Spring Tide-Mud Season
The mud remembers before the bloom does.
Today, the light and the dark sit across from each other like old rivals who have finally grown tired of fighting. Neither wins. Neither leaves. They simply… balance.
This is the turning. Not the bright, pretty kind people like to sell you. This is the shift you feel in your bones before your life changes shape.
The Bog Banshee does not rush the green. She listens to what is still heavy. She presses her hands into the thawing earth and asks, 'What is ready… and what is pretending?'
On this Spring Equinox, do not force yourself into bloom. Instead turn your face to the light without abandoning your shadows.
Let both exist. Let both speak.
A simple rite for today
Stand at a threshold. A doorway, porch, an entrance.
Hold something from winter in one hand (a stone, a dried leaf, a grief). Hold nothing in the other.
Whisper, 'I carry what made me. I release what no longer feeds me. I step forward… not finished, but becoming.'
Then cross.
No spectacle. No witnesses needed. Just the quiet, ancient agreement between you and the turning world.
The mud is softening. Something is waking.
And it might be you.
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