A note from the fog of smoldering stillness

We can trust what wants to be born, even when it comes as silence, even when it comes as blood, even when it comes as grief.

I am sharing this note from the mental fog.

The fog has become thick today, a gauze over everything. My body is heavy, my belly warm and damp. I just started bleeding. The air in the house is hushed, almost padded, as though the walls themselves are holding their breath. And yet beneath that quiet, there’s a pulse—something shifting, something rearranging, like the low hum of a current moving under the floorboards.

That is the paradox, the beauty of what we hold in this life. Silence and motion together.

And here, in this quiet, I haven’t been sure what to say. My tongue has become coated, my mouth dry, words pressed down somewhere in the blood moving out of me. Strange, after weeks of words pouring through with no end in sight.

But I’m learning again to honor my very Cancerian Mercury.

Mercury—the part of the chart that carries voice, speech, communication. With mine in Cancer, my words are like tides. They rise lush and lyrical, fierce as a mother wolf, protective as a shell. And then they turn, pulling inward, receding to the dark sea-cave, refusing to be spoken until the time is right.

And then suddenly, my Gemini Sun, Aries Moon, Leo Rising sparks strike—my chest lifts, my breath quickens, the heat returns to my voice: let’s do the fucking thing.

It is a relief to know myself this way. A relief not to fight it anymore.

I think of RZA in The Tao of Wu, speaking of knowledge of self as the root of wisdom, and I take it as one of the greatest gifts we can carry. Because if I didn’t know myself in this rhythm, I would be punishing myself. I used to, for years.

“Why aren’t you doing something right now? Why can’t you speak? Are you burned out? Is this it?”

Now I know: this is a pause. Not an ending. Not collapse.

Not that it makes it easy. My Aries Moon is restless, like a match that won’t stop sparking against the box. But there is a deeper stillness that must be honored—especially while I am bleeding.

Bleeding is its own threshold.

One of my mentors wrote recently about the blood of Kali, of Mary Magdalene, of Hekate. The blood as alchemy. The blood as the unseen fire that burns through the dross.

And that flame burns inside me. It smolders at the edges, searing away what no longer belongs. My thighs are damp with warmth, my abdomen contracting in waves, each cramp an incineration of what can no longer stay..

The pause is not empty. The pause is shape-shifting.

This is why the pause matters so much when you’re putting your work into the world. You will have those seasons of pure fire, when you’re birthing and launching, breathless with motion. And then suddenly: the stillness comes.

And the mind panics. What now? What if it’s over?

But the deeper invitation is: can you trust the pause?

Can you trust that the energy you moved is still rippling out, still arranging itself in unseen ways? That you are a field holding it now, radiating it—even as you rest?

It is the same as birth itself. You just fucking birthed something. Of course you need to rest.

The blood says so. The grief says so. The hollow ache in the womb says so.

Because there is grief in every birth. The grief of no longer holding the baby, of being emptied out, of carrying something for months and then suddenly not. Creation always carries loss in its shadow.

And this, too, must be honored.

I circle back to Mercury. To the voice. To the way what is inside us moves outward into resonance.

This is where the magnetism is—in staying true to the shape your voice was given. Your voice will call the ones it was meant to call.

One of the most nourishing reflections I receive, over and over, is about my voice—the way I write, the cadence of my speaking, the contemplative threads, the fire that sparks through. It’s intentional, thoughtful, wisdom-bearing. And that voice is what gathers the right people to me. That is how IGNITE formed—with people who already carry a voice into the world, and who are now ready to descend into its deeper layers, building a hearth where the flame of their voice can root itself and burn steady.

There is always more to uncover. More caverns hidden underground, waiting to be entered. More sound caught in the ribs, waiting to be released.

And the first place I look is Mercury. Your chart will tell you so much about your voice. I’m grateful for my astrologer

Eve Star

, who is weaving an offering called Orient—a free gathering that’s a doorway flung open. It’s next Monday, and you can step through here.

And I wonder about you. How do you meet your own voice? What support would soften or strengthen you in that? I would love to know.

There’s a program stirring in me again, my Aries Moon beginning to stretch her limbs, pulling me toward something around listening to the whispers of our sacred voice. The way it rises in our own bodies first, activating our wisdom. The way it spills out and touches others when it’s aligned, when it’s true. If you want to come closer to that, there’s a waitlist open. It will be a taste of the deeper work we are moving into in IGNITE.

But for now, in this fog, with the air thick and my womb aching, I am remembering this:

We can trust our voices.
We can trust what is here.
We can trust what wants to be born, even when it comes as silence, even when it comes as blood, even when it comes as grief.

Something is always moving. And the voice always returns, when it’s ready.

In the stillness of devotion,
Rosa
Soma Moon Sanctuary