"I Just Can't Cope-Acabana"

solar remediation at the start of sick-mom summer

So there were two-and-a-half slippery weeks, and then last Thursday I woke up early and fixed breakfast for my husband and son, something I haven’t really done since before chemo. Mornings, which used to contain my writing and tarot rituals, since September had diminished to broken things. I’d wake up early but clenching everything—fists, jaw, eyes, ass—against the idea of “doing another day.” There would be coffee and my toddler’s necessary routine. Waffles to toast or pancakes to make, bento-box lunches to pack. I offshored all the responsibilities to Kiernan for a while, which is to say, he did everything forever. 

But this Thursday I woke up and my jaw hung open; my sacroiliac joint didn’t burn with secret pain. My head was clear of the apocalypse for the first time in so long, and my body responded with an organized release, a solar principle that I don’t see astrologers talking enough about.