On the night of the Blood Moon eclipse, I took a solo walk in the Maryland woods, carrying six tarot cards, six stones, and the weight of both memory and possibility. The path I chose was one I had walked before with my aunt—familiar, yet almost new again, like returning to family stories only to find fresh revelations in their retelling.
At the trailhead, acorns rained from the trees. One struck the ground before me, and I bent to pick it up. A seed, a promise, a reminder that new life waits within the smallest, simplest vessels. I carried it as I stepped forward. From the distance, a dog barked—loud, restless, almost aggressive. It disturbed my stillness. Part of me wished it gone. Yet it reminded me: the world will always clamor, yet I choose what I carry in my heart.
The Empress was the first to speak. I laid her down at the mossy root of a tree, atop a flame-colored mushroom, with citrine glowing nearby. She asked me to release the roles of over-nurture, to stand rooted yet sovereign. A tree with unusual bark appeared before me—an oval split by a line. To me, it was past and future meeting at the axis of the present, a lesson in boundaries and in balance.
The Four of Swords found its place on a picnic bench, beside four fallen yellow leaves. I placed golden kyanite there, like a tassel of rest. A pond of lily pads stretched nearby, inviting stillness. I breathed, and committed to finding more spaces like this—not endless “do, do, do,” but moments of listening.
The Five of Cups called me to a small pond and stream. I set down my scolecite stone. A frog leapt into the water, its splash breaking the silence like a bell of grief and release. My thoughts turned to family: my sons growing, leaving, finding their own paths; my time of mothering shifting form. I honored both the ache and the love, the fleeting nature of seasons. Catbirds sang as I walked onward.
The Moon appeared at a stream crossing. I placed the moonstone heart on the bank, between rocks and flowing water. Here I felt the pull of mystery: that my inner compass always turns me where I need to go. I do not need to see the full map—only to trust the journey, to walk by moonlight, to let the unseen reveal itself in right timing. Deer appeared in the golden hour, quiet witnesses.
At a stump, I laid down the Ace of Pentacles with pyrite. Here, I dropped the acorn I had carried, planting my seed for the future. I thought of the Medicine for the People Festival, of my forest therapy session soon to be offered, of the doorways opening. The seed was planted, both in earth and in spirit.
By the lake, a fallen tree stretched across the water. I set the Fool there with apophyllite, a crystal of lightness. I thought of my new dresses, scarves, and gypsy adornments. I imagined myself stepping forward in bohemian grace, not as the mother-scientist alone, but as poet, healer, guide—how in that community I might be seen first and foremost as the soul I truly am.
As I made my way out, the forest gave me gifts: more deer, an owl’s silent flight over my head, bird calls revealed by the Merlin app—Hairy Woodpecker, Pee-Wee. The owl was the unseen guide, the shadow crossing above.
I passed again the clearing I had noted at the start, this time ready. On a picnic table I gathered all my cards and crystals, bringing them together in completion.
On the way out, I found more omens: a hollow walnut shell with two empty eyes—past and future selves gazing at one another. A black stone square etched with two tan lines—like the split in my fate line, marking the old path of career and the new one opening before me. And then, the herd of deer, with fawns—renewal, continuation, the cycle alive before my eyes.
Later, under the full moon rising, I sat outside with food and reflection. I wrote in my journal, listened to teachings on shadow work, heard the call of a coyote in the distance. The night wrapped itself around me like a cloak, and I knew: the ritual had written itself through me.
