire body. Or, the heavy rains and oppressive humidity hold in the mold and mildew and I sneeze and have difficulty breathing, and I break out in hives all up and down my entire body. For a few weeks, I am in complete misery.

Add in this time of physical and social distancing, and my psyche has been stretched to its limits. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve broken down in tears on more than one occasion, desperate for this oppressive pandemic to come to some resolution.

This morning, the air was cooler and the sky was overcast. I felt my body coming to life and found my groove and in less than a half hour’s time I had reclaimed my pollinator garden and snapped off small plant limbs riddled with powdery mildew and yanked up the beginnings of invasive patches of privet. I bagged everything up and tossed it in the dumpster and then decided to take on the untamed squash plant that had grown near the compost pile.

Originally, we never intended to grow squash. I had unwittingly thrown out a delicata squash from our refrigerator that had been pushed to the back and had the beginnings of rot on its rind. When my husband and I saw it growing at the beginning of spring, we thought it may be fun to watch it grow. And we did find enjoyment from its large leaves and gorgeous blossoms. I tended to it religiously and pulled off bugs, sprayed the leaves with neem oil, and even sloshed the heavy watering can over its roots during the long span of drought we had in June and early July.

Then, the heavy rains came followed by the oppressive heat and humidity. Days began to drag on as I sat inside searching for jobs, cleaning the house, and feeling alone and disconnected from the outside world. All of my energy drained from my body and a dullness settled into my mind. I began to neglect all that I cared for, myself included. Not in an abusive way, but in a benign way that left me feeling numb but functioning fairly well to all who know me. I lathered my hives in creams and salves and took Benadryl to help me breathe and sleep at night. Food became my comfort and my yoga mat stayed rolled up and tucked away in the deep recesses of my closet.

It wasn’t until this morning, standing above the lacy and yellowed leaves of the squash plant, that I came to a reckoning with my neglect. Tiny gray bugs marched along the stems of the damp leaves. The mature orange and black adults, squash beetles, hung on the underside of wilting leaves. The eggs, minuscule red dots, clustered together on almost every square inch of the plant. I harvested three squash, all intact save one that had a gel like substance hanging off it like mucus. The other fruit crushed into the grainy soil or stunted at growth. A few of them, only inches big, were hollowed out. White mushrooms and prickly devil’s tomato vines hoarded around the sludge-filled base of the squash plant where it had trapped water and harbored the breeding ground for mosquitoes.

How had I become so indifferent in such a short time to all that was growing around me? It seems like only yesterday that I was reveling in the sunlight of spring and summer infused days, happy to have my hands in the dirt. I felt rooted, grounded, alive. I was thriving. Somewhere along the way, I had become complacent. My complacency turned to neglect. My negligence led to indifference. By the time I realized I had given myself over to darker energy the rot had set in and I had to get back in there and fight for what I was losing or release what had already gotten away from me.

I hadn’t held up my end of the bargain with all that I had planted. Yet, I remembered that the new moon was urging me to start again, giving me a chance at rebirth. And so, I began. I tirelessly yanked up the roots of the ruined squash, chopped up the stems and leaves, and loaded up a garbage bag full of refuse. I cleaned up around the compost pile and began dreaming how to bring it back to its sweet smell where I could crumble up the rich humus and sprinkle it around my gardens. I picked up the fallen, shriveled, and uprooted sunflower near our shed and gently teased off a caterpillar. I held him in my hands and placed him on the bloom of another sunflower that had weathered all the storms at the back fence line. By the time I was done, my little plot of earth in this world looked better and showed signs of recovery.

I intend to continue accepting the grace the new moon has offered me. Aware of the light inside of me, I choose to focus my energy on the generative parts of me that lead me down more paths of joy. I desire to see my body as a temple and have already started trusting it again, resting when it asks me, breathing deeply, practicing tai chi and yoga, and taking brisk morning walks with my dog again. Most importantly, I feel grateful in knowing that I can always bring myself back to the beginning at the start of every new moon and watch myself grow and become more of who I am intended to be.