February beckons January: “Wanna dance?”
January kicks down the door. February stands in the doorway, swaying softly, pulsing drums , sentinels that decide what is allowed inside. And what will never be placed outside again.
It is the shortest month, which is not a weakness. It is a discipline. Twenty eight days to tell the truth. Twenty eight days to feel the body. Twenty eight days to see what fits and what does not. Unless, of course time bends and births a leap day. Ah February, you memory of memories, cradle of community laden in beneath the sea waters wealth. Olokun, much? Ashe.
This full moon arrives on the first of the month, claiming monies due like a landlord. Dispersing memories due like a Matriarch. Fortifying faith like a Father. Yep, this is the way, and the footing corrects, tempo like a mean two-step on a barn raising in Estil, South Carolina. Baba Birdie, Ibae.
February is not a month for buildup. It is a month for reception and release. You receive what is real. You release what was never sustainable. February is tantric power, pulsing, folding you into worlds endless, holding you before release. I said what I said. Iya Ola Mae Ibae. Iya Bert Ibae. Iya Caldora Ibae.
I was born on a waning gibbous moon in February, an Aquarius honey-moon baby conceived in a waterfall in Ocho Rios, Jamaica. First born. Daughter of a Geechee Jawn virgin like Mary and an alchemist like Solomon of Bogalusa, Louisiana. The Veil was thin when I was born, which explains a lot about how I vision. Rose colored lens but verify the frame, dahling.
I was ushered into containment upon expansion, and learned early that capacity comes from the strength of the vessel, not the volume of the noise. That lesson has followed me everywhere.
From Philadelphia streets to Louisiana pilgrimages. From Geechee blood memory to Gotham boardrooms. From row restaurant kitchens to lectures on campus. From marriage to divorce. From learning two favored sons to holding my first graced grandson. From founding businesses to walking away from them. From being held not quite right, to remembering how to hold myself just fine, and that I am always held, Divinely.
I am favored. I get to be just about every woman, like Matriarch Chaka Khan summoned: Sister. Neighbor. Auntie. Niece. Granddaughter. Mother. Grandmother. Friend. Employee. Founder. Dreamer. Doer. Wife. Divorcee. Girlfriend. Single. A February woman, sovereign.
Multiplying joy, walking alone for now, tracking ancient maps home to myself. The navigation is impossible without trusted guides, community, conjuring destinies lived fully.
February is this life. A sovereign way. A communal remembrance. A place where our little lights shine, how big a thing to do together, this trust.
This month holds births, deaths, dreams, actions, in the all-womb. A gathering, people are arriving. A nurturing, people are resting. Some things are ending. Some things are not ready to be named yet. This is not confusion. This is choreography. Syncopated. You feel it too, right? Drops the needle, “Pearls” by Sade undulates through shared knowing.
We start February with a full moon, a moment of illumination that does not ask us to act. It asks us to notice. What is too tight. What is too loose. What is being forced. What is finally ready to be set down.
Later in the month, the fire horse arrives, all heat and movement and appetite. And just after that, eclipses begin to rearrange what we thought was fixed. February is the inhale before a long sentence. It is not the time to rush the words.
It is also Black History Month, which is an absurd container for the knowing that birthed the world before racial construct, the all-womb cradled in Eve, resident of Africa, mother of all true.
Trying to compress that into the coldest month of the year is madness. But Eve’s kin know something about producing life, full-stop, swaying at the doorway, pulsating. When the bass hits…absolutely absorbed in its grip, restraint before the first move.
Restraint is not silence. It is precision. It is knowing when to speak and when to hold. It is choosing the shape of the container so what matters does not spill everywhere and disappear.
Some mistake urgency for importance. Noise for impact. Burnout for devotion. February is not impressed by any of that.
February is impressed by regulation. By breath that returns to the body. By joy that does not need witnesses. By laughter that breaks the spell of grind culture. By harmony, peace of mind, and caring made real.
There is humor in February, if you have the crow’s memory and the Ancestors wit. It is the humor that wrings the tears from a cousin’s eyes after three too many “remember that time?” full-belly laughs shakes joy aloose. The humor of knowing. Matt 5:8. Saint Grandma Dot Ibae.
This month is not asking you to become someone new. It is asking you be you, where you are, fully.
“Wanna dance?”
That question applies to everything. Your works. Your energy. Your stories. Your anger. Your tenderness. Your ambition. Your grief. Your joy. Your doubts. You.
February teaches us that capacity expands when the container is honest. When boundaries are clear. When we stop pretending we can carry what was never ours to begin with. When we honor the dance.
Later this month, I will be in conversation, a literary salsa if you will, with a doula.
Someone who understands how to hold what is arriving and what is leaving at the same time. Cadence matters.
Maybe, life is a ring shout where we give birth to stories we sometimes do not tell, but that always do tell themselves. A thought.
For now, let the full moon do what it does best. Illuminate. Release. Return you to your own rhythm.
February does not need you to hurry.
It needs you to remember. Do you? Do you remember how to dance too?
To Joy,
Me
