Ritual of Celestial Calm Full Moon in Scorpio
A sacred story of release, rebirth, and reclamation under the Scorpio Full Moon
I begin with an invocation, not to call in power, but to remember that I am power. I close my eyes and speak into the space:
Great Spirit, I call now to the sacred forces of transformation.
Moon, radiant and full in the sign of Scorpio, I feel your gaze upon me.
You who illuminate the shadows,
You who see what lies beneath the surface,
You who guide the shedding of old skins and the return to truth—
I welcome you here.
I honor the waters of my body. I honor the fire of my will. I honor the space between—where death becomes rebirth, and pain becomes power.
Ancestors, protectors, guardians of the sacred womb and solar fire within—stand with me now.
Bear witness as I release what no longer serves, and transmute all that I carry into sacred fuel.
I enter this ritual with full presence, open heart, and fierce love.
I am not afraid of the dark. I am made of it. I am the light that moves through it, and I carry both in sacred balance.
The ache I feel is deep—not sharp, but persistent. It curls in my belly and pulses behind my navel like an ancient rhythm asking to be heard. I place my hand over the discomfort and breathe. This is where my magic lives—beneath the tension, beneath the swirl. I know that this is not just nausea. This is information. A stirring. A sign that something inside is ready to move, to break open, to be reborn.
The Moon is full in Scorpio today, and I feel her everywhere. She is not gentle, but she is kind. She does not coddle—she reveals. I am ready for that.
I prepare my ritual space with care. The bowl of moonlit water has been sitting beneath her light last night, soaking in her intensity, her knowing. I hold it close and feel her energy in the water—cool, silver, exact. She has seen what I hide. And she does not look away.
I place three moonstones around the bowl in a triangle. Each stone is smooth, cool, and humming with the frequency of release. These stones know what it is to hold emotion, to pull pain into the Earth for composting. They are not here to fix me. They are here to remind me that nothing is too much to hold.
Lavender oil. I add three drops into the water. The scent rises like a memory I haven’t spoken aloud. It wraps around me, not to lull me, but to steady me. Lavender teaches me how to soften without surrendering my strength.
I light my white candle with a steady hand and speak the words: With this light, I heal. The flame flickers, then steadies. I am mirrored in her dance—unwavering even as I move.
I sit down and close my eyes. I begin to breathe—not shallow, not controlled, but deep and slow, like the tide moving through me. I breathe into my solar plexus. I feel the fire there—agitated, hot, restless. I do not resist it. I breathe into my sacral center, where the nausea lives. She is not the enemy. She is a messenger. I am listening now.
I dip the white cloth into the bowl and press it to my belly. Cool. Soft. Alive. The touch activates something—grief, maybe. Or the memory of holding so much for so long. I let myself feel all of it. Nothing is pushed away. Not tonight.
Then I speak the words. Not to banish the discomfort, but to reshape it.
By the love of the Universe, by the calm of the Moon,
Every challenge I face becomes a blessing soon.
What tries to shake me only sharpens my flame.
I turn every storm into power I claim.
I say it three times. My voice grows steadier each round. The nausea begins to shift. It doesn’t vanish. It becomes something else—warmth, movement, possibility. My body is not at war with me. She is speaking in the language of sensation, and now I am fluent.
I take the moonstones in my hands and hold them against my womb. I let the Scorpio Moon pour through me like water and fire fused as one. I don’t need to be calm in the way the world defines calm.
Clarity lives in me. Alignment is already here. Truth rises from my center like breath. I don’t have to become—I already am.
I blow out the candle, watching the smoke curl upward like a prayer. I whisper my gratitude into the silence.
Thank you, Moon, for seeing me fully.
Thank you, body, for trusting me enough to speak.
Thank you, Spirit, for reminding me that even in discomfort, I am sacred.
Even in pain, I am whole.
I place the bowl on my altar near the window so the Moon can find it again. The Moon and I move in rhythm—she reflects what I’m ready to see, and I rise with every phase.
The ritual is complete. The healing continues. I walk forward with new fire in my belly, clarity in my womb, and the knowing that I am the storm and the calm.
Gratitude
I close this ritual with a full and open heart. I give thanks—not just as a gesture, but as a deep acknowledgment of all that walks with me, within me, and around me.
Thank you, Spirit, for never leaving me, even when I forget how to feel your presence. Thank you for guiding me back to myself every single time.
Thank you to my spirit team—those seen and unseen, ancestors, protectors, guides, and guardians. I feel your hands holding me when I am too tired to hold myself.
Thank you to my body, my sacred vessel, for carrying so much and still choosing to rise. Thank you to my emotions for telling the truth, even when the truth is messy or hard.
Thank you to my family—by blood, by bond, by soul—for rooting for me, for loving me in the midst of my becoming.
Thank you to the people who pray for me, uplift me, check on me, pour into me, see me, and want the best for me—even when I don’t ask. You matter more than you know.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you to the energy of this moment, alive and moving, for giving me the inspiration and the motivation to keep going. Thank you for the clarity, for the release, for the reminder that I am not standing still—I am in motion, in purpose, in flow.
I receive it all. I honor it all. And I carry this gratitude into everything I do.
Ase.