Cull the Stones

There’s a Super Full Moon in Taurus on Wednesday—the biggest the moon will appear all year. Themes of relationship, comfort, care, or whatever. My horoscope: The stability you want starts when you stop settling and start choosing. Whatever that means. 

So I drank a cup of mugwort tea before bed. Does it do anything? Probably not. It’s like my husband eating a handful of blueberries every morning for “antioxidants.” Still, let’s not dismiss the power of placebo.

Last night, I dreamed. I dreamed a lot, but one dream stood out. I attended a wedding—beautiful, radiant. A young groom and an even younger bride. She wore a brand-new designer gown, fitted and breathtaking. For some reason, I walked her down the aisle. I wasn’t a family member, a friend, or even a person. I was the embodiment of her conscience.

In her mind, I saw the scene differently. The dress—she remembered working, saving, researching for hours. All the details she’d taken pride in, she had planned alone. The groom, smiling his boyish, docile grin, believed his grand contribution was recycling cans from the pay bar. He hadn’t even tried.

She had toiled for months to reach this “happy day.” Mon dieu! If joy required this much effort, what would happen when real trials arrived? When the officiant asked if she did—she didn’t. She didn’t want more years of this. Saying yes meant signing up for it for life. Better to back out now—lose a little money, a little respect from the smiling, teary guests blot-blot-blotting their eyes and the photographer snap-snap-snapping every “keepsake moment.” Move on.

Of course, it was only a dream. But dreams are stitched from waking life: experiences, memories, emotions. Maybe the brain is problem-solving, consolidating memory, or maybe it’s just the mugwort tea and the full moon. Maybe it is nothing.

Still, I like to see dreams as messages from the Universe—or God—shedding light on what we cannot otherwise see. Dreams are like your conscience walking you down the aisle, showing every curated detail in a new, harsher light. Perhaps the bride was showing me what I can’t see in my marriages—that sometimes saying no is the truest act of care.

And as the dream faded, I saw my own life. I’m not yet forty and have been married twice. The first time, I was like the young bride who said yes. The second, like the young groom who smiled and let someone else figure it out.

My first marriage was like arriving at work and being told there’s a surprise 5K race today. I’m in uncomfortable shoes and the wrong clothes when the organizers ask, “Would you like a gift?”

“Why, of course!”

And they shackle a rock to my ankle. But it’s a pretty rock—it looks nice—and it’s just 5K! I try to run. People pass me and say, “What a nice rock! You must love it so, to take it all this way!” And I am blistered, tired, last—dragging myself across the finish line hours late. No prize. Only ache. Still, I love that rock. It hardly looks like my body without it attached.

My second marriage was different. A 5K in six months, with a $5,000 allowance for equipment, a gym membership, a personal coach named Dan, and four hours off each day to train. On race day, I could take a taxi if I wanted. I win. I barely lifted a finger.

I love the taxi. I love coasting. But even victory feels hollow. I’m unsatisfied with both dynamics. I want a third way—not the workhorse dragging a load, nor the pampered passenger coasting to the finish.

So now, let’s wake up. This morning, before the alarm, I basked in bed. The softness of the pillow-top mattress, the warmth of blankets, the cool side of the pillow, the purr of a cat—I soak it all in. Perhaps I could be a spouse like a bed: warm, soft, comforting.

Then the alarm rings. First, I must be a spouse who gets up, makes the bed, feeds the cats, scoops the litter boxes. My husband will make coffee, feed the dogs, empty the dishwasher. Maybe I’ll be bed-like once I’m dressed and caffeinated.

While getting ready, I knocked over a box of rocks on my dresser. Too many rocks—amethyst, aventurine, onyx, obsidian, agate, and more. Drusy, cabochon, raw, carved, and so on. I’ve carried them from before my first marriage through both marriages to now.

Stuff is a little like that rock shackled to your ankle. I’ve accumulated too much. On Wednesday, under the Super Full Moon in Taurus, I’ll drink another cup of mugwort tea and set out all my rocks, crystals, and stones—to “charge under the full moon.” Please, let’s not dismiss the power of placebo.

In the morning, I’ll cull the stones. Bury them? Drop them off at a thrift store? Mail them to a friend? Toss them away? Any option is fine.

Yes—blessings upon thee, O city dump! I present a fluorite pillar for you! Return to the earth from which it was cruelly cut! Join the coffee grounds and broken plate, brethren!

C’est la vie. Things that once looked so good—then, with new dream eyes, appear distorted, wrong, and ready to go. I’ve tried the workhorse and the taxi. Now it’s time for a third way—one that isn’t about dragging or coasting, but moving intentionally. The stones I keep, the ones I cull, and the dreams I carry forward will help me figure out what that looks like.

Guess my horoscope is right. The stability I want starts when I stop settling and start choosing.