New Moon Energy

If there is one great thing about living in Austin, it’s that we’re blessed with an abundance of talented musicians. Any day of the week in the Live Music Capital of the World, you can find all kinds of performances in all kinds of venues—from the traditional to the unusual. Often, they are very good. Sometimes they’re life-affirming, soul-healing even.

Last Monday, Hubs and I attended a sound healing session with longtime Austin violinist Will Taylor on the occasion of the new moon. Will has been in the local music scene for at least as long as I’ve been in Austin, which is now almost 30 years. For the last five, he’s been leading concert-goers on walks in the woods and guided meditations while he plays in area parks. I’ve been trying to catch one of these sessions for months now, but the stars just hadn’t aligned, so I was glad when we could finally make one. Luckily, it also coincided with one of those unseasonably warm, blue sky days in February that gave way to a perfect night.

Rather than venturing to a large metropolitan park, where these sessions are often held, Hubs and I found ourselves under a few oaks on an undeveloped block surrounded by original Craftsman bungalows and modern masterpieces/monstrosities (depending on your perspective). It was just a few blocks away from one of the city’s hippest entertainment districts.

We joined a loose circle with perhaps 10 others, including one of my oldest friends. Will introduced a guitarist named John who was going to help him perform some of the songs from Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon.”

Will handed out cards with an icebreaker question for each of us and explained the format for the evening. Since this was the new moon in Pisces, we were encouraged to clear stuck energy and limiting beliefs.

“What are you learning over and over again?” This was my question. I read it out loud to the group and then paused for a beat before saying my answer.

“I am loved.” 

The love that I have from those around me, particularly my husband and my children, is what sustains me. And there was a time I didn’t feel loved, probably because I didn’t feel worthy of love. That time is gone, but I still need the reminders every now and again. 

After introductions, we got up and walked a few blocks down toward a creek. In the shuffle of feet, I started sifting back through my memories of the neighborhood. I had always loved it. I had never lived here, but I had routinely ventured through it on the way to and from work, if traffic was bad. Or if I had a few minutes extra minutes, I would often wander through it just to look at the houses.

“Are we near the pool?” my friend whispered to me. We were supposed to be walking in silence.

I was confused for a moment. I hadn’t remembered a pool in this neighborhood until she said it, and then memories came flooding back. I had been at the pool in this neighborhood.  

We walked down to the creek under a low bridge that had water running through it and stopped. The bright lights from what was perhaps a park reflected on running water inside the tunnel, creating a show of sorts that danced on the concrete above us. Will and John began to play, and the sound of their notes joined the rush of the water inside the underpass in an unlikely symphony, hypnotic all the same. I let my thoughts wander.

I had been 39 weeks pregnant when my youngest daughter turned breech. Until that point, I had been set on a VBAC, which had prompted a polite argument with my gynecologist every time I went for my checkup. I had not been swayed until then. She scheduled my c-section, and in the meantime, I hoped my little one might change her mind. I didn’t want to do anything risky or invasive to turn her so late in my pregnancy, but I had read that underwater handstands sometimes did the trick. So on my lunch hour from work, I drove to the pool in this neighborhood. 

I had no idea where the pool stood now in relation to the underpass. I wasn’t quite sure where I was, dancing between here and there in the lull of the music. I was only vaguely aware of the passing time or the people around me. At times, I could feel my husband’s hand on mine or see my friend’s face in the shadows, but I was not totally with them. I was flowing like the water through the creek beside me and watching its dance in the reflection above me. I could see myself and my swollen belly in the cool water of a spring day, diving down to touch the bottom of the pool and kick my legs up as far as they would go, trying to hold them as long as I could and then doing it again and again and again. 

I came back to the present with tears streaming down my face. I was thankful for the dark, because showing emotion still doesn’t come easy for me. But I was also filled with overwhelming gratitude for my child and my friend, who had unknowingly gifted this memory back to me. My first marriage had been hard, and so much of what I remember now are the bad times. This was a moment of love for my unborn child. And that love has grown with time as she becomes this strong, beautiful young woman with heartfelt beliefs, mischievous eyes that sometimes gives away more than she wants to and a wicked sense of humor. 

This wasn’t the end of the evening. It was really just a magical beginning. Will led us out of the underpass along a walking path that opened into a park. We settled under a blanket of centuries-old oaks, whose branches eventually gave way to stars. Will invited us to settle in and lay back if we wanted to, and then he led us through some breath work and meditation and eventually more songs.

It was unsettling at first. The sounds of city life seemed to come from everywhere. Evening runners jogged by … cars sped past … planes flew overhead. But gradually, as I focused more and more on my breath, they faded into the periphery. I fixed my gaze on Orion at 2 o’clock, At first, my eyes moved between the swaying tree branches and the stars, taking in mighty Orion, but eventually my eyes landed across the sky on one bright star. The more I stared at it, the more I could see all around it were other faint stars. They would come and go from my gaze, pulsating into and out of existence. If I looked closely enough and waited, they would show themselves again. I took great comfort in this.