Doctor Who is one of those shows that, for me, I watch to feel comfort.
Last night, after a particularly emotionally trying day, I put on my favorite show. My favorite doctors are Eccleston, Tennant (be still my heart), and Matt Smith (be still my heart a second time). I watched a few Capaldi episodes and have yet to watch any Jodi Whittaker episodes, but for me, these seasons are like a fleece afghan and a warm cup of coffee.
Last night after putting the boys down for bed, I curled up in my own and turned on the TV. I’ve been finishing up all of Tennant’s episodes over the last couple weeks, and I looked forward to allowing myself to fully immerse in the 11th doctor. Except, I wasn’t expecting to have such a profound emotional response to it like I did.
Season five Episode 1 (Y’all, spoilers), the Tardis comes hurling through London and crash lands into Amelia Pond’s front yard. Amelia has just prayed to Santa to send someone, anyone, to help her fix the scary crack in her wall.
What follows is a soaking wet doctor climbing out of the Tardis, (because library in the swimming pool, obviously) furiously (and quite humorously) trying to figure out what his new body is craving. Apples. Yogurt. Bacon. Beans. Bread and butter. And finally, fish fingers and custard.
As I was watching the first few minutes, I got that glowy, warm feeling. My body was covered in the fleece afghan of watching the Doctor and Amelia together. You know that feeling, that you’re so full of love and warmth and gratitude that you might just burst. The warm, glowy feeling might just crack you right open. And then, I did crack open.
Watching Amelia sitting there in her front yard, beaming, with her coat and hat and sitting on top of a newly packed suitcase, waiting for her raggedy Doctor to come right back, so he could take her on star-filled adventures in the sky. Just five minutes, he promised. Just five.
And she sat, waiting for her raggedy Doctor, who doesn’t come back for ten years.
I watched her, and I cried. I cried for all the times I’ve sat, waiting, for my own raggedy doctor that never came. I cried for my broken family. I cried for my broken heart. I cried for all the times I’ve sat waiting, trying to be patient.
I haven’t quite figured it all out (it’s why I’m writing this post, after all), but I texted a friend and admitted that I must be going through some serious emotional shit. A new moon on Sunday plus it’s Scorpio season coupled with another Mercury retrograde on Thursday and the holidays are right around the corner and I’d like to just fast-forward right on into January, thanks.
Another dear friend posted yesterday that “transformation is afoot.”
Another astrology source I read regularly claims this New Moon in Scorpio is all about embracing the unknown, which, if you know me, you know that I hate. But, a new moon is an opportunity to start over, which I do appreciate.
I’ve been hanging onto all sorts of negative shit, things that are holding be back, toxic habits, and unhealthy thought patterns.
I invite something better.