Tarot Reading – Full Moon In Scorpio 2024

Day after full moon.

78 Tarot Ecological.

1. What part of your life is ready to transform? 8 of Water (8 of Cups). A polar bear sits in the area where she has raised cubs before, but the area is melting, indicated by the 8 waterfalls. It’s no longer safe here for her. Nor is it safe for those she chooses to raise as family. If you are bluntly honest with yourself, you deserve more than what you currently have. Where you are is not safe for you emotionally. Walk away from what doesn’t serve you. Emotionally and spiritually, you’ve reached your limit. Do what it takes to make you happy. Well, that’s a huge canvas, tarot. Which part of my emotional life? PizzaBoy? ThirtiesPerson? Some other aspect? It’s too uncomfortable and awful to think it applies to PB. End my marriage? Not if I have anything to do with it. But yes, TP, it IS time you moved out.
2. What will aid in this change? Activist of Air (Knight of Swords). Don Quixote once tilted at windmills, seeing them as foes. Now, he rides to defend these gentle giants who provide much-needed energy to the communities they serve. Thought is nothing without action – it’s time to jump, before the chance slips away. Listen to your inspiration, your clear fresh ideas of how to find a solution. Don’t be slowed down by negativity and doubt. However, haste can make you miss potential issues. It is time to send that email to TP’s NDIS coordinator and ask exactly why she made that comment about the Independent Living Options service we interviewed. What did she have against them? Why say we’re getting closer to the vision, and that this isn’t it? Why say don’t commit. Eventually, honey, we’re going to have to commit to something. What’s the hold up?
3. What was once hidden that is now seen in the full moon’s light? The Sun. You’ve come out the other side of the darkness and can now shine. Radiate excitement, warmth, energy. But in what area? What part of me that was hidden is now in the full sunlight? I feel no pull to any particular area of my life that this could apply to.
4. What skeletons can you release from the closet? 7 of Earth(7 of Pentacles). The hard work of building the web is done. The spider can now wait to see what comes of it. There are several insects flying around, so that indicates she’s built in the right place. Pause and take stock. Consider what you’ve done, accomplished, and test whether the path you’re on is still the right one. There is more to success than just the work. Consider what is going well, and what can be cut away. Is this writing? Launching TP? Marriage counselling? Other aspects of my life? Earth indicates it’s a physical manifestation in my life, something material and concrete. TP and their house? That would seem likely, given what this reading has been about so far.
5. What seeds were you tending that are ready to bloom? Activist of Earth(Knight of Pentacles). Reliability, steadfastness, doing the work. This is not a time to shirk responsibilities and drag your heels. Act now to create the future you want. Play to your strengths. This is echoed in the second card. Act now. Work in a steady manner towards housing TP, instead of these fits and starts. My strengths: autism. I can ask the awkward questions because I simply want answers, and I’m done with others dragging their damned heels in this. What exactly is your hemming and hawing about, coordinator?
6. How can you nurture these new blossoms(and yourself)? 4 of Energy (4 of Wands). Pause, celebration, enjoyment. A dryad with a crown of blooming flowers. She is in the sanctuary of her woods where she feels safe. Take time to celebrate wins and how far you’ve come, treat yourself to some fun along with the hard work. Take time to acknowledge each step now, and the work it takes. Action, rest, action, rest. But plan it. Not wild flurries of action, then exhaustion.
7. Which repeating lesson can you finally integrate? Mother Earth(Empress). My tendency to mother everything and everyone. The Empress is my card for this lifetime, life path. But my astrological chart indicates that my path is to move out of the Mother Earth role and into a more self-focussed life. Which doesn’t mean not care-taking myself and my life. What will nurture me best now is TP moving out, and a more self-ish life. Firm boundaries on what I will allow. Connection with the earth is vital for me and I must take that into account each day.

The Daily Blog experiment – a photo from the vaults

2004, and I’m 40 years old. I belly dance at my 40th birthday party. I held a big, splashout party at home. Everyone and their friend was there. Loads of food, drink, music, and my offspring, back then PreTeenPerson(still really PreTeenBoy) declared themself loudly to be who they are.

They were delivered to my house at about 4pm. Shared care between my exhusband and I, and I am not about to go into the saga of why PreTeenBoy was living primarily with him, and only three days a week with me. (tl;dr: emotional blackmail, threats, Centrelink, bullying, unmedicated-constantly-on-the-edge-of-a-breakdown-undiagnosed AuDHD me, bulk trauma, unsupportive partner, shame)

My ex-husband had dressed PreTeenPerson in – get this – pressed brown trousers, and a shirt. PTP could not have felt less like themselves, in retrospect, but Father must be obeyed at all costs. So, there’s my offspring, staring in silent wonder at the balloons and party streamers, the table full of food, and TeenGirl and I in party clothes.

PreTeenPerson took themself off to the dress-up box and found a long black stretch velvet dress in there, with slits up both sides. They teamed this with a single scallop shell on a length of dental floss, and bare feet.

They designated themself the doorperson for the night and greeted absolutely everyone who came through the door. They had many compliments on their dress choice, and everyone but one man was cool with PreTeenPerson being who they were/are. They’d been declaring for years that they were “Auslan sign for girl”, and wearing nighties, and liked to slip into their sister’s spare school dress after school. They owned StarCastles, played with Barbies in the bath, and rejected Lego in favour of sparkly things.

They also knew most of my belly dance moves better than I did. They certainly still remember a veil dance better than I do, despite me teaching it every year for about eight years.

I look at this photo of PreTeenPerson and I see someone who is totally happy being who they are.

The one man who did not approve was a casual lover of mine. He was from the science fiction scene, and to be honest, I’ve always thought that sf people should be a hell of a lot more tolerant of difference, seeing how they absolutely groove to a cool alien species on tv, in a movie, or in a book, and super-active in bringing about the future they want a la Star Trek and The Fifth Sacred Thing, rather than Terminator, or The Hunger Games.

Anyway, he turned up at the door, all in black, as was their wont, and made a long ‘hmmmm’ sound when they spied PreTeenPerson. I swept them away from the door.

“What’s going on there?” he asked.

“Listen, that’s my son. He was here before you. This is my son, my house, my life. If any of that freaks you out, leave. Because in this house, PreTeenPerson is cool. Oh, and we love the Spice Girls, too. And I know what you think of them.”

So, he turned around, gave one regretful look at my bedroom, off to the side, and left. No great loss. He wasn’t even a good fuck.

And yes, to this day, this is my offspring, this is my house, this is my life. If you have a problem with autism, intellectual impairment, non-verbality, hearing impairment, non-binary identity, or interesting clothing selections, there’s the door. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.

The Daily Blog experiment – bucket list item

What to write about today?

Well, we had an NDIS(National Disability Insurance Scheme) meeting with our NDIS coordinator, and a lady from My Second Home, a housing supplier, to do with my offspring ThirtiesPerson. Anything to do with anything like this, I get tremendously triggered. Years and years of awful Centrelink(social security) meetings about disability stuff, employment, and the right to survive in Australia. Years of drama with NDIS funding. Disability, disability this, disability that. Pfft. Nah, one paragragh is all that deserves.

I could write about Couples Counselling. I had an individual session today, and bubbled over with anger that has little to do with PizzaBoy and everything to do with growing up an undiagnosed, underrated, underestimated, mostly ignored neurodiverse, smart girl in the 60-70’s. But that’s stuff that I’m not ready to share.

So, bucket list items it is. One of my bucket list items is swimming with whales in Tonga. My term deposit is coming due soon, with interest on it. I looked at the interest. The responsible mother/carer/guardian/wife would reinvent that wad and be grateful that my nest egg is growing. That I’m a white woman in a first world country that values white, and I’m very comfortable as a near-Boomer. Thanks Mum for the inheritance. Thanks PB for making life financially easier for me, or I’d have none of that money left by now.

But….there are other parts to me than mother/wife/carer/guardian/near Boomer. There is a curious black cat who wants to be a hippie and travel and smell of jasmine and experiences.

I emailed our pet travel agent TallThinYogini and asked if my interest was enough to get me to Tonga, accommodated, fed, swimming with whales, and home again.

I’ve discovered a blog and possible travel website that detailed everything to do with this, so I quoted large chunks of it at TallThinYogini and gave her likely dates.

Judging by the prices quoted for the swimming(it’s Tonga’s main form of income), my interest might not be enough for everything. But surely there’s something wonderful I could do. It might not cover PizzaBoy and I going to Monkey Mia to do the volunteer dolphin programme.

But it would be enough for me to have some time away from everyone and everything in Byron Bay, off season. And judging by today’s therapy session, I need that time away to decompress myself. I am not a very good full-time mother/carer/guardian/wife/housewife/little brown sparrow/responsible adult. Sometimes my hippie trippie self needs new age wankerism for a couple of of weeks, when I start thinking that Circus Skills is a perfectly good university course, and that full-time surfing and weed smoking is ‘well, whatever mate, you do you’, rather than ‘ffs, get a job, or create one’.

Anyway, the research ball is now in TTY’s hands, and I await her response.

And yes, I know, extreme privilege right here, right now.

The Daily Blog experiment- hard study

I’m halfway through the generative writing workshop Season of the Wolf, with Carina Bissett and her Storied Imaginarium.

We workshopped last Friday, so it’s reading week this week. Carina always provides LOTS of reading. Call it reading, study, fueling the genius loci who lives in the walls.

I’m ensconced on the couch, iPad in hand, following links to read stories for the module on The Robber Bridegroom and Medical Bias.

ThirtiesPerson has chosen to sit near me. While I valiantly try to concentrate on The Maiden Thief by Melissa Mall, TP is trying to crack my finger knuckles. They don’t crack easily. I don’t crack them habitually, having been told as a teen that I’d get arthritis if I kept doing it. TP loves cracking their joints, and knows I’ll make a grimacing fuss when they do it.

They’re bored, as evidenced by them sitting downstairs with me. They’ve done the dishes, taken out the recycling, even put MY laundry on. It seems there’s no support worker coming today to take them for a walk.

I’ve asked them if they want to go out. No. That would interfere with being publicly bored.

So, while I study, I get the mostly fruitless effort of them trying to crack my finger joints.

I suspect this is not the ideal study vibe. I’ve read half of the story. Do I know what’s happening? No.

However, I get little enough interaction with TP, so I’ll take what I can get.

The Daily Blog experiment: making someone feel old

Over the past year, Vermont South Special School has been getting a glow-up, to use the modern vernacular. A ten million dollar grant, and the current principal squeezed every dollar like mad to get as much done for her charges as possible.

ThirtiesPerson attended this school 1998-2003(I think) before going on to Heatherwood Special High School, and graduating 2010. (Mental maths: 1992 + 18 = 2010, okay that should be right. 2010 – 6 = 2004. I think it all adds up to 6 years at VSSS and 6 at Heatherwood, 3 at Princess Elizabeth Junior School for the Deaf, and 3 at Taralye Early intervention centre)

I was coming back from shopping today and saw two of TP’s teachers from years gone by. I screeched to a halt and ran over to hug them. VSSS is 50 years old this year, and they had the celebration today. Cath McDonald(sports teacher) and Dee Tebbutt(TP’s first teacher) were there, and both were thrilled to see me. Now, Cath only retired last year, so she has seen TP on and off over the years. But Dee hasn’t seen TP for quite a long time. When I told her that they were now going on for 32, and that their older sister, ThirtiesGirl, was married, with three kids and living in Queensland, her face was very still for a moment, and I think she slumped a little. Way to go Satya, making someone feel old.

Me, I was feeling sprightly because I have seemingly lost a whole 1.5kg with very little effort on my part, and my new naturopathic regime is putting a spring in my step. I also picked up a bunch of laybys today and have new clothes.

I wished I’d had time to catch up with Dee properly, but she was on her way to somewhere, and so was I.

Anyway, thankyou for everything, Dee. You certainly got TP’s number early on, and worked out when they’d switched their hearing aids off. You got them on stage for the school concert, and when I asked you what TP did during Show and Tell, you said: “Oh, I get them up. They stand there, leaning on my chair, and look at everyone. Everyone looks back, they applaud, and then TP sits down.” That’s my non-verbal person.

The Daily Blog – papers, and knick knacks and journals, oh my!

It was on my To Do list and was scheduled for today. Clean my desk. Declutter it. Sort stuff out, make it a good working space again. Cluttered desk = squirrelly mind = crazy Satya.

It’s the Labour Day holiday here in Victoria, celebrating the efforts of the labour union movement, and the victory of the eight hour work day.

Now, I didn’t count on stupidly hot weather these past couple of days, making me good only for sitting on my bed in the air conditioning, and reading, but I made myself go to my desk in the front room, and contemplate the rubbish dump there.

I’m now back on my bed, armed with about 8 journals, and a whole lot of loose papers. All this needs to be gone through, and relevancies typed up. So far, I’ve found 3 poems worth keeping, and the notes from ThirtiesPerson’s astrology reading for their Saturn return last year.

I have a fair way to go before all the paperwork is dealt with, but honestly, what else am I doing with my day? A WILD WINTER SWAN by Gregory Maguire can wait.

I’ve also assembled my little totems for this year: a cardboard image of the Pokemon Ponyta, and a small dragon for Year of the Dragon. Now the small owl image I modelled out of Play-doh can be retired. Buried in the garden to return to the earth. That was 2023 energy. I’m 3 months into 2024, and am only just getting to washing the orange cloth I keep under my computer, and wiping down the table top. I use a yoga bolster under my feet. It’s probably about time it was dry cleaned, and popped out in the sun, after being sprayed thoroughly with Florida Water.

I told myself and the universe that this year would be:

Feb-May: take part in The Storied Imaginarium’s Season of the Wolf writing workshop.

June-September: work on a second draft of my dance memoir, once I’ve had a reader’s report from Carina Bissett, and followed her recommendations.

October-mid December: work on a collection of science fiction poems(I have about 40 first drafts).

So far, I’m about 3 weeks into Season of the Wolf, and still diddling about. The hyperfixation on burlesque dance isn’t helping the writing cause, but ADHD. What can I say. I’m getting dopamine from the dance classes, so I may as well run with the classes until the dopamine runs out. At least I can write and read on the tram to and from classes (50 minutes either way).

Well, enough of catching up on my daily blog entry. Back to the clutter mines.

The Daily blog experiment – retail therapy

Foof! Today’s been a real ride.

8am – read in my email that my poem A FROG REMEMBERS THE QUIET (a The Frog and The Princess retelling with a hint of Sleeping Beauty mash up) has been accepted for the March issue of Fairy Tale Magazine.

Victory dance, small sacrifice to the gods.

10am – necessary email to our Family Supports Coordinator asking what happens when our lead support worker for ThirtiesPerson goes on maternity leave in 4 weeks. I’m getting very tired of harrying this Coordinator’s arse every few weeks about something she should be on top of. Do your job, woman.

It’s a pity I can’t send pics of me wearing various offensive earrings.

10.15am-11.30am. Offerings of poems to various journals. Most of the time was spent styling to poems to various criteria: “Times New Roman 12 point, single spaced, include your name and a 50 word bio”; “Courier 14 point, double spaced, no identifying information”; “Arial 11 point, 1.5 spacing, one picture of a duck”.

11.45am. Lunch with PizzaBoy, where we discussed the prospect of digitising all our remaining cd’s, with a view to downsizing. This needed a full pot of chai. I was vibrating from caffeine just in time for….

1pm – counselling session. Ugh. Yeah, I am “a lot”.

2pm onwards – thrift shopping, afternoon tea that included chocolate cake, necessary earrings and lapel pins.

Sometimes, I just need a good long shop potter, and some frivolous things.

I came home and flopped.

The Daily Blog Experiment

Some of you know that I have an adult offspring called ThirtiesPerson. They are non-binary, non speaking, have a hearing impairment, a mild intellectual impairment, and autism. They are 31.

We just went shopping. Just when you think you know their interests (Pokémon, Godzilla, Heartstoppers, Thomas the Tank Engine and all things trains, jackets of all sorts, and white food), they go into Kmart and come out with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley squishmallows. I said they looked like boobs.

ThirtiesPerson is enjoying the mock horror and disgust I keep expressing at the sight of these things.

Their support team have been alerted to also be horrified and revolted.

The Spark Prize 2022

The Spark Prize is a writing prize offered by Hardie Grant, and RMIT for a new book of narrative non fiction. The prize is development of the idea, the book, coaching, and mentoring. $5000. Bienniel.

I have a number of things swirling in my head.

Foremost is: can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it, not ready, not ready, afraid, afraid, back off, next time.

Then: omg, detailed chapter summaries are required.

Then: The third draft of the ThirtiesPerson memoir is still a big amorphous mass.

Then: I’m a fragile wee thing, scarcely able to do anything these days, damaged, damaged.

Then: if not now, when?

Then: what if I get it, and can’t follow through?

Then: help. I need help!

Then: I’ve just read Lisa Curry’s memoir LISA, and I admire her focus and determination, and I’ve just said to several friends ‘shall we be the best we can be?’ And here I am, two days later, backing off from that due to fear, and doubt, two things Lisa doesn’t seem to possess, or if she does, they weren’t my take aways from the book.

Then: Feel the fear and do it anyway.

I’ve sat frozen on my bed for the past half an hour, consumed by fear and doubt, since reading the requirement of detailed chapter summaries, when my memoir doesn’t have any chapters, and is 135000 words of ‘this, then this, then this’. It is narrative non fiction in that it tells a story. I finally have my ending, after years of sitting with this.

I’ve eaten 1/3 of a big Freddo Frog as comfort food, want to eat the rest, then drive to the supermarket and buy All The Cadbury Chocolate I can carry.

About 8 months ago, in a secret facebook group for Australian women writers, I had quite the run in with women writers who questioned my right to write the story of a little boy in Western Australia with severe autism. His mother is a friend of mine, and wants her story told, wants his story told. There was a lot of screeching, and having a go at me for taking this story, instead of letting the lad tell his own story (which he is not capable of doing). It was suggested that someone on the spectrum should tell this story, at the very least. I pointed out that I am on the spectrum. “Okay then, don’t fuck it up!” I was told. Along with several women saying that they were ‘super triggered’ by this. I left the group. It’s not the first time this sort of pile on has happened in that group. It’s not a very good group for supporting neurodiverse women writers, it seems. (I’ve just read the memoir of the lead gang member. She’s a shitty writer. She can get fucked.)

Do I have the right to tell ThirtiesPerson’s story? Well, if I don’t, no one else will. And it’s my story as well.

It’s lunch time now. I am going to eat, and then do some yogic breathing, and fucking well make up 20 chapter headings after luncha and bloody well tackle this. Why not me? Lisa Curry, please send some of your muscle and grit my way.