My feet sighed into the sand as I gulped salty ocean air. Intentionally hyperventilating had an effect like rubbing a cool salve on a festered wound. I trudged quickly, trying to keep pace with friends who walked the flat plane of concrete next to Riis beach. The sun melted on the opposite horizon like a pink popsicle and a kid with a crimson chin who doesn't care. Our bags collapsed in a soundless slump, reminding me of teenagers who need love but are too afraid to say it. Looking out, Tess was already tossing herself in the tantrum of waves. I stripped and bolted into high tide. A baby bird back to its nest after first flight. Cold. My head, as if of its own accord, ducked into an oncoming wave like a bull to a red flag. I thrashed there till the tide tucked me down into its quilt of cool victory.

Cancer is pre-verbal. Feeling-replete. Too timid to talk. Half clear. Old wounds first kisses seven breakups new wounds are really ancient wounds re-turning over until we heal our relationship to our relationships. This week gives us a chance. To tear off rotting bandages, lance the boil and let it gush. This week offers opportunities to reparent. The Mother of Cups wrings a clean cloth over lesions and illusions while the Father holds the bowl under injuries, contains the infection to prevent contagion. And still the child tears up at every tear, feels felt by babies corners.

This week it’s okay to be a kid but it’s time to play doctor. Triage your relationships and pinpoint yourself the priority. The Father, quiet but kind, prescribes kindness to the child who cares but can’t explain. Honor your insecurities and engage artistic expression of unripe auras. The Mother’s wing is the guiding wave of our internal world, a beckoning hand to help fathom in our feels. She encourages us to sit back, respect rest, uncover the root to recover the growth. Her compassion is ever-enduring, protective of the pieces of ourselves that are not yet ready to speak.