Free Will Astrol­ogy

Got any lurk­ing feral qual­i­ties, Taurus? asks ROB BREZSNY



When Warsan Shire was a child, she im­mi­grated to the UK with her So­ma­lian par­ents. Now she’s a renowned poet who writes vividly about refugees, im­mi­grants and other marginal­ized peo­ple. To pro­vide sup­port and in­spi­ra­tion for the part of you that feels like an ex­ile or fugi­tive or dis­placed per­son, and in ac­cor­dance with cur­rent astro­log­i­cal omens, I of­fer you two quotes by Shire. 1. “I be­long deeply to my­self.” 2. “Doc­u­ment the moments you feel most in love with your­self—what you’re wear­ing, who you’re around, what you’re do­ing. Recre­ate and re­peat.”


“Once in a while came a mo­ment when ev­ery­thing seemed to have some­thing to say to you.” So says a char­ac­ter in Alice Munro’s short story Jakarta. Now I’m us­ing that mes­sage as the key theme of your horoscope. Why? Be­cause you’re at the peak of your abil­ity to be reached, to be touched, to be com­mu­ni­cated with. You’re will­ing to be keenly re­cep­tive. You’re strong enough to be deeply in­flu­enced. Is it be­cause you’re so firmly an­chored in your un­der­stand­ing and ac­cep­tance of who you are?


In 1928, nov­el­ist Vir­ginia Woolf wrote a let­ter to her friend Saxon Sid­ney Turner. “I am read­ing six books at once, the only way of read­ing,” she con­fided, “since one book is only a sin­gle un­ac­com­pa­nied note, and to get the full sound, one needs ten others at the same time.” My usual in­cli­na­tion is to coun­sel you Sagit­tar­i­ans to fo­cus on one or two im­por­tant mat­ters rather than on a mul­ti­tude of semi-im­por­tant mat­ters. But in ac­cor­dance with cur­rent astro­log­i­cal omens, I’m de­part­ing from tra­di­tion to sug­gest you adopt Woolf’s ap­proach to books as your ap­proach to ev­ery­thing. Your life in the com­ing weeks should be less like an acous­tic ballad and more like a symphony for 35 in­stru­ments.


Not many goats can climb trees, but there are dare­dev­ils in Morocco that do. They go in quest of the de­li­cious olive-like berries that grow on ar­gan trees. The branches on which they perch may be 30 feet off the ground. I’m nam­ing them as your power crea­ture for the com­ing weeks. I think you’re ready to as­cend higher in search of good­ies. You have the soulful agility nec­es­sary to tran­scend your pre­vi­ous level of ac­com­plish­ment.


From 49-45 BC, civil war wracked the Ro­man Repub­lic. Julius Cae­sar led forces rep­re­sent­ing the com­mon peo­ple against armies fight­ing for the aris­toc­racy’s in­ter­ests. In 45 BC, Cae­sar brought a con­tin­gent of sol­diers to Ro­man territory in North Africa, in­tent on launch­ing a cam­paign against the en­emy. As the gen­eral dis­em­barked from his ship, he ac­ci­den­tally slipped and fell. Think­ing fast, he ex­claimed, “Africa, I have a tight told of you!” and clasped the ground, thus im­ply­ing he had low­ered him­self on pur­pose in a rit­ual ges­ture of con­quest. In this way, he con­verted an ap­par­ent bad omen into a pos­i­tive one. And in­deed, he won the en­su­ing bat­tle, which was the turn­ing point that led to ul­ti­mate vic­tory and the war’s end. That’s good role mod­el­ing for you right now.


Be­low are sweet words I’ve bor­rowed from po­ets I love. I in­vite you to use them to com­mu­ni­cate with any­one who is primed to be­come more lyri­cally in­ti­mate with you. The time is right for you to reach out! 1. “You look like a sea of gems.” —Qa­har Aasi 2. “I love you with what in me is un­fin­ished.” —Robert Bly 3. “Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born.” —E. E. Cum­mings 4. “Tell me the most ex­quis­ite truths you know.” —Barry Han­nah 5. “It’s very rare to know you, very strange and won­der­ful.” —F. Scott Fitzger­ald 6. “When you smile like that you are as beau­ti­ful as all my se­crets.” —Anne Car­son 7. Ev­ery­thing you say is “like a se­cret voice speak­ing straight out of my own bones.” —Sylvia Plath

Aries Now is an ex­cel­lent time to feel and ex­plore and un­der­stand and even ap­pre­ci­ate your sad­ness. To get you in the mood, here’s a list of sad­nesses from nov­el­ist Jonathan Safran Foer: sad­ness of the could-have-been; sad­ness of be­ing mis­un­der­stood; sad­ness of hav­ing too many op­tions; sad­ness of be­ing smart; sad­ness of awk­ward con­ver­sa­tions; sad­ness of feel­ing the need to cre­ate beau­ti­ful things; sad­ness of go­ing un­no­ticed; sad­ness of do­mes­ti­cated birds; sad­ness of arousal be­ing an un­or­di­nary phys­i­cal state; sad­ness of want­ing sad­ness.


Do you have any feral qual­i­ties lurk­ing deep down in­side you? Have you ever felt a mad yearn­ing to com­mu­ni­cate us­ing howls and yips in­stead of words? When you’re alone, do you some­times dis­pense with your uten­sils and scoop the food off your plate with your fin­gers? Have you dreamed of run­ning through a damp meadow un­der the full moon for the sheer ec­stasy of it? Do you on oc­ca­sion ex­pe­ri­ence such strong erotic urges that you feel like you could weave your body and soul to­gether with the color green or the sound of a rain-soaked river or the moon ris­ing over the hills? I ask these ques­tions, Taurus, be­cause now is an ex­cel­lent time to draw on the in­stinc­tual wis­dom of your feral qual­i­ties.


“Close some doors to­day,” writes nov­el­ist Paulo Coelho. “Not be­cause of pride, in­ca­pac­ity or ar­ro­gance, but sim­ply be­cause they lead you nowhere.” I en­dorse his ad­vice for your use, Gemini. In my astro­log­i­cal opin­ion, you’ll be wise to prac­tice the rough but fine art of say­ing NO. It’s time for you to make crisp de­ci­sions about where you be­long and where you don’t; about where your fu­ture ful­fill­ment is likely to thrive and where it won’t; about which re­la­tion­ships de­serve your sage in­ti­macy and which tend to push you in the di­rec­tion of medi­ocrity.


To ca­sual ob­servers you may seem to be an amor­phous hodge­podge, or a sim­mer­ing mess of semi-in­ter­est­ing con­fu­sion or an ami­able dab­bler headed in too many di­rec­tions at once. But in my opin­ion, ca­sual ob­servers would be wrong in that as­sess­ment. What’s closer to the sym­bolic truth about you is an image de­scribed by poet Carolyn Forché: grapes that are ripen­ing in the fog. Here’s an­other image that res­onates with your cur­rent state: sea tur­tle eggs ges­tat­ing be­neath the sand on a misty ocean beach. One fur­ther me­taphor for you: the bright yel­low flow­ers of the evening prim­rose plant, which only bloom at night.

Leo I want to make sure that the groove you’re in doesn’t de­volve into a rut. So I’ll ask you un­ex­pected ques­tions to spur your imag­i­na­tion in un­pre­dictable di­rec­tions. Ready? 1. How would you de­scribe the un­tapped riches in the shad­owy part of your per­son­al­ity? 2. Is there a rare ob­ject you’d like to own be­cause it would fos­ter your feel­ing that the world has magic and mir­a­cles? 3. Imag­ine the per­fect party you’d love to at­tend and how it might change your life for the bet­ter. 4. What bird most re­minds you of your­self? 5. What’s your most evoca­tive and in­spir­ing taboo day­dream? 6. In your past, were there ever ex­pe­ri­ences that made you cry for joy in ways that felt al­most or­gas­mic? How might you at­tract or in­duce a cathar­sis like that some­time soon?

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