death and unicorns

Nov 6

expansion beyond the realms of sense-making

This year has offered a curriculum of death and endings. Oh, the bounty of opportunities to engage with this material—to see the breaking down, to witness the false idols of what we held as true, to feel the ache of the collapse.

Our excavation of thought patterns, beliefs, and karmic lines has been rapid and intense. Personally, I’ve found hidden caverns in surprising places. I’ve untangled buried threads of individualism, effort, planning, and fear of fear.

Again and again, I remember: The pain isn’t in the release. The pain lives in the trying to hold on and the trying to make it make sense.

I’ve let that go too, the making sense, the ways I’ve tried and tied myself to this.

So much trying, we humans do.

We try and try and try to make sense of how we can make a good world for all beings.

Last month I wrote that “we don’t need another theory of change; we need expanded capacity to connect in a moment.”

Human capacity to connect requires an expanded experience of sense and sensing, beyond how our minds “make sense” of things.

The trees know this. The spiders know. The octopus in her den, she knows, too.

This is why I listen to the moon.

This is why I listen to children.

Children know the aliveness of everything. They sense beyond the limited beliefs of “sense” that adult humans have categorized as “real.”

Here we are, held in an embrace of the final two moon cycles of 2025. I hear the thrum and echo of a question:

What else will you let die and turn over to the soils?

What else is there? I ask.

This year has emptied me, puddled me, fallen me into raw and ravenous void.

What else do I have to offer?

I hear the reply before I’ve finished asking the question.

Give up your dreams and wishes, your visions and maps.
Untether all ties to what you see and hope for the future.
Feel the essence of love within them and blow everything out and away.
They are seeds. They aren’t yours. And they aren’t for holding.

When I receive guidance, I listen. I’ve learned to especially listen when it doesn’t “make sense.”

So it is. I gathered in my mind the crystal-clear visions of what I want for the world—each detail of dream held in an orb of dandelion—and I blew.

I blew and I let it go… what I want and have been working towards… what I hold dear and pray for… I gave it over to the soils under the Taurus Full Moon.

We don’t have to live in an either-or story.

We can look at the mess AND see the beauty. We can take action to feed our neighbors AND attune to abundance. We can read the reports and headlines AND follow the maps of sky. We can scream a rant AND hum with the bees.

We can see visions for a more beautiful world AND let them go.

How we see things now, our dreams and what we long for, they aren’t for holding or following. They wish for us to give them to the wind and let the imprints of their frequency be carried away.

Why? It “makes sense” to turn over limiting thought patterns, but why the goodness of dreams?

Here’s what I hear: Any notion of past, future, ancient, dream, ache, or wish—when held and tethered too tight to “sense making” and directional orientation—clutters the pathways, clogs the portals, densifies the lightscape.

We need to hold less. We need to be less.

Our remembering and reimagining lives in our attunement to the RE… the fall back, the dissolve, the giving up and over, the death.

We are imaginal waters.

We are beyond what we can see or understand.

We are spirals of root and rainbow, mountain and sand.

We are carried and what we carry matters.

The whales know this. The snails and seahorses know. The unicorn who appears as a violet shimmer in your third eye knows too, and is inviting you—all of us—to expand our capacity to sense what’s real and alive.

Unicorns aren’t rare.

Rare is a story of scarcity that holds magic at a distance and weaves luck into cloaks of wealth for a few.

Uni is one and one is many.

Cornus is horn and horn is vessel.

From one horn is plenty.

Do you hear the galloping in the pulse of your waters?

We are vessels of imaginal love.

Through death, we are unicorns.

As a yellow leaf falling, Melissa