Everything ugly sticks out before my flow with the waxing moon and I seek refuge.
That is the state of PMS.
I want to be guarded from the ugly. And soothed gently with love and words of comfort that argue my darkness my insanity. That seems too much to ask. So I should simply run and hide with my fear and demons.
Then I will raise my head in a few days with cramps keeping me grounded and earthly as can be, my heavy flow that now as I age dictates staying inside while the moon is full.
Seems the wisdom of age is tempered with the bodies frailties, does it not?
After the week ends…I am fierce, positive and can do anything, especially love—and make babies.
Maybe not perfect ones anymore.
This is the ebb and flow of my body, as perfect as God made the design, I must learn to embrace all that it is.
Poem written by Starr
“To know how to grow old is the master-work of wisdom, and one of the most difficult chapters in the great art of living.”
— Henri Amiel
