When I was a child, I yelled for the moon out the window of my mother’s car. It was a creamy pink saucer of milk in the sky, and I was an imaginative little girl. A very quiet girl. Like, rumors that I was mute kind of quiet. But what I didn’t say out loud was coloring the soil of a rich inner life. At that moment, the color was creamy pink. I wanna moooooon, I apparently cried. I often wonder how the moon coaxed such a loud response out of such a quiet little girl. And why it still does.

You know that feeling of looking up at a clear, dark sky? Little bits and bobs of brilliance shining faintly? How small you feel in comparison to all of that? How that smallness creates space in you, a space that feels something like relief or awe? The distance between you and that brilliance tenderizes what feels like calcified human bullshit. For a brief moment, you are softer with yourself. Feet firmly planted, eyes on the heavens.

I do that for a living as an Astrologer. I find the softness. I translate the sky in ways that I hope will loosen the edges of a person and leave them impressionable enough to allow the planets in as visitors and storytellers. During the pandemic, so many sought the perspective of Astrology to make sense of and find meaning in challenge and change. In response, I deepened my practice. Astrology is like that clear, dark sky. It forces you to look up in a world where we are either always looking forward or looking back, looking…