The Wandering Star

A myth of Nuit Mother of All Possibility

Here there is no beginning. Only deep breath. Only Nuit.

Not born. Not made. Not spoken into existence. She is the first silence. The first holding. The first and only container vast enough to cradle contradiction. Her body is the sky, yes, but she is also the skin of the cosmos—the curve that wraps around becoming itself. She is the space that makes room for everything—not just the bright, not just the formed, but the chaotic, the raw, the strange and sacred in-between.

From her dreaming, stars arise. They do not emerge with purpose stamped into them. They are not assigned. They are not judged. They come as pulses of her own longing to see what will happen next. Each star is an experiment in love. Some flare quietly and settle into place. Others spin wildly and call it play. Some lock arms to form the shapes we later name as lion, virgin, scorpion, hero.

Nuit does not prefer one over another. They all burn with her breath. They are all her.

And then, one star stirs differently.

Small, flickering, new—she pulses faster. She glows hotter. She does not want to align. She does not want to fit. She does not want to be part of any pattern already in motion. Not because she hates order, but because something inside her says:

There is more.

She wants to veer. Not toward destruction, but toward possibility not yet known.

She slips. Not down. Not out. Sideways.

The stars around her startle. They feel her movement like a tremor—not dangerous, but unfamiliar. The constellations shift slightly, checking their lines. Some whisper. Some worry. Some grow quiet and confused, unsure how to name what does not conform.

They look to Nuit for direction.

But Nuit does not correct.

She expands.

She opens further than she ever has before, curving her sky-body gently around the path her child has taken. Not to fence her back in—but to make space.

She does not love the veering one less.

She does not love the others more.

She loves each precisely as they are—spiralling, shaping, shimmering or scattering. Her devotion is not transactional. She does not choose sides between stillness and motion, rhythm and rupture. She contains all of it.

The veering one drifts beyond the visible framework of the sky. She spirals through dust and forgotten filaments, gathering fragments of old songs that never found a place in the constellations. She begins to hum them—not loudly, as for an audience, but as a deep inner vibration. And the other stars feel it. Not the fixed ones, still locked in shape, but the fragments. The exiles. The cooled embers who once believed they had failed. They begin to pulse again, drawn to this quiet current of something unnamed but deeply familiar.

The stars still shining in their assigned shapes sense the shift. Some flare with anxiety. Others go still with grief. The oldest among them—those who remember being held before they were formed—feel a pull they cannot explain.

And Nuit?

She glows.

She never scolds the wanderer. Never asks her to return. She does not weigh her movement against the stability of the others. She holds the field open for all of it.

The veer.

The line.

The echo.

The silence.

The collapse.

The new beginning.

All are sacred. All are allowed.

And the wandering one?

She keeps moving. She becomes less a star and more a vibration. Not lost. Not alone. A living memory of what it means to choose something else and be loved not despite it—but because of it.

And still, far across the sky, the fixed lights shine.

Some remain afraid.

Some begin to soften.

A few whisper old songs they once buried in the shape of their silence.

Because even those who cling to form may one day remember:

they were not born to be static.

And Nuit will wait.

As she always has.

As she always will.

Not to judge.

Not to reward.

But to hold the whole of what is possible.

She is the mother of becoming.

And in her sky, no star is lost.

---