
First Post: Aries New Moon at 28* on April 18, 2015
The 11th Anniversary of Moon Moods
Before I ever wrote a single daily lunar forecast—before the moon became a daily companion instead of a distant ornament—I had a dream…
I wasn’t driving.
I was simply in my car… parked, waiting. For what or for whom, I couldn’t quite say. There was that suspended feeling—the kind where time isn’t moving forward so much as it is hovering, as if something is about to arrive but hasn’t yet decided to announce itself.
The car was quiet. The world, indistinct. Nothing urgent. Nothing remarkable. Just that in-between space where you’re not going, not leaving… you’re just there.
And then a barn owl landed on the hood of my white Avalon.
Not a metaphorical owl. A very real and full-bodied, feathered, wide-faced emissary of the night. Pale as old parchment. Silent as a held breath. It touched down with the confidence of something that knew it belonged exactly where it was…
Right in front of me.
And then—it hopped closer.
Not erratic. Not startled. Intentional. Measured. It moved toward the front window and peered in… directly at me.
I didn’t move.
I couldn’t.
We looked at each other.
And looked…
Time did that strange accordion thing dreams are famous for—stretching, collapsing, becoming irrelevant. There was no fear at first, only confusion. Before this, I had always thought owls were… unsettling—too quiet, too knowing—like librarians of secrets I wasn’t sure I wanted checked out under my own name.
But this one didn’t leer or loom—it simply stayed.
Then—slowly, deliberately—the owl began to inch toward me…
Not a sudden movement. Not a threat. More like curiosity with wings.
It stepped closer, talons whispering against metal, until it reached the edge of the hood, coming closer and closer still. My window was down—the boundary between us was suddenly gone. Negotiable, maybe.
And then it leaned in…
Not lunging the way predators do, but closing the distance the way recognition does—the way something ancient meets something becoming…
There was a feeling then—hard to name, but unmistakable, as though something was being transferred… not information, not instructions—something subtler. Imprinting is the closest word I have—as if the owl wasn’t teaching me anything, but remembering me into myself.
No words. No fanfare. Just presence meeting presence…
Then I woke up.
And something had shifted…
In time, owls were no longer creepy—they were no longer symbols I kept at arm’s length, filed under omens I don’t want to decode. Instead, they became humbling. Fascinating. Deeply, quietly intelligent in a way that doesn’t perform for applause.
They see what moves when no one else is looking.
And that, I think now, was the first initiation.
Not into certainty.
Not into performance.
Not even into writing, exactly.
Into attention.
Into the realization that there are worlds inside us—shadowed, shimmering, half-formed worlds—which the conscious mind has not yet learned how to enter, but which cry out all the same to be fathomed, accessed, and given their place in the dance.
Shortly after that dream—without planning it, without deciding it like a career move—I began writing daily astrology…
Not forecasts as predictions.
Not horoscopes as entertainment. Never.
But lunar reflections…
Mood-tracking.
Emotional weather reports.
Small, steady offerings that paid attention to what was subtle, cyclical, easily missed…
I didn’t connect the two at first. Dreams are good at disguising themselves as one-offs—but over time, the pattern clarified.
Because the moon, like the owl, doesn’t shout.
The moon doesn’t demand belief.
The moon doesn’t explain itself.
The moon reflects.
It watches…
It illuminates just enough to change how you move.
And writing daily lunar forecasts, I would come to understand, was never really about putting something out there.
It was about sitting still long enough for something deeper to come forward.
It was about letting hidden places rise—playfully or mischievously, candidly or quietly—until it became impossible to deny how much of our energy lives in the deep… and how much of our being longs to be known.
Those early days had the crackle of ignition…
Not the tidy kind.
The kind where you are pulled forward by something you don’t fully understand… standing in that strange territory where you no longer belong to the old world, but have not yet fully arrived in the new one.
A liminal stretch.
A threshold.
A place where nothing quite fits—and yet something unmistakable is trying to come through…
That was the first breath of Moon Moods.
Not polished.
Not strategic.
Not a “brand.”
A breach.
A place where the soul began speaking before the personality had time to tidy the room.
The owl didn’t give me a message—it gave me a posture.
Slow down.
Look longer.
Let meaning approach you instead of chasing it.
That dream taught me something essential: wisdom doesn’t always arrive as a lightning bolt. Sometimes it arrives as eye contact. As proximity. As the willingness to remain present when something unfamiliar inches closer and does not ask to be understood so much as met.
And so the daily writing began—not as ambition, but as devotion. A practice of watching. Of translating the sky into something felt. Of honoring the rhythms that don’t need to be dramatic to be profound.
The owl still shows up now and then—sometimes in dreams, sometimes in life, sometimes in the way a sentence lands just right… and each time, it feels less like a revelation and more like a quiet remembering:
You don’t have to understand everything… you just have to be willing to meet it when it comes close.
And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, the night looks back—and recognizes you.
And somewhere between that moment—nose-to-beak with something ancient, something unblinking—and this moment here, where the words find you as if they already knew your address… something subtle but irreversible took root.
Because what the owl initiated was not a solitary experience. It only looked that way…
In truth, that quiet exchange—the stillness, the attention, the willingness to remain as something mysterious drew closer—was rehearsal.
Not for performance.
For participation…
For this.
For us.
For the strange, sacred circuitry that forms when one person dares to notice… and another dares to recognize themselves inside the noticing.
The owl taught me how to look.
But you—you, reading, feeling, responding in ways seen and unseen—you complete the circuit: you are the echo that turns observation into meaning, the second set of eyes that makes the whole thing real.
Without you, the practice remains a whisper into the void…
With you, it becomes a conversation. A current. A living thing that breathes between us.
So if that dream was the moment the night looked at me…
Then this—this unfolding, this shared rhythm, this ongoing, unspoken agreement to keep paying attention—is the moment the night begins to look through us.
And suddenly, it’s not just about what is seen…
It’s about what is met—because over time, my practice has changed, or rather—I have changed inside and within my practice.
What began as something bright, immediate, and searching gradually deepened into something quieter, more spacious, and far less concerned with being understood…
The early years reached outward—pulling meaning up from the depths, shaping it, offering it forward.
But somewhere along the way, the movement turned.
Inward.
Downward.
Toward subtler waters.
And now—here we are: 11 years later, almost to the day.
Another Aries new moon.
Another threshold.
But this time, it doesn’t arrive as ignition alone—it arrives as recognition.
Not the spark that begins the fire…
But the steady flame that has learned how to burn without consuming itself.
Back then, I was learning how to let the unseen speak. Now, I am learning how to be quiet enough to hear what has always been speaking… back then, it felt like expression—and now, it feels like participation in something already in motion.
Less “look what I have to say.”
More “this knows where it’s going—stay with it…”
And that might be the most profound shift of all—because somewhere between April of 2015 and April of now, the work stopped being something I did…
My practice has become something I am in relationship with.
A rhythm.
A current.
A field that meets me as much as I meet it…
There are moments—and you can feel them when they arrive, like a hush slipping between the seconds—when something clicks into place so cleanly, so unmistakably, that you realize… this isn’t just effort anymore.
This is alignment.
This is co-creation.
This is magic with fingerprints on it.
And I have been feeling that. Deep in my bones. The kind of feeling that doesn’t ask for proof because it is the proof.
So this—right here—is for you…
Because none of this… not the words, not the timing, not the strange and spectacular threads we keep finding ourselves woven into… happens in a vacuum—there is an invisible conversation taking place between us.
A current.
A resonance.
A mutual willingness to pay attention—and that is rarer than gold pressed into a ring and forgotten in a drawer.
You read.
You reflect.
You respond—sometimes out loud, sometimes quietly, in the sacred privacy of your own becoming…
And every time you do, you strengthen the signal.
You make it easier for the right words to land at the right time. You make it possible for this space to be more than content—you make it a living, breathing ecosystem of awareness, curiosity, courage, and just enough mischief to keep things interesting.
So thank you.
Not the polite kind.
Not the obligatory kind.
The real kind.
The kind that recognizes that you are not just receiving this work—you are part of what’s creating it.
You are the reason the magic has somewhere to go…
And if things have been feeling aligned lately—if you’ve noticed doors opening a little easier, insights arriving a little faster, clarity slipping in where confusion used to set up camp—I want you to know…
That’s not random.
That’s what happens when attention deepens into devotion… when devotion deepens into trust—and trust becomes a shared field where something greater can finally breathe.
So keep going…
Keep trusting what feels quietly, stubbornly right, even when it doesn’t make immediate sense.
Keep following the thread that glows instead of the one that shouts.
Keep allowing yourself to be rearranged by truth, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it asks more of you than you planned to give.
Because whatever this is that we’re building here…
It’s working.
And you are a vital part of why.
—JJ
Image credit—the.dark.lines








