"Imagine this: You are an interstellar voyager. You left Earth when you were very young. You’ve lost count of the years during which your world has been a cylinder of hybrid metals, silent, cold, unimaginably swift, progressing imperceptibly through the net of stars. But one day you wake—or not quite wake, but hover between dream and waking—with a scent in your nostrils, wet and cool and dark, sweet and bitter at once, motionless as stone, quick as rain. Automatically your mind reaches back, probing, struggling for remembrance. Then you have it. You wake, fully now, with a sense of the morning, staring straight up as you did as a child, ready for the saffron light gushing at your window. Then you realize where you are, trapped in metal and silence and starlight. But you have gained something, a possession, something internal and therefore permanent, some weightless baggage worth fully the rest of your cargo, whatever it is. The possession is memory, sense-memory, the sense of morning, that knot in the nerves you carry forever, the pearl called Home." David Brendan Hopes, A Sense of the Morning

Hold that pearl in your heart today. You’ll find yourself directly in the center of the Cancer moon. Everything else you’ll figure out intuitively.