When Day the Light Changed
June 5. Today would have been my mother’s 90th birthday.
She died at 53 from alcoholism, and over the years June 5 has arrived in different ways. Some years I have felt her presence strongly. Other years the day has passed almost unnoticed. This year, however, felt different from the moment I opened my eyes.
Yesterday, crews arrived behind my house and began removing many of the trees that have framed my backyard view for years. I was surprised by how emotional it felt. Intellectually, I understood what was happening. Emotionally, I hated it.
I found myself standing at the window watching them pull trees from the earth, one after another. At one point I left the house for several hours because I didn’t want to witness it anymore, but when I returned they were still working. The destruction continued long into the afternoon.
What struck me most was not the loss of the trees themselves, although I loved them. It was the feeling of helplessness. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t change it. I could only watch.
More than once I found myself wondering why I had to be here for it.
This morning I woke earlier than usual because the landscape had changed overnight. More light poured through my bedroom window than ever before, and the birds that normally wake me each morning were silent.
The absence was palpable.
As I moved through the morning, it occurred to me what day it was.
June 5.
My mother’s birthday.
Later, I drew cards. Inner Child and Phoenix Rising gently turned themselves over together. Courage fell from the deck.
Given the date, I could not help but smile.
For months now, life has felt as though it has been revealing things to me. My skin journey. My work. My relationships. The themes showing up repeatedly in my card draws. Even the June transmission that emerged this month seems to circle around the same idea.
As the light increases, so does visibility.
After drawing the cards, I found myself thinking about my mother and wondering what, if anything, she might say if she could. While standing in the shower, I quietly asked a question into the mystery.
“If you could show me what you are experiencing now, what would you show me?”
Immediately, a dream memory surfaced from years ago.
I had completely forgotten about it until that moment.
In the dream, I was walking through a city with the most extraordinary architecture I had ever seen. Even now I can remember the feeling. The beauty. The awe. The sense that I was witnessing something far beyond ordinary human design.
And almost as soon as that memory appeared, my attention shifted to the crystal prism hanging in the window.
I see the prism often. On sunny mornings it scatters rainbows across the room. There was nothing unusual about that.
Yet on this particular morning, I noticed shades of blue I had never really paid attention to before. One of them was a vibrant turquoise—my birthstone.
The memory and the prism arrived so close together that they felt like a single experience.
Was my mother communicating with me?
Was it my subconscious offering symbols?
Was it simply a meaningful coincidence?
I don’t know.
And for once, I wasn’t interested in figuring it out.
What I felt was wonder.
The older I get, the less interested I am in certainty and the more interested I am in remaining open to mystery. Not because mystery provides answers, but because it often reveals something deeper than answers ever could.
What touched me most about today was not the possibility of a sign. It was the realization that the theme of visibility continues.
Yesterday, trees were removed and light entered places it could not previously reach.
Today, memories surfaced that had been hidden for years.
A familiar prism revealed colors I had never noticed.
And then there was Phoenix Rising.
For the first time, I found myself wondering whether June 5 is not only my mother’s birthday, but in some way a marker of my own rebirth as well.
I have now lived more than a decade beyond the age she reached.
The story did not end where her story ended.
The healing continued.
The learning continued.
Life continued.
Perhaps that is what the Phoenix teaches us.
Not that we become someone else.
Not that we leave the past behind.
But that we allow ourselves to be transformed by it.
Today felt less like a day of mourning and more like a day of revelation.
A reminder that some changes cannot be prevented.
Some trees will come down.
Some landscapes will change.
Some chapters will end whether we are ready or not.
Yet beneath the disruption, something sacred is often occurring.
The light gets in.
The hidden becomes visible.
And if we are willing to remain present long enough, we may discover that what felt like loss was also making room for something new to emerge.
