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Hi. This letter begins with the eclipse and Neptune entering Aries, and it’s about what my watercolor practice continues to reveal. It’s about how water—through paint, ritual, and presence—draws memory to the surface. How she holds me when the world feels too heavy. How grief, art, and elemental connection remind me that we’re meant to be held by something more significant than chaos.
That eclipse—Neptune moving into Aries—was wild. I felt subterranean grief rise up, ancient and vast—bone-aching, gut-wrenching, purging grief.
Grief buried so deep it moved through the marrow.
That same day, my moon arrived. And as if that weren’t enough, I was taken down by a nasty cold. All I wanted was to curl up in bed and cry. But then, the demands of full-time motherhood called me back. So I did the next best thing. I drew a bath. I asked the boys to go out and give me space. I lit a candle. Poured in salts. Made a cup of hot chocolate. And let myself feel it all.
And here is what happened next:
As I soaked, the heat wrapped around me like a soft animal. My breath slowed. The water held me the way I longed to be held, without needing anything in return. I didn’t receive answers, not exactly. But something loosened. The grief shifted from a sharp edge to a deep hum. I remembered that the earth grieves, too. That maybe what I was feeling wasn’t mine alone, but the collective ache of a world in transition, of ancestors, of the land.
Then, that night, after my son was asleep, I began painting. This has become my quiet ritual. Each night, I make something with my hands—a practice of care that nourishes me and tends to my son and the collective, too.
It’s my protest. A defiance. A time to lay down the weight of the world’s demands. To turn away from the noise of algorithms and endless scrolls. To return to presence. To experimentation. To awareness. To the shape of who I really am.
I have been following this ritual for many months now. During that time, I have come into a powerful communion with the elements, most of all water. Since working with watercolors, I begin each session with a prayer, though perhaps it’s more of a conversation—a listening. I greet the water, then begin.
I don’t strive, I don’t correct, I let the mistakes belong, I let imperfection breathe, and I let urgency soften into unfolding.
And then, some hours later, as I curled up next to my son, came a dream.
A dream that opened a door to a memory, one I had forgotten. Or rather, one that had been tucked away held beneath the weight of war trauma and the layers of PTSD.
As I’ve shared before, painting with watercolors has become a quiet way to reclaim my memory. The act of working with water, its fluidity and surrender, seems to loosen the grip of time and allow forgotten things to rise to the surface. And now, with Neptune in Aries, it felt as though the very cosmos had charged the moment with energy—giving space for what had long been hidden.
The memory returned with striking clarity. The origin. The wound. The pain that I have carried for over thirty years. It resurfaced.
The next few days unfolded like a psychedelic portal. It was as though I could see and feel everything that ever was, is, and will be. A flood of sensation, like DMT running through my veins; chaos and bliss, sharp edges and creativity, purging and grounding all at once. It was overwhelming, yet strangely, it felt like a return to something deep and old.
The water is helping me remember. And in times like these—when genocides are controversial, when wealth fuels war instead of care, when oligarchs rule, and the murder of children is justified, when machines mimic what was once sacred—I ask you to remember, too. Remember who you are. Remember what you know.
Remember that surrender is not just letting go; it’s allowing yourself to be held.
It’s resisting the pull to harden and, instead, trusting in the soft power that comes from being held by something greater than the chaos.
The path forward is not found in pushing or gripping tightly. It’s in allowing ourselves to be held by the community and trying to gather with those we love and wish to know. Investing in the artists, makers, healers, and local businesses nurtures the health of our collective spirit and the well-being of the land.
Each time I find myself in the midst of a protest, my body settles into the earth. I remember who I am, I remember what I stand for. In the presence of those who march toward a common vision, I feel the power of belonging. Each time I create, I honor the land and all the spirits who dwell within it. I offer a prayer with my hands that reaches back to those who walked before and forward to those who will follow. Each time I choose to invest in an artist or a local bookstore to turn away from those whose wealth comes at the cost of life, I hear the voices of other-than-human kin in my dreams.
Each aligned action we take, no matter how small, sends ripples into the world.
When we gather, create, and invest in each other, we shape the future—just as rivers carve landscapes and reshape the earth.
Because the shape of us, the shape of all things, is water.
With love,
Vanja
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Reading this suddenly I remember a dream from last night in which I watch my daughter waterpaint using so much water the paint turns into a small pool. I let her go her way, I do not interfere.
Thank you for sharing, loving it ♡
You inspire me to start a nightly painting practice too… and also to connect with watercolor again! I also love that you included the Tidekeeper into your article. Can‘t wait to have her here with us 💜🙏🏻 Thanks for your creativity, your writing, your art. Inspiring me always.