I’ve been running at full speed for ages. Last week, I took off on a road trip that included lectures in several cities. Getting ready for the trip was so stressful I was losing hair that my post-menopausal self can ill afford to lose.
And then, hours after finishing my first two events, a call came from home. Our dear old one-eyed, diabetic cat was being rushed to the emergency pet hospital and was desperately ill. By the next afternoon, we’d made the six-hour drive home.
And my back was killing me.
I took the hint and crawled into bed. In between calls from veterinarians, there has been a lot of napping, reading, and mindless Netflix binging. Two days later, I’ve yet to unpack the carefully organized suitcases. My schedule, carefully cleared for the trip, remains empty. And aside from worrying about the cat, it’s been wonderful.
I hadn’t just been working hard—I’d let work take over my life. Without it, a lot of empty space has opened up in my days. It’s been instructive, observing what has rushed in to fill it. Crushing weariness. A certain low-level melancholy. Insecurity. Snacking. Long sessions of vacant staring.
For awhile, my work has been feeling juiceless and labored. I knew why, even as I worked long, chaotic days. When you’re not living your life, you have nothing interesting to bring to your work. You’re a husk and a shell, dusty byproducts of grain that’s been harvested, soil that is depleted.
What used to fuel my creativity was time—hours of unstructured, unproductive time. I’d spend it lying on my stomach, filling notebooks with idle dreams and scribbled wishes for my future life. Some of those dreams and wishes eventually came startlingly and specifically true. All of this was long before I knew even the little I know now about magic and ritual. I thought it was all just daydreaming. I didn’t appreciate the gravitational pull of imagination.
The Sun in Taurus has made this the perfect season for languor. I’ve given myself over to it, completely, unwinding and opening up. Approaching the Full Moon in soulful, fecund, alchemical Scorpio, I long to summon new magic.
But the tiredness is something like soul-sickness, and sleep is a siren calling me farther and farther from shore. Scorpio and Pluto are the names astrologers give to the death of the ego and the wisdom of voluntarily surrendering an outmoded identity. “Who would you be if you stopped being what you are?” Scorpio whispers. I have no idea how to answer that for myself. I do know that the only way to begin to find the answer is to make space for the question.
It’s tempting to think that the answer is a new city, travel, even a new career; Venus and Mars in aspect to Uranus at this Full Moon signals a big shake-up. But Taurus and Scorpio remain firmly planted on the ground, and it’s here that this Full Moon’s struggle must be resolved. Running away and embracing new frontiers is alluring, but the spirit of adventure can’t get us very far without the Taurus/Scorpio fuel of physical stamina and soulful passion.
So these are what we need to conjure, and I think I know how. If we can find the nerve, we have to empty our cups of their last drops. We may not know where the next drink will come from, but we know that this one came from a tainted well. Only when the cup is empty can we hold it out to the universe and ask, with the bowed head of a supplicant, “Fill this, please.”
It is the Taurus season of idleness and plenty. The urge is to ask for even more beauty, more pleasure, more prosperity. But until we have successfully navigated Scorpio’s portal, asking for more is like going shopping when our arms are too full of garbage bags to carry new purchases.
So, take the garbage to the curb. Tip the last drop from the cup. Give up the thing that isn’t bringing you joy. Let yourself be empty, and let your heartbeat resonate within the cavernous space that opens up. Something new is coming. Make your life ready for it. Then unleash your imagination, and summon it.