Hello and welcome.
This practice marks the new moon.
Time to look inwards and reflect on what we want to grow and cultivate.
The lunar cycle is one of constant change.
Light to dark.
Growth to waning.
Beginnings and endings.
And we have come to the dark of the moon.
This is a particular kind of time.
Pause between what has been and what is not yet.
The moon's light has drawn back and in that darkness there's something rare.
Emptiness.
Space.
Potential that has not yet taken form.
You don't need to do anything with that yet.
For now,
Simply arrive.
Find a position that feels comfortable for you.
Comfortable enough to stay.
Settled enough to go deep.
If you're lying down,
Make sure your body is fully supported.
And if you're seated,
Feel the ground beneath you that can anchor.
Let your eyes close.
Take a breath in.
Slowly.
Filling the lungs fully.
And a long unhurried breath out.
Again breathing in.
And breathing out.
Maybe a little slower this time.
Once more as you breathe in.
And on the exhale,
Let your body soften.
Your jaw.
Your shoulders.
Your hands.
Let the weight of you sink downward.
Held by the earth.
Now take a few more breaths at your own pace.
With each exhale,
A little more of your day fall away.
The tasks,
The thoughts,
The noise.
You're stepping out of ordinary time now.
When you feel ready,
Allow an image to begin to form.
You're standing on a wide glen,
The hills rising up to either side.
It's night.
The air is cool and smells of peat and heather.
And the sky above you is extraordinary.
Vast and deeply dark.
Scattered with more stars than you've ever seen in one sky.
Without the moon,
The stars have come forward.
The Milky Way stretches above you in a pale river of light.
The glen extends ahead,
Quiet and still.
In the distance,
You can make out the shapes of hills.
Ancient,
Grounded,
Patient.
Beneath your feet,
The heather is soft and springy.
You are rooted here.
You belong here.
This glen has been here for longer than memory.
Longer than any human story.
The peat beneath your feet holds thousands of years of rain and growth and decay and renewal.
You are standing on deep time.
And yet,
You are here,
Tonight,
At this particular turning of the year's wheel.
Your presence here is not an accident.
You find a flat stone nearby.
A wide,
Dark slab of granite,
Half-buried in the heather.
You sit down.
It feels solid beneath you.
Its coolness,
Its age.
You're sitting at the centre of the dark of the moon.
As you look up at the sky,
There's something you might not have noticed before.
The quality of the darkness itself.
It's not empty.
It's full.
It's the darkness of fertile ground.
Of seeds before they split.
Of dreams before they find their form.
This is the darkness that holds everything.
It's about to begin.
In the old stories of Scotland,
There's a figure who belongs to this kind of darkness.
She's called the Caillach.
The old woman.
The ancient one.
She's the keeper of winter and deep time.
She created Scotland.
She shaped the mountains with her hammer.
She knows every stone and every root.
Every season that has turned since the world began.
She's not someone to fear.
She's the oldest wisdom that the land holds.
As you sit on the stone,
You become aware of a presence at the edge of your vision.
Not approaching.
Simply there.
The Caillach.
She's seated on a stone nearby.
She has been for longer than you know.
She's wrapped in a cloak as dark as the deepest forest.
And a wooden staff rests in her hand.
She's looking at the sky.
That same sky that you're looking at.
She does not demand anything from you.
She does not judge.
She's seen too much for too long to waste wisdom on judgment.
But she is here.
And in her presence,
You feel something settle in you.
A deeper stillness.
A longer view.
As if,
Just for a moment,
You could see your own life from the perspective of the mountains.
She turns and looks at you.
And she asks in a voice as strong as the land's.
What are you bringing into being,
This moon?
This is your time.
The new moon is a moment of planting.
Not forcing.
Not demanding.
Planting.
Placing something into the dark earth with a new light.
With care and trust and patience.
Knowing that what will grow will take its own shape.
In its own time.
Let your awareness turn inward now.
Cast your mind over the weeks just passed.
Gently.
Without judgment.
What has been calling to you?
What have you been circling around?
Almost touching but not yet fully naming.
What is the quiet thing beneath the noise of your days that keeps returning?
Take your time.
There's no right answer.
There's only what is true to you.
Right now.
Something may be rising.
A word.
An image.
A feeling that doesn't yet have a name.
A direction,
Even if the path isn't clear yet.
If nothing comes immediately,
That's fine.
Stay with the darkness.
Seeds germinate in the dark.
Simply rest in the not yet knowing.
And notice if something stirs.
When something arrives,
However small,
However uncertain,
Hold it gently.
This is your intention for the lunar months ahead.
Now in your imagination,
Look down at the base of the stone you are sitting on,
The dark,
Rich soil.
Ancient soil,
Soft and receptive.
Take your intention,
This word or image or feeling,
And imagine it as a seed of light in the palm of your hand.
Small.
Hell.
Full of potential.
Reach down.
And press it into the earth.
You're not forcing it,
You're offering it.
You're saying,
I am willing for this to grow.
I will tend it.
I will pay attention.
Cover it gently with that dark soil.
Let the earth receive it.
And the kayak watches and there's something in her expression.
An ancient,
Weathered,
Kind expression that says,
Yes,
That one,
That is worth tending.
Take a slow,
Deep breath now.
The stars above you are vast,
Impatient,
And indifferent in the best way.
They have witnessed more beginnings than can be counted,
And they will witness yours.
Your intention is planted in the deep time of this land.
It is held.
The kayak is still there on our stone.
But her attention has returned to the sky.
She does not need thanks.
She is simply what she is.
The land's oldest memory.
The land's guardian.
Always present.
Always patient.
You rise from your stone and feel the heather beneath your feet again.
The kayak turns and smiles to you.
But well,
She says.
I will watch the night.
And look after what you can grow.
The moor is the same as it was.
Stars are the same.
But you are,
Perhaps,
A little different.
But a little clearer.
Something has been named tonight that was not named before.
Begin to walk slowly back now.
With each step,
Feel yourself gently returning to your body.
To the room you're in.
To the warmth of where you are.
The moor stays with you.
Somewhere beneath the surface.
The darkness that is full of potential stays with you.
Begin to become aware of your physical body now.
The surface beneath you.
The temperature of the room around you.
The sound of your breath.
Take a slow breath in.
And let it go.
Take another breath in.
And as you exhale,
Allow a gentle awareness of your hands and your feet.
The places where your body meets the surface beneath it.
One more breath.
When you are ready,
Let your eyes slowly open.
You've planted something tonight.
End it well in the days ahead.
Not with force,
Not with forcing.
With attention.
Notice the small signs of growth.
Trust the dark.
And if you can,
Maybe find a way outside to bathe in the starlight.
The new moon has begun.
Thank you for sharing this practice with me.
