Shedding Skins and Waiting for the Fire Horse
As the Year of the Snake slithers quietly offstage, I find myself emerging from my first-ever bout of COVID feeling very much like I’ve been left on a warm rock to dry out — peeled, tender, and oddly shiny. If the Snake is about shedding skins, then I appear to have taken that instruction very literally. feeling like I’ve taken the zodiac memo very seriously.
Shedding skin? Check.
Plans dissolved? Also check.
Slightly bewildered but oddly reflective? Absolutely.
It’s no wonder that I’m looking forward to welcoming the Year of the Fire Horse (火馬) in mid February. For those unfamiliar with the Fire Horse’s reputation: it’s bold, impulsive, energetic, and not exactly known for waiting patiently while others catch up. Which I find mildly amusing, given that most of my carefully imagined “new year, new momentum” plans are currently on hold, stacked neatly next to a pile of unopened boxes and a conspicuous absence of sufficient bookcases.
Plans ? : Pending Further Lunar Advice
Rather than forcing forward motion while my energy is still re-calibrating, I’ve decided to take a more celestial approach. All my previous plans are provisionally shelved (mentally — not physically, obviously) until the full moon, when they will be reviewed, revised, or ceremoniously discarded.
This feels sensible. Also slightly theatrical.
If you’re going to pause your life, you may as well do it with lunar oversight. And of course the following New Moon is the start of the Lunar New Year, so perfect for new intentions and new starts!
In the meantime, I consulted the Tarot for guidance on this strange in-between phase — part recovery, part chrysalis, part hermit, part spiritual waiting room.
The cards for this healing limbo produced the Page of Cups, The Hierophant, and Seven of Pentacles. Translation: be gentle, return to what you know, and stop poking the soil to see if anything’s growing. Apparently, patience is still a lesson.
Message received. Loudly. Repeatedly.
The Great Bookcase Stalemate
Unpacking, meanwhile, has hit a natural bottleneck. I have boxes of books. I do not have lots of bookcases. It was pointed out to me (somewhat unhelpfully) that the move was because we are downsizing. This has created a kind of philosophical impasse: until the shelves arrive, knowledge itself remains in limbo.
Yet, in rummaging through boxes, I’ve found myself inexplicably drawn back to my old Japanese textbooks. Possibly inspired by the knowledge that a grandson is about to start learning Japanese at the high school I did my very first teaching round at. Out they came, slightly foxed, faintly nostalgic, still politely demanding effort.
So now, instead of aggressively organizing my life, I’m reacquainting myself with kanji — tracing characters, marveling at how some things remain lodged in the body even when the conscious mind insists they’re long forgotten.
It feels very Snake-to-Horse appropriate: shedding the old skin, then rediscovering what was always there underneath.
Not Quite Galloping — And That’s Okay
If the Fire Horse is about momentum, courage, and leaping forward, then perhaps this early part of the year is about learning how to mount up again — slowly, with care, preferably without falling off in public.
Healing, after all, isn’t a dramatic sprint. It’s more like pottering around in slippers, consulting oracles, waiting for deliveries, and trusting that something is quietly knitting or in my case, crocheting itself back together.
So here I am: plans paused, skin shed, cards laid, kanji re-emerging, and the Fire Horse stamping patiently outside. It’s not the dramatic Fire Horse gallop I imagined — more a slow stretch, a deep breath, and a quiet rebuilding of strength. And perhaps that’s about building my resilience: not charging ahead at full speed, but knowing when to pause, tend the ground, and trust that growth is happening.