ENTER
CREATIVE CONSULTANCY X EXPERIENCE DESIGN
EXPLORING HUMAN AND MORE-THAN-HUMAN IMAGINATION AT THE INTERSECTION OF ART AND TECHNOLOGY
By Lora Aziz
THE SACRED NUMBERS OF BECOMING MOTHER
In ancient Egypt, there was a goddess older than the sun gods, older than war. Her name was Neith—weaver of worlds, mother of mothers. She sat at the cosmic loom, threading life into being. Above her head, she wore a crown shaped like a comb—a symbol of the vulva, of rain, of becoming.
Neith was born of the primordial waters. Before light, before form, there was water—and she wove it into stars. Into skin. Into soul. She was goddess of the deep and the infinite, ruling over birth and the great mysteries. The comb she wore was not only a symbol of fertility, but a sacred tool for calling in the waters of life. Like the Moon, like pregnancy, like intuition itself—Neith moved through fluid cycles of creation.
The Greek word kteis, meaning “comb,” also means “vulva.” It is no coincidence. The comb, in ancient cultures, was not only for grooming—it was a tool of activation, a signal of life-giving power. To comb the hair was to stir the inner waters, to ready the body for threshold. To prepare for birth, mourning, ritual, or rebirth. Like Neith, women became weavers—of story, of blood, of lineage.
As bleeding folk and women, the cycle of birth, death, and life is not something that lived 6,000 years ago—it still lives within us. We still have access to this power. On the bus. In the woods. In the supermarket queue. In ceremony or under fluorescent lights.
And for those of us who live by our cycles—those who chart the moons, bleed with intention, rest with the dark—we know this truth intimately. We carry the sacred with us, always.
Today, practices like seed cycling echo these ancient rhythms. They remind us that food, like ritual, can be seasonal and sacred. In the follicular phase, we grind flaxseed and pumpkin—cooling, nourishing the rise of oestrogen. In the luteal, we move to sesame and sunflower—warming, mineral-rich, supporting progesterone and inner descent. These simple acts—adding seeds to porridge, blending them into dressings—become quiet ceremonies of hormonal balance and embodied reverence.
And yet, when pregnancy begins, the old rhythms vanish. The familiar cycle dissolves. The inner compass we’ve followed for years disappears. What once anchored us becomes irrelevant. We can feel lost.
But what if this wasn’t a loss of rhythm, but an entrance into a deeper one?
Pregnancy follows an ancient arc: Ten Moons. Ten thresholds. Not trimesters, not scan dates, but a spiral of transformation that mirrors the sacred geometry of becoming. Each moon is more than a passage of time—it is a numerological initiation, revealing layers of growth, release, and embodiment. And just as the body shifts with each moon, so too do the plants that have long walked with women—herbal allies who nourish, ground, protect, and open us along the way.
One brings connection—the spark of life, the first inhale of spirit.
Two reveals duality—two lives now woven in parallel.
Three ignites creativity—identity begins to dissolve, and nettle steps in to nourish this courageous becoming, fortifying blood and bones as you grow new life.
Four stabilises—family takes shape, voice becomes anchor.
Five demands change—boundaries are drawn, the self stretches wider. Here, motherwort offers her medicine: first as a tender heart balm, then as a spiky protector, guarding the sacred seed within.
Six sings harmony—the weaver emerges, building sanctuary with steady hands.
Seven tests the material—spirit is called to trust the unknown.
Eight transforms—space swells, nesting begins, and marshmallow root reminds us that softness can be a shield, moistening the inner terrain as we prepare to stretch open.
Nine culminates—the sacred opening, a threshold across time.
Ten manifests—life arrives, and with it, rose—the herb of devotion and grief, joy and surrender. She meets the new mother in the blur between worlds, helping her integrate what’s been born and what’s been lost.
Within this grand rhythm, another familiar pattern lives: the power of four. The pregnancy unfolds in four archetypal acts:
The Maiden (1st trimester): curiosity, sensitivity, mystery.
The Mother (2nd trimester): blooming, bonding, creation.
The Crone (3rd trimester): deep knowing, retreat, preparation.
The Rebirth (postpartum): integration, tenderness, transformation.
These nested cycles speak to the old ways—where time was felt in the body, marked by moonlight, ritual, and root. This is womb time, and it is as sacred now as it ever was.
There are aids and allies in pregnancy—from the intuitive cravings your body seeks to the simple remedies for indigestion, swelling, or restlessness. There are birth-keepers, doulas, and doctors who guide the baby along their journey. There are bump straps, magnesium sprays, pregnancy pillows—all with their place, all helping to hold us through the unknown.
And then, there are the plants.
Ancestrally, they were called upon as part of the sacred circle surrounding pregnancy and birth. Just like us, they are shaped by moonlight and soil, by season and star. Each herb carries an astrological imprint, a planetary guardian that shapes its medicine—its heat or coolness, its softness or structure, its signature and soul.
One of the most profound among them is motherwort, ruled by Venus, sacred to the heart and the womb. She is wildly generous, yet fiercely protective. In early bloom, her purple flowers and soft leaves offer medicine for the nervous system and gently tend postpartum moods. She’s the hug you didn’t know you needed.
As she moves to seed, her energy shifts. Her stalk hardens, her spikes emerge. She holds her seeds like armour, saying: these are mine. Her softness becomes strength. Her generosity becomes boundary. Just like the postpartum body. Just like the mother who must protect what she has made.
She is a strengthening tonic, restoring vitality and sovereignty in equal measure.
Marshmallow root, under the Moon’s watery rulership, teaches through tenderness. Moistening, soothing, and soft, she speaks to the late-pregnancy body—swollen, stretched, and sacred. She reminds us that boundaries don’t always need to be hard. Sometimes softness is the most radical form of protection.
Her medicine moves like water: gently, persistently, shaping from within. She cools heat, eases inflammation, and nourishes the inner terrain in preparation for opening. Like the moon’s pull on tides, she helps us move with the swelling, not against it.
Nettle, ruled by Mars, is the quiet powerhouse. She doesn’t shout. She strengthens. She builds from the inside—blood, bones, minerals, reserves. Rich in iron, calcium, magnesium, and vitamin K, she nourishes the mother as she nourishes new life. She is the deep green ally of those beginning again—bold, grounding, and elemental.
And rose, beloved of Venus, arrives in the final moon. Astringent, floral, and devoted, she helps tone tissues post-birth, but her real medicine is emotional. She steadies the heart through grief, joy, and letting go. She reminds us that tenderness and beauty can be companions to birth, to loss, and to becoming.
These plants don’t only support the body—they remind us we are not meant to become mothers alone. In ancient times, the goddess-mothers of the village—elders, crones, wisdom keepers—would surround the child-mother with touch, food, stories, and song. They passed on the knowing not just through words, but through ritual. Through combing hair. Through sitting close. Through staying.
And so the plants and moons teach us: every stage matters—from shoot to seed, from follicular to full. We cycle through them all, again and again.
To soften and to spike. To give and to guard. To nourish and to bloom.
We are not separate from the moon.
We are woven into it—thread by thread, hair by hair, cycle by cycle.
Just as Neith once wove the stars.
Just as she once wove water into being.
Please consult a trusted midwife, herbalist, or doctor before working with any plants in pregnancy. Even the gentlest herbs carry deep intelligence and should be used with care.
THE SACRED NUMBERS OF BECOMING MOTHER
In ancient Egypt, there was a goddess older than the sun gods, older than war. Her name was Neith—weaver of worlds, mother of mothers. She sat at the cosmic loom, threading life into being. Above her head, she wore a crown shaped like a comb—a symbol of the vulva, of rain, of becoming.
Neith was born of the primordial waters. Before light, before form, there was water—and she wove it into stars. Into skin. Into soul. She was goddess of the deep and the infinite, ruling over birth and the great mysteries. The comb she wore was not only a symbol of fertility, but a sacred tool for calling in the waters of life. Like the Moon, like pregnancy, like intuition itself—Neith moved through fluid cycles of creation.
The Greek word kteis, meaning “comb,” also means “vulva.” It is no coincidence. The comb, in ancient cultures, was not only for grooming—it was a tool of activation, a signal of life-giving power. To comb the hair was to stir the inner waters, to ready the body for threshold. To prepare for birth, mourning, ritual, or rebirth. Like Neith, women became weavers—of story, of blood, of lineage.
As bleeding folk and women, the cycle of birth, death, and life is not something that lived 6,000 years ago—it still lives within us. We still have access to this power. On the bus. In the woods. In the supermarket queue. In ceremony or under fluorescent lights.
And for those of us who live by our cycles—those who chart the moons, bleed with intention, rest with the dark—we know this truth intimately. We carry the sacred with us, always.
Today, practices like seed cycling echo these ancient rhythms. They remind us that food, like ritual, can be seasonal and sacred. In the follicular phase, we grind flaxseed and pumpkin—cooling, nourishing the rise of oestrogen. In the luteal, we move to sesame and sunflower—warming, mineral-rich, supporting progesterone and inner descent. These simple acts—adding seeds to porridge, blending them into dressings—become quiet ceremonies of hormonal balance and embodied reverence.
And yet, when pregnancy begins, the old rhythms vanish. The familiar cycle dissolves. The inner compass we’ve followed for years disappears. What once anchored us becomes irrelevant. We can feel lost.
But what if this wasn’t a loss of rhythm, but an entrance into a deeper one?
Pregnancy follows an ancient arc: Ten Moons. Ten thresholds. Not trimesters, not scan dates, but a spiral of transformation that mirrors the sacred geometry of becoming. Each moon is more than a passage of time—it is a numerological initiation, revealing layers of growth, release, and embodiment. And just as the body shifts with each moon, so too do the plants that have long walked with women—herbal allies who nourish, ground, protect, and open us along the way.
One brings connection—the spark of life, the first inhale of spirit.
Two reveals duality—two lives now woven in parallel.
Three ignites creativity—identity begins to dissolve, and nettle steps in to nourish this courageous becoming, fortifying blood and bones as you grow new life.
Four stabilises—family takes shape, voice becomes anchor.
Five demands change—boundaries are drawn, the self stretches wider. Here, motherwort offers her medicine: first as a tender heart balm, then as a spiky protector, guarding the sacred seed within.
Six sings harmony—the weaver emerges, building sanctuary with steady hands.
Seven tests the material—spirit is called to trust the unknown.
Eight transforms—space swells, nesting begins, and marshmallow root reminds us that softness can be a shield, moistening the inner terrain as we prepare to stretch open.
Nine culminates—the sacred opening, a threshold across time.
Ten manifests—life arrives, and with it, rose—the herb of devotion and grief, joy and surrender. She meets the new mother in the blur between worlds, helping her integrate what’s been born and what’s been lost.
Within this grand rhythm, another familiar pattern lives: the power of four. The pregnancy unfolds in four archetypal acts:
The Maiden (1st trimester): curiosity, sensitivity, mystery.
The Mother (2nd trimester): blooming, bonding, creation.
The Crone (3rd trimester): deep knowing, retreat, preparation.
The Rebirth (postpartum): integration, tenderness, transformation.
These nested cycles speak to the old ways—where time was felt in the body, marked by moonlight, ritual, and root. This is womb time, and it is as sacred now as it ever was.
There are aids and allies in pregnancy—from the intuitive cravings your body seeks to the simple remedies for indigestion, swelling, or restlessness. There are birth-keepers, doulas, and doctors who guide the baby along their journey. There are bump straps, magnesium sprays, pregnancy pillows—all with their place, all helping to hold us through the unknown.
And then, there are the plants.
Ancestrally, they were called upon as part of the sacred circle surrounding pregnancy and birth. Just like us, they are shaped by moonlight and soil, by season and star. Each herb carries an astrological imprint, a planetary guardian that shapes its medicine—its heat or coolness, its softness or structure, its signature and soul.
One of the most profound among them is motherwort, ruled by Venus, sacred to the heart and the womb. She is wildly generous, yet fiercely protective. In early bloom, her purple flowers and soft leaves offer medicine for the nervous system and gently tend postpartum moods. She’s the hug you didn’t know you needed.
As she moves to seed, her energy shifts. Her stalk hardens, her spikes emerge. She holds her seeds like armour, saying: these are mine. Her softness becomes strength. Her generosity becomes boundary. Just like the postpartum body. Just like the mother who must protect what she has made.
She is a strengthening tonic, restoring vitality and sovereignty in equal measure.
Marshmallow root, under the Moon’s watery rulership, teaches through tenderness. Moistening, soothing, and soft, she speaks to the late-pregnancy body—swollen, stretched, and sacred. She reminds us that boundaries don’t always need to be hard. Sometimes softness is the most radical form of protection.
Her medicine moves like water: gently, persistently, shaping from within. She cools heat, eases inflammation, and nourishes the inner terrain in preparation for opening. Like the moon’s pull on tides, she helps us move with the swelling, not against it.
Nettle, ruled by Mars, is the quiet powerhouse. She doesn’t shout. She strengthens. She builds from the inside—blood, bones, minerals, reserves. Rich in iron, calcium, magnesium, and vitamin K, she nourishes the mother as she nourishes new life. She is the deep green ally of those beginning again—bold, grounding, and elemental.
And rose, beloved of Venus, arrives in the final moon. Astringent, floral, and devoted, she helps tone tissues post-birth, but her real medicine is emotional. She steadies the heart through grief, joy, and letting go. She reminds us that tenderness and beauty can be companions to birth, to loss, and to becoming.
These plants don’t only support the body—they remind us we are not meant to become mothers alone. In ancient times, the goddess-mothers of the village—elders, crones, wisdom keepers—would surround the child-mother with touch, food, stories, and song. They passed on the knowing not just through words, but through ritual. Through combing hair. Through sitting close. Through staying.
And so the plants and moons teach us: every stage matters—from shoot to seed, from follicular to full. We cycle through them all, again and again.
To soften and to spike. To give and to guard. To nourish and to bloom.
We are not separate from the moon.
We are woven into it—thread by thread, hair by hair, cycle by cycle.
Just as Neith once wove the stars.
Just as she once wove water into being.
Please consult a trusted midwife, herbalist, or doctor before working with any plants in pregnancy. Even the gentlest herbs carry deep intelligence and should be used with care.
Lora Aziz is an artist, wildcrafter, and creator of the forthcoming Pregnancy Stone Oracle, a deck and guidebook tracing the Ten Moons of gestation through stone, story, and sacred ritual. She weaves ancestral remembering with earth-based spirituality and cyclical living.
By Lora Aziz
THE SACRED NUMBERS OF BECOMING MOTHER
In ancient Egypt, there was a goddess older than the sun gods, older than war. Her name was Neith—weaver of worlds, mother of mothers. She sat at the cosmic loom, threading life into being. Above her head, she wore a crown shaped like a comb—a symbol of the vulva, of rain, of becoming.
Neith was born of the primordial waters. Before light, before form, there was water—and she wove it into stars. Into skin. Into soul. She was goddess of the deep and the infinite, ruling over birth and the great mysteries. The comb she wore was not only a symbol of fertility, but a sacred tool for calling in the waters of life. Like the Moon, like pregnancy, like intuition itself—Neith moved through fluid cycles of creation.
The Greek word kteis, meaning “comb,” also means “vulva.” It is no coincidence. The comb, in ancient cultures, was not only for grooming—it was a tool of activation, a signal of life-giving power. To comb the hair was to stir the inner waters, to ready the body for threshold. To prepare for birth, mourning, ritual, or rebirth. Like Neith, women became weavers—of story, of blood, of lineage.
As bleeding folk and women, the cycle of birth, death, and life is not something that lived 6,000 years ago—it still lives within us. We still have access to this power. On the bus. In the woods. In the supermarket queue. In ceremony or under fluorescent lights.
And for those of us who live by our cycles—those who chart the moons, bleed with intention, rest with the dark—we know this truth intimately. We carry the sacred with us, always.
Today, practices like seed cycling echo these ancient rhythms. They remind us that food, like ritual, can be seasonal and sacred. In the follicular phase, we grind flaxseed and pumpkin—cooling, nourishing the rise of oestrogen. In the luteal, we move to sesame and sunflower—warming, mineral-rich, supporting progesterone and inner descent. These simple acts—adding seeds to porridge, blending them into dressings—become quiet ceremonies of hormonal balance and embodied reverence.
And yet, when pregnancy begins, the old rhythms vanish. The familiar cycle dissolves. The inner compass we’ve followed for years disappears. What once anchored us becomes irrelevant. We can feel lost.
But what if this wasn’t a loss of rhythm, but an entrance into a deeper one?
Pregnancy follows an ancient arc: Ten Moons. Ten thresholds. Not trimesters, not scan dates, but a spiral of transformation that mirrors the sacred geometry of becoming. Each moon is more than a passage of time—it is a numerological initiation, revealing layers of growth, release, and embodiment. And just as the body shifts with each moon, so too do the plants that have long walked with women—herbal allies who nourish, ground, protect, and open us along the way.
One brings connection—the spark of life, the first inhale of spirit.
Two reveals duality—two lives now woven in parallel.
Three ignites creativity—identity begins to dissolve, and nettle steps in to nourish this courageous becoming, fortifying blood and bones as you grow new life.
Four stabilises—family takes shape, voice becomes anchor.
Five demands change—boundaries are drawn, the self stretches wider. Here, motherwort offers her medicine: first as a tender heart balm, then as a spiky protector, guarding the sacred seed within.
Six sings harmony—the weaver emerges, building sanctuary with steady hands.
Seven tests the material—spirit is called to trust the unknown.
Eight transforms—space swells, nesting begins, and marshmallow root reminds us that softness can be a shield, moistening the inner terrain as we prepare to stretch open.
Nine culminates—the sacred opening, a threshold across time.
Ten manifests—life arrives, and with it, rose—the herb of devotion and grief, joy and surrender. She meets the new mother in the blur between worlds, helping her integrate what’s been born and what’s been lost.
Within this grand rhythm, another familiar pattern lives: the power of four. The pregnancy unfolds in four archetypal acts:
The Maiden (1st trimester): curiosity, sensitivity, mystery.
The Mother (2nd trimester): blooming, bonding, creation.
The Crone (3rd trimester): deep knowing, retreat, preparation.
The Rebirth (postpartum): integration, tenderness, transformation.
These nested cycles speak to the old ways—where time was felt in the body, marked by moonlight, ritual, and root. This is womb time, and it is as sacred now as it ever was.
There are aids and allies in pregnancy—from the intuitive cravings your body seeks to the simple remedies for indigestion, swelling, or restlessness. There are birth-keepers, doulas, and doctors who guide the baby along their journey. There are bump straps, magnesium sprays, pregnancy pillows—all with their place, all helping to hold us through the unknown.
And then, there are the plants.
Ancestrally, they were called upon as part of the sacred circle surrounding pregnancy and birth. Just like us, they are shaped by moonlight and soil, by season and star. Each herb carries an astrological imprint, a planetary guardian that shapes its medicine—its heat or coolness, its softness or structure, its signature and soul.
One of the most profound among them is motherwort, ruled by Venus, sacred to the heart and the womb. She is wildly generous, yet fiercely protective. In early bloom, her purple flowers and soft leaves offer medicine for the nervous system and gently tend postpartum moods. She’s the hug you didn’t know you needed.
As she moves to seed, her energy shifts. Her stalk hardens, her spikes emerge. She holds her seeds like armour, saying: these are mine. Her softness becomes strength. Her generosity becomes boundary. Just like the postpartum body. Just like the mother who must protect what she has made.
She is a strengthening tonic, restoring vitality and sovereignty in equal measure.
Marshmallow root, under the Moon’s watery rulership, teaches through tenderness. Moistening, soothing, and soft, she speaks to the late-pregnancy body—swollen, stretched, and sacred. She reminds us that boundaries don’t always need to be hard. Sometimes softness is the most radical form of protection.
Her medicine moves like water: gently, persistently, shaping from within. She cools heat, eases inflammation, and nourishes the inner terrain in preparation for opening. Like the moon’s pull on tides, she helps us move with the swelling, not against it.
Nettle, ruled by Mars, is the quiet powerhouse. She doesn’t shout. She strengthens. She builds from the inside—blood, bones, minerals, reserves. Rich in iron, calcium, magnesium, and vitamin K, she nourishes the mother as she nourishes new life. She is the deep green ally of those beginning again—bold, grounding, and elemental.
And rose, beloved of Venus, arrives in the final moon. Astringent, floral, and devoted, she helps tone tissues post-birth, but her real medicine is emotional. She steadies the heart through grief, joy, and letting go. She reminds us that tenderness and beauty can be companions to birth, to loss, and to becoming.
These plants don’t only support the body—they remind us we are not meant to become mothers alone. In ancient times, the goddess-mothers of the village—elders, crones, wisdom keepers—would surround the child-mother with touch, food, stories, and song. They passed on the knowing not just through words, but through ritual. Through combing hair. Through sitting close. Through staying.
And so the plants and moons teach us: every stage matters—from shoot to seed, from follicular to full. We cycle through them all, again and again.
To soften and to spike. To give and to guard. To nourish and to bloom.
We are not separate from the moon.
We are woven into it—thread by thread, hair by hair, cycle by cycle.
Just as Neith once wove the stars.
Just as she once wove water into being.
Please consult a trusted midwife, herbalist, or doctor before working with any plants in pregnancy. Even the gentlest herbs carry deep intelligence and should be used with care.
THE SACRED NUMBERS OF BECOMING MOTHER
In ancient Egypt, there was a goddess older than the sun gods, older than war. Her name was Neith—weaver of worlds, mother of mothers. She sat at the cosmic loom, threading life into being. Above her head, she wore a crown shaped like a comb—a symbol of the vulva, of rain, of becoming.
Neith was born of the primordial waters. Before light, before form, there was water—and she wove it into stars. Into skin. Into soul. She was goddess of the deep and the infinite, ruling over birth and the great mysteries. The comb she wore was not only a symbol of fertility, but a sacred tool for calling in the waters of life. Like the Moon, like pregnancy, like intuition itself—Neith moved through fluid cycles of creation.
The Greek word kteis, meaning “comb,” also means “vulva.” It is no coincidence. The comb, in ancient cultures, was not only for grooming—it was a tool of activation, a signal of life-giving power. To comb the hair was to stir the inner waters, to ready the body for threshold. To prepare for birth, mourning, ritual, or rebirth. Like Neith, women became weavers—of story, of blood, of lineage.
As bleeding folk and women, the cycle of birth, death, and life is not something that lived 6,000 years ago—it still lives within us. We still have access to this power. On the bus. In the woods. In the supermarket queue. In ceremony or under fluorescent lights.
And for those of us who live by our cycles—those who chart the moons, bleed with intention, rest with the dark—we know this truth intimately. We carry the sacred with us, always.
Today, practices like seed cycling echo these ancient rhythms. They remind us that food, like ritual, can be seasonal and sacred. In the follicular phase, we grind flaxseed and pumpkin—cooling, nourishing the rise of oestrogen. In the luteal, we move to sesame and sunflower—warming, mineral-rich, supporting progesterone and inner descent. These simple acts—adding seeds to porridge, blending them into dressings—become quiet ceremonies of hormonal balance and embodied reverence.
And yet, when pregnancy begins, the old rhythms vanish. The familiar cycle dissolves. The inner compass we’ve followed for years disappears. What once anchored us becomes irrelevant. We can feel lost.
But what if this wasn’t a loss of rhythm, but an entrance into a deeper one?
Pregnancy follows an ancient arc: Ten Moons. Ten thresholds. Not trimesters, not scan dates, but a spiral of transformation that mirrors the sacred geometry of becoming. Each moon is more than a passage of time—it is a numerological initiation, revealing layers of growth, release, and embodiment. And just as the body shifts with each moon, so too do the plants that have long walked with women—herbal allies who nourish, ground, protect, and open us along the way.
One brings connection—the spark of life, the first inhale of spirit.
Two reveals duality—two lives now woven in parallel.
Three ignites creativity—identity begins to dissolve, and nettle steps in to nourish this courageous becoming, fortifying blood and bones as you grow new life.
Four stabilises—family takes shape, voice becomes anchor.
Five demands change—boundaries are drawn, the self stretches wider. Here, motherwort offers her medicine: first as a tender heart balm, then as a spiky protector, guarding the sacred seed within.
Six sings harmony—the weaver emerges, building sanctuary with steady hands.
Seven tests the material—spirit is called to trust the unknown.
Eight transforms—space swells, nesting begins, and marshmallow root reminds us that softness can be a shield, moistening the inner terrain as we prepare to stretch open.
Nine culminates—the sacred opening, a threshold across time.
Ten manifests—life arrives, and with it, rose—the herb of devotion and grief, joy and surrender. She meets the new mother in the blur between worlds, helping her integrate what’s been born and what’s been lost.
Within this grand rhythm, another familiar pattern lives: the power of four. The pregnancy unfolds in four archetypal acts:
The Maiden (1st trimester): curiosity, sensitivity, mystery.
The Mother (2nd trimester): blooming, bonding, creation.
The Crone (3rd trimester): deep knowing, retreat, preparation.
The Rebirth (postpartum): integration, tenderness, transformation.
These nested cycles speak to the old ways—where time was felt in the body, marked by moonlight, ritual, and root. This is womb time, and it is as sacred now as it ever was.
There are aids and allies in pregnancy—from the intuitive cravings your body seeks to the simple remedies for indigestion, swelling, or restlessness. There are birth-keepers, doulas, and doctors who guide the baby along their journey. There are bump straps, magnesium sprays, pregnancy pillows—all with their place, all helping to hold us through the unknown.
And then, there are the plants.
Ancestrally, they were called upon as part of the sacred circle surrounding pregnancy and birth. Just like us, they are shaped by moonlight and soil, by season and star. Each herb carries an astrological imprint, a planetary guardian that shapes its medicine—its heat or coolness, its softness or structure, its signature and soul.
One of the most profound among them is motherwort, ruled by Venus, sacred to the heart and the womb. She is wildly generous, yet fiercely protective. In early bloom, her purple flowers and soft leaves offer medicine for the nervous system and gently tend postpartum moods. She’s the hug you didn’t know you needed.
As she moves to seed, her energy shifts. Her stalk hardens, her spikes emerge. She holds her seeds like armour, saying: these are mine. Her softness becomes strength. Her generosity becomes boundary. Just like the postpartum body. Just like the mother who must protect what she has made.
She is a strengthening tonic, restoring vitality and sovereignty in equal measure.
Marshmallow root, under the Moon’s watery rulership, teaches through tenderness. Moistening, soothing, and soft, she speaks to the late-pregnancy body—swollen, stretched, and sacred. She reminds us that boundaries don’t always need to be hard. Sometimes softness is the most radical form of protection.
Her medicine moves like water: gently, persistently, shaping from within. She cools heat, eases inflammation, and nourishes the inner terrain in preparation for opening. Like the moon’s pull on tides, she helps us move with the swelling, not against it.
Nettle, ruled by Mars, is the quiet powerhouse. She doesn’t shout. She strengthens. She builds from the inside—blood, bones, minerals, reserves. Rich in iron, calcium, magnesium, and vitamin K, she nourishes the mother as she nourishes new life. She is the deep green ally of those beginning again—bold, grounding, and elemental.
And rose, beloved of Venus, arrives in the final moon. Astringent, floral, and devoted, she helps tone tissues post-birth, but her real medicine is emotional. She steadies the heart through grief, joy, and letting go. She reminds us that tenderness and beauty can be companions to birth, to loss, and to becoming.
These plants don’t only support the body—they remind us we are not meant to become mothers alone. In ancient times, the goddess-mothers of the village—elders, crones, wisdom keepers—would surround the child-mother with touch, food, stories, and song. They passed on the knowing not just through words, but through ritual. Through combing hair. Through sitting close. Through staying.
And so the plants and moons teach us: every stage matters—from shoot to seed, from follicular to full. We cycle through them all, again and again.
To soften and to spike. To give and to guard. To nourish and to bloom.
We are not separate from the moon.
We are woven into it—thread by thread, hair by hair, cycle by cycle.
Just as Neith once wove the stars.
Just as she once wove water into being.
Please consult a trusted midwife, herbalist, or doctor before working with any plants in pregnancy. Even the gentlest herbs carry deep intelligence and should be used with care.
Lora Aziz is an artist, wildcrafter, and creator of the forthcoming Pregnancy Stone Oracle, a deck and guidebook tracing the Ten Moons of gestation through stone, story, and sacred ritual. She weaves ancestral remembering with earth-based spirituality and cyclical living.
By Lora Aziz
THE SACRED NUMBERS OF BECOMING MOTHER
In ancient Egypt, there was a goddess older than the sun gods, older than war. Her name was Neith—weaver of worlds, mother of mothers. She sat at the cosmic loom, threading life into being. Above her head, she wore a crown shaped like a comb—a symbol of the vulva, of rain, of becoming.
Neith was born of the primordial waters. Before light, before form, there was water—and she wove it into stars. Into skin. Into soul. She was goddess of the deep and the infinite, ruling over birth and the great mysteries. The comb she wore was not only a symbol of fertility, but a sacred tool for calling in the waters of life. Like the Moon, like pregnancy, like intuition itself—Neith moved through fluid cycles of creation.
The Greek word kteis, meaning “comb,” also means “vulva.” It is no coincidence. The comb, in ancient cultures, was not only for grooming—it was a tool of activation, a signal of life-giving power. To comb the hair was to stir the inner waters, to ready the body for threshold. To prepare for birth, mourning, ritual, or rebirth. Like Neith, women became weavers—of story, of blood, of lineage.
As bleeding folk and women, the cycle of birth, death, and life is not something that lived 6,000 years ago—it still lives within us. We still have access to this power. On the bus. In the woods. In the supermarket queue. In ceremony or under fluorescent lights.
And for those of us who live by our cycles—those who chart the moons, bleed with intention, rest with the dark—we know this truth intimately. We carry the sacred with us, always.
Today, practices like seed cycling echo these ancient rhythms. They remind us that food, like ritual, can be seasonal and sacred. In the follicular phase, we grind flaxseed and pumpkin—cooling, nourishing the rise of oestrogen. In the luteal, we move to sesame and sunflower—warming, mineral-rich, supporting progesterone and inner descent. These simple acts—adding seeds to porridge, blending them into dressings—become quiet ceremonies of hormonal balance and embodied reverence.
And yet, when pregnancy begins, the old rhythms vanish. The familiar cycle dissolves. The inner compass we’ve followed for years disappears. What once anchored us becomes irrelevant. We can feel lost.
But what if this wasn’t a loss of rhythm, but an entrance into a deeper one?
Pregnancy follows an ancient arc: Ten Moons. Ten thresholds. Not trimesters, not scan dates, but a spiral of transformation that mirrors the sacred geometry of becoming. Each moon is more than a passage of time—it is a numerological initiation, revealing layers of growth, release, and embodiment. And just as the body shifts with each moon, so too do the plants that have long walked with women—herbal allies who nourish, ground, protect, and open us along the way.
One brings connection—the spark of life, the first inhale of spirit.
Two reveals duality—two lives now woven in parallel.
Three ignites creativity—identity begins to dissolve, and nettle steps in to nourish this courageous becoming, fortifying blood and bones as you grow new life.
Four stabilises—family takes shape, voice becomes anchor.
Five demands change—boundaries are drawn, the self stretches wider. Here, motherwort offers her medicine: first as a tender heart balm, then as a spiky protector, guarding the sacred seed within.
Six sings harmony—the weaver emerges, building sanctuary with steady hands.
Seven tests the material—spirit is called to trust the unknown.
Eight transforms—space swells, nesting begins, and marshmallow root reminds us that softness can be a shield, moistening the inner terrain as we prepare to stretch open.
Nine culminates—the sacred opening, a threshold across time.
Ten manifests—life arrives, and with it, rose—the herb of devotion and grief, joy and surrender. She meets the new mother in the blur between worlds, helping her integrate what’s been born and what’s been lost.
Within this grand rhythm, another familiar pattern lives: the power of four. The pregnancy unfolds in four archetypal acts:
The Maiden (1st trimester): curiosity, sensitivity, mystery.
The Mother (2nd trimester): blooming, bonding, creation.
The Crone (3rd trimester): deep knowing, retreat, preparation.
The Rebirth (postpartum): integration, tenderness, transformation.
These nested cycles speak to the old ways—where time was felt in the body, marked by moonlight, ritual, and root. This is womb time, and it is as sacred now as it ever was.
There are aids and allies in pregnancy—from the intuitive cravings your body seeks to the simple remedies for indigestion, swelling, or restlessness. There are birth-keepers, doulas, and doctors who guide the baby along their journey. There are bump straps, magnesium sprays, pregnancy pillows—all with their place, all helping to hold us through the unknown.
And then, there are the plants.
Ancestrally, they were called upon as part of the sacred circle surrounding pregnancy and birth. Just like us, they are shaped by moonlight and soil, by season and star. Each herb carries an astrological imprint, a planetary guardian that shapes its medicine—its heat or coolness, its softness or structure, its signature and soul.
One of the most profound among them is motherwort, ruled by Venus, sacred to the heart and the womb. She is wildly generous, yet fiercely protective. In early bloom, her purple flowers and soft leaves offer medicine for the nervous system and gently tend postpartum moods. She’s the hug you didn’t know you needed.
As she moves to seed, her energy shifts. Her stalk hardens, her spikes emerge. She holds her seeds like armour, saying: these are mine. Her softness becomes strength. Her generosity becomes boundary. Just like the postpartum body. Just like the mother who must protect what she has made.
She is a strengthening tonic, restoring vitality and sovereignty in equal measure.
Marshmallow root, under the Moon’s watery rulership, teaches through tenderness. Moistening, soothing, and soft, she speaks to the late-pregnancy body—swollen, stretched, and sacred. She reminds us that boundaries don’t always need to be hard. Sometimes softness is the most radical form of protection.
Her medicine moves like water: gently, persistently, shaping from within. She cools heat, eases inflammation, and nourishes the inner terrain in preparation for opening. Like the moon’s pull on tides, she helps us move with the swelling, not against it.
Nettle, ruled by Mars, is the quiet powerhouse. She doesn’t shout. She strengthens. She builds from the inside—blood, bones, minerals, reserves. Rich in iron, calcium, magnesium, and vitamin K, she nourishes the mother as she nourishes new life. She is the deep green ally of those beginning again—bold, grounding, and elemental.
And rose, beloved of Venus, arrives in the final moon. Astringent, floral, and devoted, she helps tone tissues post-birth, but her real medicine is emotional. She steadies the heart through grief, joy, and letting go. She reminds us that tenderness and beauty can be companions to birth, to loss, and to becoming.
These plants don’t only support the body—they remind us we are not meant to become mothers alone. In ancient times, the goddess-mothers of the village—elders, crones, wisdom keepers—would surround the child-mother with touch, food, stories, and song. They passed on the knowing not just through words, but through ritual. Through combing hair. Through sitting close. Through staying.
And so the plants and moons teach us: every stage matters—from shoot to seed, from follicular to full. We cycle through them all, again and again.
To soften and to spike. To give and to guard. To nourish and to bloom.
We are not separate from the moon.
We are woven into it—thread by thread, hair by hair, cycle by cycle.
Just as Neith once wove the stars.
Just as she once wove water into being.
Please consult a trusted midwife, herbalist, or doctor before working with any plants in pregnancy. Even the gentlest herbs carry deep intelligence and should be used with care.
THE SACRED NUMBERS OF BECOMING MOTHER
In ancient Egypt, there was a goddess older than the sun gods, older than war. Her name was Neith—weaver of worlds, mother of mothers. She sat at the cosmic loom, threading life into being. Above her head, she wore a crown shaped like a comb—a symbol of the vulva, of rain, of becoming.
Neith was born of the primordial waters. Before light, before form, there was water—and she wove it into stars. Into skin. Into soul. She was goddess of the deep and the infinite, ruling over birth and the great mysteries. The comb she wore was not only a symbol of fertility, but a sacred tool for calling in the waters of life. Like the Moon, like pregnancy, like intuition itself—Neith moved through fluid cycles of creation.
The Greek word kteis, meaning “comb,” also means “vulva.” It is no coincidence. The comb, in ancient cultures, was not only for grooming—it was a tool of activation, a signal of life-giving power. To comb the hair was to stir the inner waters, to ready the body for threshold. To prepare for birth, mourning, ritual, or rebirth. Like Neith, women became weavers—of story, of blood, of lineage.
As bleeding folk and women, the cycle of birth, death, and life is not something that lived 6,000 years ago—it still lives within us. We still have access to this power. On the bus. In the woods. In the supermarket queue. In ceremony or under fluorescent lights.
And for those of us who live by our cycles—those who chart the moons, bleed with intention, rest with the dark—we know this truth intimately. We carry the sacred with us, always.
Today, practices like seed cycling echo these ancient rhythms. They remind us that food, like ritual, can be seasonal and sacred. In the follicular phase, we grind flaxseed and pumpkin—cooling, nourishing the rise of oestrogen. In the luteal, we move to sesame and sunflower—warming, mineral-rich, supporting progesterone and inner descent. These simple acts—adding seeds to porridge, blending them into dressings—become quiet ceremonies of hormonal balance and embodied reverence.
And yet, when pregnancy begins, the old rhythms vanish. The familiar cycle dissolves. The inner compass we’ve followed for years disappears. What once anchored us becomes irrelevant. We can feel lost.
But what if this wasn’t a loss of rhythm, but an entrance into a deeper one?
Pregnancy follows an ancient arc: Ten Moons. Ten thresholds. Not trimesters, not scan dates, but a spiral of transformation that mirrors the sacred geometry of becoming. Each moon is more than a passage of time—it is a numerological initiation, revealing layers of growth, release, and embodiment. And just as the body shifts with each moon, so too do the plants that have long walked with women—herbal allies who nourish, ground, protect, and open us along the way.
One brings connection—the spark of life, the first inhale of spirit.
Two reveals duality—two lives now woven in parallel.
Three ignites creativity—identity begins to dissolve, and nettle steps in to nourish this courageous becoming, fortifying blood and bones as you grow new life.
Four stabilises—family takes shape, voice becomes anchor.
Five demands change—boundaries are drawn, the self stretches wider. Here, motherwort offers her medicine: first as a tender heart balm, then as a spiky protector, guarding the sacred seed within.
Six sings harmony—the weaver emerges, building sanctuary with steady hands.
Seven tests the material—spirit is called to trust the unknown.
Eight transforms—space swells, nesting begins, and marshmallow root reminds us that softness can be a shield, moistening the inner terrain as we prepare to stretch open.
Nine culminates—the sacred opening, a threshold across time.
Ten manifests—life arrives, and with it, rose—the herb of devotion and grief, joy and surrender. She meets the new mother in the blur between worlds, helping her integrate what’s been born and what’s been lost.
Within this grand rhythm, another familiar pattern lives: the power of four. The pregnancy unfolds in four archetypal acts:
The Maiden (1st trimester): curiosity, sensitivity, mystery.
The Mother (2nd trimester): blooming, bonding, creation.
The Crone (3rd trimester): deep knowing, retreat, preparation.
The Rebirth (postpartum): integration, tenderness, transformation.
These nested cycles speak to the old ways—where time was felt in the body, marked by moonlight, ritual, and root. This is womb time, and it is as sacred now as it ever was.
There are aids and allies in pregnancy—from the intuitive cravings your body seeks to the simple remedies for indigestion, swelling, or restlessness. There are birth-keepers, doulas, and doctors who guide the baby along their journey. There are bump straps, magnesium sprays, pregnancy pillows—all with their place, all helping to hold us through the unknown.
And then, there are the plants.
Ancestrally, they were called upon as part of the sacred circle surrounding pregnancy and birth. Just like us, they are shaped by moonlight and soil, by season and star. Each herb carries an astrological imprint, a planetary guardian that shapes its medicine—its heat or coolness, its softness or structure, its signature and soul.
One of the most profound among them is motherwort, ruled by Venus, sacred to the heart and the womb. She is wildly generous, yet fiercely protective. In early bloom, her purple flowers and soft leaves offer medicine for the nervous system and gently tend postpartum moods. She’s the hug you didn’t know you needed.
As she moves to seed, her energy shifts. Her stalk hardens, her spikes emerge. She holds her seeds like armour, saying: these are mine. Her softness becomes strength. Her generosity becomes boundary. Just like the postpartum body. Just like the mother who must protect what she has made.
She is a strengthening tonic, restoring vitality and sovereignty in equal measure.
Marshmallow root, under the Moon’s watery rulership, teaches through tenderness. Moistening, soothing, and soft, she speaks to the late-pregnancy body—swollen, stretched, and sacred. She reminds us that boundaries don’t always need to be hard. Sometimes softness is the most radical form of protection.
Her medicine moves like water: gently, persistently, shaping from within. She cools heat, eases inflammation, and nourishes the inner terrain in preparation for opening. Like the moon’s pull on tides, she helps us move with the swelling, not against it.
Nettle, ruled by Mars, is the quiet powerhouse. She doesn’t shout. She strengthens. She builds from the inside—blood, bones, minerals, reserves. Rich in iron, calcium, magnesium, and vitamin K, she nourishes the mother as she nourishes new life. She is the deep green ally of those beginning again—bold, grounding, and elemental.
And rose, beloved of Venus, arrives in the final moon. Astringent, floral, and devoted, she helps tone tissues post-birth, but her real medicine is emotional. She steadies the heart through grief, joy, and letting go. She reminds us that tenderness and beauty can be companions to birth, to loss, and to becoming.
These plants don’t only support the body—they remind us we are not meant to become mothers alone. In ancient times, the goddess-mothers of the village—elders, crones, wisdom keepers—would surround the child-mother with touch, food, stories, and song. They passed on the knowing not just through words, but through ritual. Through combing hair. Through sitting close. Through staying.
And so the plants and moons teach us: every stage matters—from shoot to seed, from follicular to full. We cycle through them all, again and again.
To soften and to spike. To give and to guard. To nourish and to bloom.
We are not separate from the moon.
We are woven into it—thread by thread, hair by hair, cycle by cycle.
Just as Neith once wove the stars.
Just as she once wove water into being.
Please consult a trusted midwife, herbalist, or doctor before working with any plants in pregnancy. Even the gentlest herbs carry deep intelligence and should be used with care.
Lora Aziz is an artist, wildcrafter, and creator of the forthcoming Pregnancy Stone Oracle, a deck and guidebook tracing the Ten Moons of gestation through stone, story, and sacred ritual. She weaves ancestral remembering with earth-based spirituality and cyclical living.
By Lora Aziz
THE SACRED NUMBERS OF BECOMING MOTHER
In ancient Egypt, there was a goddess older than the sun gods, older than war. Her name was Neith—weaver of worlds, mother of mothers. She sat at the cosmic loom, threading life into being. Above her head, she wore a crown shaped like a comb—a symbol of the vulva, of rain, of becoming.
Neith was born of the primordial waters. Before light, before form, there was water—and she wove it into stars. Into skin. Into soul. She was goddess of the deep and the infinite, ruling over birth and the great mysteries. The comb she wore was not only a symbol of fertility, but a sacred tool for calling in the waters of life. Like the Moon, like pregnancy, like intuition itself—Neith moved through fluid cycles of creation.
The Greek word kteis, meaning “comb,” also means “vulva.” It is no coincidence. The comb, in ancient cultures, was not only for grooming—it was a tool of activation, a signal of life-giving power. To comb the hair was to stir the inner waters, to ready the body for threshold. To prepare for birth, mourning, ritual, or rebirth. Like Neith, women became weavers—of story, of blood, of lineage.
As bleeding folk and women, the cycle of birth, death, and life is not something that lived 6,000 years ago—it still lives within us. We still have access to this power. On the bus. In the woods. In the supermarket queue. In ceremony or under fluorescent lights.
And for those of us who live by our cycles—those who chart the moons, bleed with intention, rest with the dark—we know this truth intimately. We carry the sacred with us, always.
Today, practices like seed cycling echo these ancient rhythms. They remind us that food, like ritual, can be seasonal and sacred. In the follicular phase, we grind flaxseed and pumpkin—cooling, nourishing the rise of oestrogen. In the luteal, we move to sesame and sunflower—warming, mineral-rich, supporting progesterone and inner descent. These simple acts—adding seeds to porridge, blending them into dressings—become quiet ceremonies of hormonal balance and embodied reverence.
And yet, when pregnancy begins, the old rhythms vanish. The familiar cycle dissolves. The inner compass we’ve followed for years disappears. What once anchored us becomes irrelevant. We can feel lost.
But what if this wasn’t a loss of rhythm, but an entrance into a deeper one?
Pregnancy follows an ancient arc: Ten Moons. Ten thresholds. Not trimesters, not scan dates, but a spiral of transformation that mirrors the sacred geometry of becoming. Each moon is more than a passage of time—it is a numerological initiation, revealing layers of growth, release, and embodiment. And just as the body shifts with each moon, so too do the plants that have long walked with women—herbal allies who nourish, ground, protect, and open us along the way.
One brings connection—the spark of life, the first inhale of spirit.
Two reveals duality—two lives now woven in parallel.
Three ignites creativity—identity begins to dissolve, and nettle steps in to nourish this courageous becoming, fortifying blood and bones as you grow new life.
Four stabilises—family takes shape, voice becomes anchor.
Five demands change—boundaries are drawn, the self stretches wider. Here, motherwort offers her medicine: first as a tender heart balm, then as a spiky protector, guarding the sacred seed within.
Six sings harmony—the weaver emerges, building sanctuary with steady hands.
Seven tests the material—spirit is called to trust the unknown.
Eight transforms—space swells, nesting begins, and marshmallow root reminds us that softness can be a shield, moistening the inner terrain as we prepare to stretch open.
Nine culminates—the sacred opening, a threshold across time.
Ten manifests—life arrives, and with it, rose—the herb of devotion and grief, joy and surrender. She meets the new mother in the blur between worlds, helping her integrate what’s been born and what’s been lost.
Within this grand rhythm, another familiar pattern lives: the power of four. The pregnancy unfolds in four archetypal acts:
The Maiden (1st trimester): curiosity, sensitivity, mystery.
The Mother (2nd trimester): blooming, bonding, creation.
The Crone (3rd trimester): deep knowing, retreat, preparation.
The Rebirth (postpartum): integration, tenderness, transformation.
These nested cycles speak to the old ways—where time was felt in the body, marked by moonlight, ritual, and root. This is womb time, and it is as sacred now as it ever was.
There are aids and allies in pregnancy—from the intuitive cravings your body seeks to the simple remedies for indigestion, swelling, or restlessness. There are birth-keepers, doulas, and doctors who guide the baby along their journey. There are bump straps, magnesium sprays, pregnancy pillows—all with their place, all helping to hold us through the unknown.
And then, there are the plants.
Ancestrally, they were called upon as part of the sacred circle surrounding pregnancy and birth. Just like us, they are shaped by moonlight and soil, by season and star. Each herb carries an astrological imprint, a planetary guardian that shapes its medicine—its heat or coolness, its softness or structure, its signature and soul.
One of the most profound among them is motherwort, ruled by Venus, sacred to the heart and the womb. She is wildly generous, yet fiercely protective. In early bloom, her purple flowers and soft leaves offer medicine for the nervous system and gently tend postpartum moods. She’s the hug you didn’t know you needed.
As she moves to seed, her energy shifts. Her stalk hardens, her spikes emerge. She holds her seeds like armour, saying: these are mine. Her softness becomes strength. Her generosity becomes boundary. Just like the postpartum body. Just like the mother who must protect what she has made.
She is a strengthening tonic, restoring vitality and sovereignty in equal measure.
Marshmallow root, under the Moon’s watery rulership, teaches through tenderness. Moistening, soothing, and soft, she speaks to the late-pregnancy body—swollen, stretched, and sacred. She reminds us that boundaries don’t always need to be hard. Sometimes softness is the most radical form of protection.
Her medicine moves like water: gently, persistently, shaping from within. She cools heat, eases inflammation, and nourishes the inner terrain in preparation for opening. Like the moon’s pull on tides, she helps us move with the swelling, not against it.
Nettle, ruled by Mars, is the quiet powerhouse. She doesn’t shout. She strengthens. She builds from the inside—blood, bones, minerals, reserves. Rich in iron, calcium, magnesium, and vitamin K, she nourishes the mother as she nourishes new life. She is the deep green ally of those beginning again—bold, grounding, and elemental.
And rose, beloved of Venus, arrives in the final moon. Astringent, floral, and devoted, she helps tone tissues post-birth, but her real medicine is emotional. She steadies the heart through grief, joy, and letting go. She reminds us that tenderness and beauty can be companions to birth, to loss, and to becoming.
These plants don’t only support the body—they remind us we are not meant to become mothers alone. In ancient times, the goddess-mothers of the village—elders, crones, wisdom keepers—would surround the child-mother with touch, food, stories, and song. They passed on the knowing not just through words, but through ritual. Through combing hair. Through sitting close. Through staying.
And so the plants and moons teach us: every stage matters—from shoot to seed, from follicular to full. We cycle through them all, again and again.
To soften and to spike. To give and to guard. To nourish and to bloom.
We are not separate from the moon.
We are woven into it—thread by thread, hair by hair, cycle by cycle.
Just as Neith once wove the stars.
Just as she once wove water into being.
Please consult a trusted midwife, herbalist, or doctor before working with any plants in pregnancy. Even the gentlest herbs carry deep intelligence and should be used with care.
THE SACRED NUMBERS OF BECOMING MOTHER
In ancient Egypt, there was a goddess older than the sun gods, older than war. Her name was Neith—weaver of worlds, mother of mothers. She sat at the cosmic loom, threading life into being. Above her head, she wore a crown shaped like a comb—a symbol of the vulva, of rain, of becoming.
Neith was born of the primordial waters. Before light, before form, there was water—and she wove it into stars. Into skin. Into soul. She was goddess of the deep and the infinite, ruling over birth and the great mysteries. The comb she wore was not only a symbol of fertility, but a sacred tool for calling in the waters of life. Like the Moon, like pregnancy, like intuition itself—Neith moved through fluid cycles of creation.
The Greek word kteis, meaning “comb,” also means “vulva.” It is no coincidence. The comb, in ancient cultures, was not only for grooming—it was a tool of activation, a signal of life-giving power. To comb the hair was to stir the inner waters, to ready the body for threshold. To prepare for birth, mourning, ritual, or rebirth. Like Neith, women became weavers—of story, of blood, of lineage.
As bleeding folk and women, the cycle of birth, death, and life is not something that lived 6,000 years ago—it still lives within us. We still have access to this power. On the bus. In the woods. In the supermarket queue. In ceremony or under fluorescent lights.
And for those of us who live by our cycles—those who chart the moons, bleed with intention, rest with the dark—we know this truth intimately. We carry the sacred with us, always.
Today, practices like seed cycling echo these ancient rhythms. They remind us that food, like ritual, can be seasonal and sacred. In the follicular phase, we grind flaxseed and pumpkin—cooling, nourishing the rise of oestrogen. In the luteal, we move to sesame and sunflower—warming, mineral-rich, supporting progesterone and inner descent. These simple acts—adding seeds to porridge, blending them into dressings—become quiet ceremonies of hormonal balance and embodied reverence.
And yet, when pregnancy begins, the old rhythms vanish. The familiar cycle dissolves. The inner compass we’ve followed for years disappears. What once anchored us becomes irrelevant. We can feel lost.
But what if this wasn’t a loss of rhythm, but an entrance into a deeper one?
Pregnancy follows an ancient arc: Ten Moons. Ten thresholds. Not trimesters, not scan dates, but a spiral of transformation that mirrors the sacred geometry of becoming. Each moon is more than a passage of time—it is a numerological initiation, revealing layers of growth, release, and embodiment. And just as the body shifts with each moon, so too do the plants that have long walked with women—herbal allies who nourish, ground, protect, and open us along the way.
One brings connection—the spark of life, the first inhale of spirit.
Two reveals duality—two lives now woven in parallel.
Three ignites creativity—identity begins to dissolve, and nettle steps in to nourish this courageous becoming, fortifying blood and bones as you grow new life.
Four stabilises—family takes shape, voice becomes anchor.
Five demands change—boundaries are drawn, the self stretches wider. Here, motherwort offers her medicine: first as a tender heart balm, then as a spiky protector, guarding the sacred seed within.
Six sings harmony—the weaver emerges, building sanctuary with steady hands.
Seven tests the material—spirit is called to trust the unknown.
Eight transforms—space swells, nesting begins, and marshmallow root reminds us that softness can be a shield, moistening the inner terrain as we prepare to stretch open.
Nine culminates—the sacred opening, a threshold across time.
Ten manifests—life arrives, and with it, rose—the herb of devotion and grief, joy and surrender. She meets the new mother in the blur between worlds, helping her integrate what’s been born and what’s been lost.
Within this grand rhythm, another familiar pattern lives: the power of four. The pregnancy unfolds in four archetypal acts:
The Maiden (1st trimester): curiosity, sensitivity, mystery.
The Mother (2nd trimester): blooming, bonding, creation.
The Crone (3rd trimester): deep knowing, retreat, preparation.
The Rebirth (postpartum): integration, tenderness, transformation.
These nested cycles speak to the old ways—where time was felt in the body, marked by moonlight, ritual, and root. This is womb time, and it is as sacred now as it ever was.
There are aids and allies in pregnancy—from the intuitive cravings your body seeks to the simple remedies for indigestion, swelling, or restlessness. There are birth-keepers, doulas, and doctors who guide the baby along their journey. There are bump straps, magnesium sprays, pregnancy pillows—all with their place, all helping to hold us through the unknown.
And then, there are the plants.
Ancestrally, they were called upon as part of the sacred circle surrounding pregnancy and birth. Just like us, they are shaped by moonlight and soil, by season and star. Each herb carries an astrological imprint, a planetary guardian that shapes its medicine—its heat or coolness, its softness or structure, its signature and soul.
One of the most profound among them is motherwort, ruled by Venus, sacred to the heart and the womb. She is wildly generous, yet fiercely protective. In early bloom, her purple flowers and soft leaves offer medicine for the nervous system and gently tend postpartum moods. She’s the hug you didn’t know you needed.
As she moves to seed, her energy shifts. Her stalk hardens, her spikes emerge. She holds her seeds like armour, saying: these are mine. Her softness becomes strength. Her generosity becomes boundary. Just like the postpartum body. Just like the mother who must protect what she has made.
She is a strengthening tonic, restoring vitality and sovereignty in equal measure.
Marshmallow root, under the Moon’s watery rulership, teaches through tenderness. Moistening, soothing, and soft, she speaks to the late-pregnancy body—swollen, stretched, and sacred. She reminds us that boundaries don’t always need to be hard. Sometimes softness is the most radical form of protection.
Her medicine moves like water: gently, persistently, shaping from within. She cools heat, eases inflammation, and nourishes the inner terrain in preparation for opening. Like the moon’s pull on tides, she helps us move with the swelling, not against it.
Nettle, ruled by Mars, is the quiet powerhouse. She doesn’t shout. She strengthens. She builds from the inside—blood, bones, minerals, reserves. Rich in iron, calcium, magnesium, and vitamin K, she nourishes the mother as she nourishes new life. She is the deep green ally of those beginning again—bold, grounding, and elemental.
And rose, beloved of Venus, arrives in the final moon. Astringent, floral, and devoted, she helps tone tissues post-birth, but her real medicine is emotional. She steadies the heart through grief, joy, and letting go. She reminds us that tenderness and beauty can be companions to birth, to loss, and to becoming.
These plants don’t only support the body—they remind us we are not meant to become mothers alone. In ancient times, the goddess-mothers of the village—elders, crones, wisdom keepers—would surround the child-mother with touch, food, stories, and song. They passed on the knowing not just through words, but through ritual. Through combing hair. Through sitting close. Through staying.
And so the plants and moons teach us: every stage matters—from shoot to seed, from follicular to full. We cycle through them all, again and again.
To soften and to spike. To give and to guard. To nourish and to bloom.
We are not separate from the moon.
We are woven into it—thread by thread, hair by hair, cycle by cycle.
Just as Neith once wove the stars.
Just as she once wove water into being.
Please consult a trusted midwife, herbalist, or doctor before working with any plants in pregnancy. Even the gentlest herbs carry deep intelligence and should be used with care.
Lora Aziz is an artist, wildcrafter, and creator of the forthcoming Pregnancy Stone Oracle, a deck and guidebook tracing the Ten Moons of gestation through stone, story, and sacred ritual. She weaves ancestral remembering with earth-based spirituality and cyclical living.