The process of writing horoscopes is a monthly trust fall with my intuition. Each time I sit down to write them I struggle to believe that it’s a thing that can be done. So I close my eyes. And I begin the ritual.
Sometimes it involves candles or incense, but usually? It’s me, on a chair or a couch, closing my eyes. If I’m being honest, my hair is probably dirty and my laundry is going and I’ve brought myself to the edge of the moment where— if it’s going to happen— it probably needs to happen now.
So I close my eyes and whisper reverence to the four directions, to the seen and unseen, to the things that I cannot fathom but know are there. I ask that the space around and within me may guide my hands and my heart. I ask that the vastness may guide my words, and that those words offer what is needed to those who read them.
I shuffle a deck. I pull some cards. I write. And delete. And research. And write. And look up brownie recipes. And write. And take the dogs on a walk. And come back and write more until there are nine tarot ecosystem horoscopes as quirky as I am.
The beginning of the process is the moment of the trust fall when you cross your arms and close your eyes. I’m rolling back onto my heels while writing. The sharing is when I hope there’s something there worth being caught. Hoping someone out there wants to catch it/me.
That’s how things usually look, anyway. It’s a good system, albeit a vulnerable one. It works pretty well for me. But this new moon in Pisces feels different. And if this whole process is an intuitive trust fall, then my job is to practice placing my faith in that wisdom.
The trust fall is the same, but the result is different. Which makes sense, really, considering that (in modern astrology, anyway) Pisces is ruled by the planet Neptune. Named after the Roman god of the sea (the counterpart of the Greek god, Poseidon), the ice planet Neptune is big and gassy (heh… sorry). It’s called an ice giant due to the high freezing points of the water, methane and ammonia that cover its rocky core, and atmosphere of molecular hydrogen, helium, and methane.
Why am I telling you about a gassy planet that’s 2.7 billion miles away? Stay with me.
You see, it takes Neptune 165 Earth years to orbit the Sun, which is how long it takes for the planet to move through the 12 signs of the zodiac. From our vantage point here on Earth, Neptune stays in each sign for roughly 15 years (it wiggles around a bit thanks to retrogrades, etc.). Though the individual relevance of Neptune in astrological charts will vary thanks to house placement and the like, entire generations share the same Neptune sign.
In western astrology, Neptune is associated with human depth (God of the sea, etcetera). Imagination, dreams, art, spirituality and Self— as well as the shadow aspects of these, such as illusion, escapism, sorrow, addiction— are all associated with this planet.
Pisces is ruled by Neptune (hi Pisces season!), this new moon is in Pisces (hi new moon!) and we’re smack dab in the middle of a Neptune in Pisces generation right now (roughly 2011-2026, including retrogrades).
I’m spending all of this time nerding out with you about planets— even though my horoscopes aren’t really based on astrology— because I’m noticing a striking spiritual wave as Neptune continues to hang out in Pisces. I almost hesitate to use the word “spiritual” because it’s a somewhat subjective term, but I mean it in the deepest, perhaps most Neptunian sense: I’m noticing people around me, from all walks of life, expressing interest and curiosity with regard to the depths of what it means to be and a desire to express that be-ing.
One Collective Horoscope
The biosphere is
our living world. It reaches
where the winged ones fly, delves into
the hydrosphere where
the creatures of the shallow
and deep reside, and
encompasses all beings
that live on land in
the lithosphere. These pieces
of the biosphere
aren’t separate. Shorelines,
caves, and mountaintops
reveal that Earth’s edges are
less about borders
than they are about thresholds.
And inside the biosphere of the earth is where every ecosystem exists. Land, freshwater and ocean. Mesa, puddle, tide pool.
Ecology— that is, the study of the relationships between living things and their environment— stems (eco) from the Greek oikos, meaning “household.” Fritjof Capra explained ecology as a study of the relationships of all the members of Earth’s households (ecosystems).
When I re-envisioned the traditional tarot constellations as ecosystems, it was this interconnectedness that I was really drawn to in the naming. Each tarot ecosystem has its own unique characteristics (which I hope to dive deeper into soon), but every ecosystem exists as part of a larger biosphere: The Collective.
And this month’s horoscope needed to drive this home: We are connected. Our actions and voices have impact because of our connection to a greater whole. Some of us are acting on large stages with big platforms, amplifying our voices into the world. Some of us are sitting at tables telling stories to beloved friends, impacting their minds or moods through the receiver in their hearts. One experience has no more value than the other. Both ways have meaning.
When we say that a whole is more than a sum of its parts, it’s because relationships between parts themselves cannot be quantified. One plus one might equal two, but one person plus one person? I don’t know an equation that can capture that sum. Do you?
So here’s what I’m trying to say, in the most loving and compassionate way: Your presence here matters. Your choices and actions have impact. It’s easy to miss it in a heavily technological culture, but what you like and what you “like” really does matter. What you conjure into this world— be it physically or digitally— has real consequences. Because. You. Matter.
We all have a unique opportunity right now to see beyond the surface of things and look deeper. It requires patience and persistence. It requires work to unlearn and peel away toxic and oppressive beliefs and systems.
But if you take one thing away from this weird horoscope, I hope it’s this: If you are consciously trying, you are doing what you’re supposed to be doing— and you are making a difference doing it.
So I leave you with these questions to ponder through journaling, creation, or contemplation:
How might your understanding of or appreciation for your life change if you truly believed that your actions— even “small” ones— matter?
How might you recognize others’ impacts so that you may better see your own?
What contentment might you find in trusting that your conscious trying is enough?
Until next time,