I know it’s only November. I know that neither meteorological nor astronomical winter has started yet in the Northern Hemisphere, that the meanest part of autumn hasn’t hit and I shouldn’t complain, but there are snowflake lights hanging in the business district where I live and my Facebook feed is getting saturated with Old Timey Holiday events in every county questionably near Chicago, so I’m gonna bitch about the winter weather for a minute: it sucks.
Eventually the air is going to hurt my eyeballs. There will be those cathedral-hushed moments when the snow is falling and it’s 30 degrees outside with no real wind, just feather-clusters of snow intercepting and absorbing all the world’s sounds at night, but more often, it’s just going to hurt when I go outside and steal my good feelings.
So I’ve built sun nests. I didn’t realize it was what I was doing until I’d done it, but I have physically turned my life upside down and shaken it to see what falls out, and what’s landed is sunshine. We’re totally redoing our apartment, as if we just moved in (because my youngest daughter did…the outcome of a hideous-for-all custody fight that I will type about some other morning…), and now that the rooms are getting settled, I’m realizing that I’ve reset our home around the sun, and it’s good for us. (Sunshine, incidentally, is my youngest daughter’s middle name, and she, my little Leo, lives up to it. Boyfriend, also a summer cat, helps me remember how to communicate with her when she’s burning, as fire signs do. Me? I melt. I flow. Cancer sun with a Scorpio ascendant makes for the wateriest water you’ll know.) I have to have sun every day.
In the morning, I sit at the kitchen table by the window, the one that faces east, and I flood my brain with all its necessary chemicals: THC, CBD, extra serotonin, and caffeine. And I give myself water and vitamin D. Some quiet and some chatter.
In the afternoon, I move to the living room. It’s my new bedroom, because I want each of the three kids to have their own space to claim and learn to take care of and retreat to, and I like sleeping on couches. Last night, I looked at it and realized I’d covered it in warmth and glow.
This is apparently what a Cancer Mama living with two Leo children and learning how to have a “normal” relationship (defined as: neither living together nor making me pregnant on purpose or otherwise) with one does to living spaces.
As my babies and I start re-imagining our space and figuring out where we all fit in it, I love seeing all this warmth manifest before Real Winter. (Oh, and WINTER IS COMING, MOTHERFUCKERS–April 17, 2019, in case you don’t already know.)