A life that was always for someone
You still buy too much at the store sometimes. The family pack, the big box of cereal, as if the house might fill up again by the weekend. Then you put half of it away and stand in a kitchen that’s very quiet.
“My children are grown. What is this part of my life for?” Look at the last word. For. Every part of your life until now had a clear for. The early mornings were for them. The worry was for them. Even the rest, when you got any, was so you could keep going for them.
The Sun was in Pisces the day you were born, so you’ve always lived with soft edges. You feel what the people near you feel, sometimes before they do. For years that softness had somewhere to go. It went into packed lunches, late talks at the kitchen table, a light left on in the hall.
And you were born with the Moon in Taurus, which needs something steady and familiar to feel safe. A routine. A table set the same way. The sound of a full house at the holidays. When that changes, it isn’t only the calendar that shifts. Something under your feet shifts too. Your mind says: “I should be glad. This is what I raised them for.” And you are glad. Both things sit in you at once.
Could it be that asking what it’s for is the old habit still talking? A life that was always for someone now has a stretch of days with no one waiting on them. That can feel like being let go of. It can also feel, strangely, like a door left open.
If you want, some quiet afternoon, close your eyes, let your hands rest palms down, and let your body be open. Feel your chest from the inside, with attention. There may be tenderness there, or an emptiness that isn’t bad, only new. You don’t have to fill it. If you want to stop, you stop.
Maybe this part of your life doesn’t come with a for attached. Maybe it’s simply yours, the first part in a long time that is.