I Dreamed of Poop and Macaroni: What the Moon (and My Dishes) Are Really Trying to Say

May 5, 2025

"I Dreamed of a Web and a Bowl of Macaroni" — Notes from a Sacred Funk

Let’s rewind just a little.

Yesterday, I didn’t write. First time in five months. We canceled all our family plans. I didn’t know why. I just couldn’t. Nothing in me had energy for interaction or creating.

That morning, I had a dream.

🌈💩 Rainbow Bird Poop
There was rainbow-colored bird poop that landed right in front of me. I always took bird poop as a sign from that old movie (Under the Tuscan Sun)—but how to read it for myself?

Rainbow = divine promise, wholeness, spirit bridge.
Poop = release, elimination, what no longer serves.
Bird = messenger, higher perspective, freedom.

So what do you get when you put them together?

A sacred, psychedelic dump of truth. A cosmic neon excretion from Spirit, saying: "Let. It. Out."

This wasn’t “ew.” This was:
“Congratulations. You’ve spiritually digested something huge. Now it’s time to stop holding it in.”

And that’s what I’ve been doing lately—holding it in.
Trying to polish my pain. Trying to be likable while my insides scream. Performing my grief like it should come with a content warning and a monetized filter.

But this dream said: nah.

“Here’s your rainbow mess. Own it. Bless it. Let it fertilize what’s next.”

I woke up after dreaming someone was crying—but in waking life, no one was. That made me think: was it me? Was it a version of me that didn’t get permission to cry?

Yeah. It was.

And I think that’s what this whole rainbow poop dream was about:

I’ve been the rainbow. Now I need to be the bird.

Then came today.

🕸️ Spiderweb in the Sky
Today’s dream: a spiderweb going upward in the sky. Not trapping me—pulling me. Like the sky wasn’t just air, it was thread. And the thread was mine.

It felt like cosmic scaffolding. A divine construction zone. Not a net, but a map. The kind that shows you what you’re already connected to but weren’t ready to look at before. That web was going up. That’s the part that stayed with me. It didn’t catch me—it was building me.

🥣 Vegan Macaroni
And then—macaroni. Vegan macaroni. Soft, warm, oddly comforting. Nothing dramatic. Just there. Like it had always been there. This wasn’t childhood mac n’ cheese. This was chosen softness. Comfort that doesn’t cost your soul. My inner kid whispered: “Wait—we still get cozy joy without the stomachache?”

Yes, baby crow. We do.

So now, here I am. Writing again— because I want to.
Not because I have to. Not because I’m on a streak.
But because I’m naming what’s happening:

I’m inside the psychic laundry spin that happens when the old identity gets too heavy to carry—and the new one hasn’t zipped up yet.

I’ve been on heavy writing streak every day since early January. Nonstop. Straight through every season, every emotion, every phase of the moon.

Until yesterday. I stopped.

And — I haven’t enjoyed cleaning for months.

I used to love it. It was my meditation. My quiet temple. My sense of control and care.

But since channeling Loui Crow… something shifted.

Now? Even the smallest task feels like betrayal. Like I’m reenacting something I didn’t choose.

Cleaning used to feel like care. Like presence. Like proof that I was okay. That I was doing it right. It was my way of controlling chaos, creating beauty, feeling valuable. Every swept floor was a quiet gold star. Every washed dish whispered, “See? You’re good. You’re helping. You matter.”

But something changed.

Since channeling Loui Crow, since peeling back all the emotional wallpaper, cleaning started to feel different. Heavier. Off. Like I was reenacting someone else’s role. Like I was disappearing into the exact rhythms that used to save me.

It stopped feeling like self-care and started feeling like self-erasure.

And now I know why.

The science is simple but sacred: the body remembers.
The nervous system stores everything—even unspoken emotional contracts.

So when I try to clean now, it’s not about the task.
It’s about what the task used to mean—and what it cost me to keep performing it.

Before, cleaning (to me) meant love, worth, visibility.
Now, my body knows the truth:
I’m not doing it for me anymore. I’m doing it out of habit. Out of a script that says:

🧽 “If the house looks good, maybe I will too.”
🧽 “If I keep up the routine, maybe I won’t fall apart.”
🧽 “If I take care of everyone else—my turn will come.”

But my nervous system’s done playing dress-up.
It’s throwing a sacred tantrum every time I reach for the sponge.
Not because I’m lazy. Not because I’m broken.

Because I’m finally telling the truth.

My body is saying: “I don’t want to be lovable for my usefulness. I want to be loved for being alive.”

And yeah, I know the house is a reflection of the mind.
I want a clean home. I value sacred space. I know how good it feels to walk into a room that’s been blessed by intention and beauty.

I just… don’t want to be the one doing it anymore.
I want it clean—but not at the cost of my spirit.
I want peace—but not if it means disappearing to earn it.

Even a spoon feels like a final boss now.
Even macaroni carries a message.

And what I’m starting to see is this:

I’m not stuck.

I’m molting.

I won’t leave the mess forever..but hey, I don’t have to do it all today.

🌘 The Last Quarter Moon

This funk? This fog? This exact moment I’m in?
Lines up perfectly with the Waning Last Quarter Moon—the emotional undoing phase. The compost time. The phase where everything contracts.

It’s not harvest time. Not action time. It’s the moon that says:

“What needs to go?
What truth are you holding in your body like a splinter?
What old identity are you dragging around like it still fits?”

And that ache I’m feeling—
The silence, the loneliness, the exhaustion of even looking at the house—
That is moon medicine.

This moon pulls no punches. She comes in soft but undeniable:

“Stop pretending.
Stop doing for others what you won’t even do for yourself.
Stop calling burnout virtue.”

This moon is the grief phase before the newness.
The death rattle of all the roles I no longer want to play.
The ones that say:

• Productivity = worth.

• Clean house = lovable.

• Performing = belonging.

And now I’m just sitting here asking: Can I be loved if I don’t perform?
And I keep reminding myself:

Yes. I can.
I do.
I am.

Even Sadge the Spoon Ogre showed up to make it clear. He guards all the spoons I’ve ever washed and told me, with his ogre finger pointed:

“Go lie down.”

And for once—I did.

I still feel foggy. Still funky. But I also feel seen.
By the moon. By my dreams. By the parts of me that are finally speaking louder than my conditioning.

And now I see it even more clearly—yesterday’s blog on exhaling was part of this same release arc. That blog was the first crack in the container. The conscious breath after the dream-poop and before the dream-web.

That was my system saying: “We’re full. Let’s stop holding.”

So I’ll say this to anyone who finds themselves in the middle of a quiet unraveling:

You’re not lazy.
It’s okay not to perform.

And this moment?
It’s not the end of your magic.
It’s just the breath between spells.

💔 What pain or struggle is this blog addressing?

This post speaks directly to those in a creative or emotional slump who feel guilty for not being productive. It explores cleaning fatigue, invisible labor, post-parenthood identity collapse, and the deep spiritual ache of realizing you're no longer willing to perform just to belong. It also touches on the grief of seeing the sacrifices made by previous generations—and wanting to break that pattern. Readers leave with permission to pause, insight into their own lunar timing, and the sacred reminder that molting isn’t giving up—it’s becoming.

🕸️🥣💩🌘 louicrow.com