Of Ancestral Healing and The call of New Horizons.
Moola invites root excavation—what karmic entanglements need release?
Purva Ashadha offers renewal through emotional truth—what stories are ready to be rewritten?
Jupiter’s rise in Gemini supports dialogue with ancestral wisdom—through ritual, remembrance, and breath. — the day is 9th of July.
Veera hadn’t planned for a breakdown.
It came on an ordinary morning, June 14th, with the sun pouring through the windows like it always did. But something cracked. Her voice, once steady, curled into sobs — long, jagged, and ancient. She told herself it was just another argument with her mother, but her bones knew better. This grief didn’t belong solely to her.
It was older. Older than language. Older than logic.
She dialed the number with trembling hands and no words. When the call connected, she didn’t ask for therapy. She asked to be found.
For twenty minutes, Veera ranted. Not in rage — but in reverberation. The sound of generations crackling through her throat.
“I’m not good enough,” she whispered, again and again, as if her body were trying to expel a curse cast long before she was born.
At first, the blame landed on an aunt. Then her mother. But beneath her mother, she found a lineage — women with bent backs and voices swallowed by time. Women who had learned to survive by becoming smaller.
That’s when the child appeared.
Two and a half, wide-eyed, cloaked in silence. Standing in a room Veera hadn’t remembered until now. The walls pulsed with dolls — suspended from invisible cords. Not toys, but witnesses. Twisted. Watching. Accusing.
Each doll was a lie she had swallowed to be loved. Every time she smiled through pain or became what others needed her to be, a new one went up.
Her adult self stood beside the child now. Not to rescue — but to witness.
She set the dolls on fire. One by one. No chant. No ritual. Just combustion. Because some griefs need to burn, not be blessed.
And then — the air shifted.
From the smoke, six women emerged.
They didn’t enter. They arrived — because they had always been there.
Her maternal grandmother. Two of her grandmother’s sisters. Her paternal grandmother. A surrogate mother. And her own mother — now quiet, no longer towering.
They didn’t scold. They told stories.
One had been disrespected by her kin.
Another shamed for loving animals more than people.
Another silenced after being called a liar.
They didn’t offer advice. They whispered blessings — tucked in the folds of old saris, woven into lullabies never sung aloud.
“Love yourself,” one said.
“Educate yourself,” said another.
“Be kind,” whispered a third.
And it wasn’t guidance. It was remembrance.
These women had lived lives half-spoken. And now, through Veera, they found their tongue.
Outside, the season stirred. Less than a moon-cycle remained until July 9th — the day astrologers would name the Call of New Horizon. The cosmos itself aligned. Jupiter rose in Gemini — the sign of duality and dialogue. Moola prepared to pass the torch to Purva Ashadha — from root excavation to emotional truth.
The sky echoed her healing.
In the quiet after the fire, another figure emerged. A family friend. Rigid. Moralistic. A keeper of silence. But he wasn’t just a man — he was a symbol. A gatekeeper of inherited shame. Of orthodoxy dressed as safety. He had policed stories, protected the silence.
Veera named him. Then released him into the river — not metaphorical, but real. A river inside her imagination, wide and silver with sorrow.
She called it the River of Release — and into it she let go:
- Body shame.
- Age shame.
- The quiet ache of never belonging.
- The bruises of being too much and not enough.
And then, without theatrics, she whispered:
“I am the prayer fulfilled.”
Not as a declaration, but as a remembering.
Because healing did not arrive as light. It arrived as a return — to breath, to fire, to roots.
Her ancestors did not need altars.
They had her voice.
They had her grief.
They had her flame.
On July 9th, there would be no ceremony. No performance. Veera would mark the day with silence — pressing her bare feet to the earth, listening to the thrum beneath. Because ancestral healing isn’t abstract. It is embodied. It moves through sobs and symbols and stars.
Veera walked out of that room not lighter — but clearer.
And behind her, the river kept flowing.
✍🏽 A Reflection
We are not isolated flames. We are the smoke and spark of those who came before us. Their pain lives in our nervous systems, their shame in our speech, their unlived longings in our bodies. But so does their strength. Their love. Their wisdom.
This story is not just Veera’s — it is an invocation. A reminder that healing is not always pretty or polished. Sometimes it is raw, wordless, elemental. It asks us to listen, to burn, to speak what was once forbidden.
✨ If something in this story stirred you —
If you feel your ancestors humming behind your grief —
If you sense a river rising inside you too —
You are not alone.
💬 To explore these themes more deeply — through ancestral dialogue, symbolic ritual, or embodied storytelling — you’re warmly invited to reach out …Aatmayana. Let’s remember together.
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