I might be the moon
My body is a map of time. Cycles I can’t see — but feel.
I begin at the beginning — a full moon, the first bleed. Day one. Follicular brings the hormones that make me stand up. The sun moves to light the moon full and change the Ocean’s tide. My uterus absorbs an egg and charts me forward to estradiol. It is in these first few days I only want to begin. Serotonin sees only possibilities. Estrogen shows me exactly where to start.
My hormones itch my legs to stand up. Begin something. We have arrived! You are ready! Sitting down with the old, I try. I open a document I should be completing and subsequently open three new tabs. There are so many beginnings in my brain, I can’t let them pass me. I know I won’t be ready in two weeks time. I have to begin now.
What if I only began for a week? What if the world allowed me to plant seeds from day one to ten. I could move deadlines for things that are stuck in the middle — the things that can wait for the estrogen drop. Inside, I ride a labyrinth of tides as life outside of me remains unchanged. My calendar is poured concrete. The days demand the same of me. I can try to move around within the boxes, but the walls won’t move.
Ovulation begins with a new moon. The darkest moon that leaves us ready. It fosters fertility in all ways. Fertility in connections, thoughts, pursuits. Luteinizing hormone arrives as my body looks to copulate. I’m searching for somewhere for my hands to land — maybe even on myself. What I can’t overlook is connection. I want to be eaten up, devoured. I’ll look for coffee with a friend, a place for myself to be known and made into more.
I want all of me to be felt and mapped. I go about my day with images of lips on my neck and hands in my hair. The yearn is hardly for an offspring. I want to be something that exists with another. I want to know I am here and in the world of others. In ovulation I am ready to be received — by friends and lovers alike. I’ll get lonely alone, the same alone-ness I’ll want in a few days time. But for these days, I look to gather. To water my seeds.
Post artwork by author, Salina Jane Vanderhorn
What if life gave me permission to flow? To make a unique path with my hormones and allow my organs to interact with the moon. Could what life needs from me read my cycles? I could tell the world when I’m at the beginning. I’m ready to start a new project, I’d say. I can try a new recipe, find a new perspective, or choose to mop the floors. On day 12 I could ask the world for a bit more love. More community, more calls. Please world, on days 12 to 15 — schedule my connections with others.
I slow when the air gets thicker. Luteal arrives a little differently each time. Sometimes it is here but just sitting in the living room — keeping distance. Other times, this month, it walks around my house banging pots and pans together until I begin to scream. I walk to think. To release whatever emotion that has boiled into rage this morning. I have allowed something to spiral my heart — it’s now broken into child-like pieces.
Progesterone keeps me slow. When I’m not mending an emotional wound, I can be still. I will look at my projects from day one. I can see where they need fixing now. I can edit my words, finish my painting, and lose hours reading. But everything I loved at the beginning, it’s gone. It’s all replaced with rejection. Not good enough, not right. I want to cry. Can I just cry?
What if the world knew I was going to cry for a week? Not all the time, but when I needed it. The meetings I asked for in days 12 to 15 could then stop. I could work alone in silence, fix the things that are now problems. I could bury myself in a room and become compost. I’ll be ready to begin again soon, world. The light is coming around the moon — I’m only resting, preparing.
I bleed and all my problems are not problems anymore — they’re possibilities. Things I could begin. The feelings that felt heavier than lead are now simply a bridge to cross. The birds chirp outside my door — they feel louder and softer. My dog’s kisses are full of 15% more love. The moon finds the light and I find myself at the beginning again.
Post artwork by author, Salina Jane Vanderhorn