A few weeks ago, my partner and I sat in our friends’ Brooklyn living room. I had bongo drums in my lap, as one does, and we all took turns reading aloud and interpreting each other’s astrological charts. It’s the type of activity where the blatantly obvious feels like a revelation, and the clearly incorrect is brushed off as irrelevant. Therefore, everything is perfect.
After our little roundabout (which involved an extended pause to research the origin and meaning of one’s Lilith Node), I felt a little more real—and I think everyone around me did too. I felt seen, at least. Whether or not I agreed with the characterization of my moon in Taurus, it felt real enough to warrant deeper self-analysis. Rather than a flippant whim around which to build a personality, here was an ancient monolith.
As self-obsessed as many of us are, we tend not to think deeply about our personhood and our cosmic placement — at least not in the day-to-day. I think we ought to do more of that. Astrology is an accessible and worthwhile means of self-reflection. I’m no doctor—I’m not even a professional astrologer—but I think it’s medically accurate to say such self-assessment is good for the soul.
This kind of reflection is even more difficult — and necessary — when the world is swirling, near-constantly, with indescribable surreality. We’re constantly exposed us to immeasurable sadness. Not the sadness caused by a beloved uncle’s passing or the loss of a family heirloom down a dive bar toilet, but the type of sadness that occurs thousands of miles away. The kind of distant, pervasive sadness that projects directly into our brains and hearts—and that, ultimately, we as individuals are powerless to change.