A couple of years ago, I spent a few months happily devouring Alexander McCall Smith’s series of novels about The #1 Ladies Detective Agency. The series follows the adventures of Precious Ramotswe, the first lady detective in a small town in Botswana. What makes the series singularly appealing is the peek into a gentle way of life that is passing away (and for all I know, might never have existed, in much the same way Mayberry represented an idealized version of 1950s rural life in the United States). For instance, whenever Mma Ramotswe wishes to invoke “the old ways” and establish immediate rapport with a countryman, she simply calls the other “sister” or “brother.”

In astrology, ties between siblings are represented by Gemini – the sign of this New Moon – and by the third house of the chart. Naturally, not everyone shares the same idea about what it means to be a brother or a sister. As an astrologer, I’m supposed to be unflappable; but in many years of astrological counseling I admit I’ve been truly shocked by stories of sibling rivalries, of betrayal and estrangement, even incest. Such stories have made me feel all the more fortunate for having shared close bonds with my brothers and my sister. We don’t always get along, of course. But without them I can’t imagine who I would have become. And I imagine the same could be said even for those who have a toxic relationship with their siblings.

Brothers and sisters teach us our earliest lessons about relationship. When we become infatuated with ourselves, they cut us down to size. When others bully or mistreat us, a sibling is usually prepared to defend us. Siblings teach us the talismanic power of words, of promises and proprietary claims, of nicknames and teasing. Identical twins are famous for developing secret languages no one else can understand, but if you spend ten minutes with any pair of siblings who are reasonably close you will quickly encounter an impenetrable fog of in-jokes and verbal shortcuts.

Not surprisingly, Gemini also rules communication – the skills of encoding and decoding messages, of understanding our world and making ourselves understood. Our interactions with siblings teach us how to argue and negotiate, how to twist the knife, how to tell a joke, and how far we can go without completely alienating someone. Brothers and sisters teach us how to curse with real distinction, how to outwit authorities (especially our parents), and how to navigate the dynamics of competition.

Our brothers and sisters teach us how to interact with others and by extension, they teach us who we are. By negotiating a role for ourselves among our siblings, we define ourselves. To a lesser extent this is also true of our neighbors (also ruled by Gemini and the third house of the horoscope), to whom we’re also yoked by common turf, mutual interests, and subtle competition. Few of us would admit that we feel pressure to “keep up with the Joneses,” but it’s difficult not to compare your old jalopy and crabgrass-infested lawn to your neighbor’s bright new sedan and expensive landscaping. We naturally compare ourselves to those whose circumstances closely resemble our own – just as we might compare ourselves with a brother or sister.

This New Moon in Gemini is a Solar Eclipse. Eclipses tend to poke at sensitive spots in the psyche; this particular bruise may be sibling-shaped.  When a family loses a sibling, through estrangement or death, it’s like losing spokes on a wheel: it may still turn, but the vehicle becomes wobbly. One of my brothers died suddenly and young. Our mother died two years later, and as devastating as that was, I realized that the loss of a sibling is in many ways an even graver tragedy. After all, as my mother once suggested, you can reasonably expect to someday lose your parents, but subconsciously we expect our siblings – our partners in crime – to walk with us to the end of our journey.

Whenever I gather with my sister and our remaining brother, we speak of our parents and we miss them; but our departed sibling is there with us, tingling like an amputated limb.  A couple of weeks from now, the three of us will make a pilgrimage to our hometown, together there for the first time since we left for good, over forty years ago. Our brother didn’t much like the old haunts. If he were alive, he’d probably dig in his heels and refuse to go. In death, he doesn’t have that option. Like it or not, he’ll be there with us.

Few people in our lives get the opportunity to influence us when we are so malleable as in childhood, when brothers and sisters leave their hand prints on us as they might in wet cement. But the truth is that while the emotional connection may be less compelling, we share similar bonds with people who share our neighborhoods, our communities, our alma mater, our mother tongue, the country of our birth. Before I meet up with my siblings in our hometown, I’ll join hundreds of my astrological brothers and sisters for a big conference in New Orleans. For a week, we’ll luxuriate in spending time with others who speak our peculiar language, like expatriates who’ve found each other far from home and converse enthusiastically in the mother tongue. And like siblings, we’ll spat among ourselves about that language, how best to interpret its symbols, whose voices deserve to be heard and celebrated. There will be rivalries, laughing, sharp words, in-jokes, and tingling, phantom limbs.

At this Gemini New Moon and Solar Eclipse, we celebrate our brothers and sisters – our siblings by birth, as well as siblings under the same Spirit. When we call each other “brother” or “sister” we, like Mma Ramotswe, invoke the bonds of sharing, memory, and community. We summon visions of a native landscape on a sun-dappled summer’s morning; of weeping in front of a television on November 22, 1963 and September 11, 2001; of childhood dreams of a remarkable future. When we call those who share our day-to-day lives “brother” or “sister,” we acknowledge the simple truth that we are family. That we make each other what we are, and we are more alike than we know. And although we may not always get along, who would we be without one another?

©  April Elliott Kent. All rights reserved.

May 20, 2012 – Solar Eclipse 00.20 Gemini
4:47 pm PDT / 7:47 pm EDT
12:47 am BST (May 21) / 9:45 am AEST (May 21)

Sabian Symbol: A glass-bottomed boat reveals undersea wonders.

This Solar Eclipse takes place at the Moon’s South Node. South Node eclipses call us to  release old, comfortable patterns – a process that is often painful, and sometimes a bit frightening. In this case, you may find that what you’ve always accepted as “common knowledge” is nothing of the sort. The Sun and Moon square Neptune in the eclipse chart affirm that sometimes the path to real understanding is navigated not with the mind, but rather with intuition, imagination, and compassion. It’s a fitting reflection of this New Moon point’s Sabian Symbol, “A glass-bottomed boat reveals undersea wonders.”

Transiting Mars in exacting Virgo is square the Moon’s Lunar Nodes at this eclipse, and suggests the journey toward greater understanding and perspective is one that will be energizing, but also demanding.  Let yourself surrender the ideal of “perfection” so that you can embrace all that is “good.”

Venus will have entered its retrograde period in Gemini on the day of the eclipse. Venus’ retrogrades are  potentially difficult passages for relationships in general – but this one will be especially hard on relationships that try to reduce love to a kind of formula or mental exercise. Expecting affairs of the human heart to follow the rules of logic and reason is a recipe for dissatisfaction. Don’t ignore underlying problems in your relationships, but seek solutions not with your brain, but rather with your heart. Sit knee to knee with the one you love, and peer into your relationship’s wondrous fathoms through your own “glass-bottomed boat.”

Previous years when eclipses fell near this spot can offer insight into what this eclipse might mean for you, and which of your life’s recurring themes are likely to be revisited. In recent years, eclipses have taken place near this degree on:

• May 21, 1993 (solar) – 0.31 Gemini
• May 25, 1994 (lunar) – 3.43 Gemini/Sag.
• Nov. 20, 2002 (lunar) – 27.32 Taurus
• Nov. 23, 2003 (solar) – 1.13 Sagittarius

Hot degrees: This eclipse will probably be especially significant for you if you have planets or angles – especially the Sun, Moon, or Ascendant – between about 28 degrees of Taurus, Leo, Scorpio, or Aquarius, and 3 degrees of Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius, and Pisces.  How to find where this eclipse point falls in your birth chart.

Want to know more about what this eclipse means for you? Order my eclipse report, Followed by a Moonshadow. It follows three years worth of eclipses through your birth chart. Details and ordering information here.

“I just went through my entire Moonshadow Report below and I have never read anything like this before.  I love the way you have put this report together with your insights and analogies!” – M.G.

It’s downhill all the way to the ocean,
so of course the river always wants to flow.
The river’s been here longer,
It’s older and stronger and knows where to go.
~ David Wilcox, “Slipping Through My Fist”

Ever hopeful for increased prosperity and other cosmic bonbons, I decided to perform the Venus Santeria ritual that Dana wrote about at MoonCircles. It sounded so simple – a piece of bread, a smallish candle, a nickel, a body of running water – but it took me the better part of an afternoon to collect the right size candle, the right shape roll. Finally, I had everything I needed to perform the ritual on the Friday (Venus’ day) after the New Moon.

So just before lunchtime I wrote out my wish list, prepared my little roll, and lit the candle. As it burned down, I followed the ritual’s instructions to pursue pleasant Venusian pastimes. I had my favorite food for lunch, and then I replaced my decaying guitar strings, which seemed appropriately Venusy. Within a couple of hours the candle burned itself out, and I was ready to … well, roll, so to speak. The question was, where to release my Venusian offering into the wild? I had been thinking of taking it over to Coronado and tossing it into the ocean, but then I reread Dana’s article and realized salt water was out of the question.

Then my husband remembered a spot down in the valley where we might be able to get close enough to the bank of the San Diego River to surrender my cosmic muffin therein. We parked in a nearby lot, trundled down the street a piece, and found a likely – if rocky – spot. We picked our way cautiously a few feet down, where I perched on a rock and hurled the bun. At first, I was dismayed; the roll fell just at the edge of a kind of breakwater thing and just sat there for a minute. And then I noticed that the wind was blowing the water toward the breakwater, and despaired of my little offering to Venus getting very far at all.

Then, an intervention: a group of four ducks descended on the roll, pushed it into the river, and began eating it. “That’s… good, right?” I asked my husband. “I mean, nature participating in the ritual, and all.” “Well, think of it this way,” he pointed out. “That roll is going to get a lot further down the river in the stomach of that duck than it would have on its own.”

I am weirdly (among my astrologer friends, anyway) skeptical about magic, which is perhaps why my forays into ritual so often go comically awry. And yet, they have occasionally yielded intriguing results, too. Many years ago, not long before I met my spouse, I performed a New Moon ritual that included writing a list of the qualities I desired in a mate and leaving it under a burning candle. A couple of years later as I was packing up to move to San Diego and get married, I ran across the long-forgotten list. It read like a resume of my husband-to-be.

Likewise, since performing the Santeria ritual a couple of weeks ago, it seems that I’m getting pretty much whatever I ask for – which, believe me when I tell you, is not a normal state of affairs. On the penultimate day of last month, for instance, I made a silent request to Venus to send me one more client before the next month was through; at 11:00 p.m. the next evening, I received a Pay Pal payment. That night, we went to a concert featuring one of my favorite singer-songwriters. I was really eager to hear him perform a particular song that I adore, a relatively obscure number, and on a whim, I silently sent the wish along. Within ten minutes, he performed the tune. I wished for my brother to join my sister and me in an upcoming visit to our hometown. Yesterday, I got the news that he’s coming along.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s all a series of coincidences. But at this Full Moon in Scorpio, the sign of magical, unseen forces and the power of universal support, I find myself dazzled by this generous display of cosmic goodwill. It’s illuminating to contemplate that among the Gods of mythology, Pluto/Hades – ruler of Scorpio – was known as “The Rich One.” In astrology, Scorpio, Pluto, and the 8th house have come to symbolize the world’s riches – “other people’s money,” inheritance and loans, mysterious windfalls. It makes sense to consider that what we put forward from Venus and the second house must eventually find a response from Pluto and the eighth house.

And yet, it’s very hard for some of us to rely upon Scorpio’s cosmic trust fund, the enormous stockpile of goods, services, and enlightenment that sits waiting for us to draw checks against it. I grew up among farmers who worked extraordinarily hard for every dollar, and I definitely absorbed the ethos that hard work alone, not magic, would summon financial security (although none of the hard-working families around us seemed especially prosperous).

So I’ve always worked hard and asked for little. And I think I’m beginning to understand that while preparation is key to receiving the world’s bounty – and hard work is part of that preparation – so is the ability to articulate what you want, and the willingness to claim it. It’s important to use all your gifts to create a life that is a sincere offering to the gods, but prosperity is a dance you must do with the unseen forces of the collective. You can’t achieve prosperity in a vacuum, not unless you own a mint. Prosperity is not a closed system; the money you hope to attract has to come from other people. And the minute you demonstrate a willingness to accept help from the collective, the oppressive weight of trying to earn a living is immediately cut in half. There’s no shame in letting others carry you part of the way along your journey.

So it’s important to prepare the Cosmic Bun of Goodwill and Intention, to do the work of finding the stream, and to drive down to the water to send it on its way. But once you’ve done your part, maybe it’s perfectly all right to let your offering be carried along downstream in the wind, or stuck to the bottom of a boat, or even in the belly of a duck – propelled by collective forces that can carry your wishes far beyond the limited reach of your own, small imagination.

© April Elliott Kent. All rights reserved.

Taurus is the sign of physical pleasures and indulgence. Unfortunately, I was born with Saturn in the second house of my chart, which is Taurus’ natural domain. My psyche “reads” Taurus as representing the unobtainable – or at least, things obtainable only through herculean effort. And so as usual at the New Moon in Taurus, I find myself feeling dissatisfied with my physical world. All my possessions seem shabby. My house and garden are a mess. I can’t keep up with the laundry. And my weight. Oh lord, my weight.

I’ve always struggled with my weight. Always. Partly, it’s genetics; I come from a family of large people. But in greater part it’s the cumulative bad habits of a lifetime, the legacy of a family that has always turned to food to cope with problems, as other families might turn to excessive alcohol, drugs, religion, or shopping.

Worse, I’m simply not naturally inclined toward anything athletic. Some astrologer friends and I used to joke that we were “dead from the neck down,” and it’s true I’ve tended to live in my head, that my axiom has always been “Never stand if you can sit, never sit if you can recline with a book.” I was indulged in my love of books and writing from an early age and was never browbeaten into the kinds of physical activities that, while they did not come naturally to me, might have conditioned me to pursue a more well-balanced lifestyle.

And so any healthful habits I’ve developed over the past 50 years have been a triumph over my own indifference to the physical world and a family legacy of using food and books as the coping mechanisms of choice. But victories of this sort all too often have a feeling of panicked impermanence about them, with backsliding and failure always seeming to loom nearby.

Which brings me here, to this New Moon in Taurus heart of spring, once again enacting rites of resurrection I’ve performed in years past. About a year ago, I turned a familiar corner. Some indefinable something clicked – it’s a mysterious switch that unexpectedly and blessedly flips on, and overnight it’s suddenly possible to throw away the Cheetos and commit to better habits. I started spending more time outdoors, weeding and pruning and taking walks, and the sunshine and fresh air are doing me a world of good. It’s as though I’ve reincarnated, inhabiting a body again after a long absence, and it’s a good feeling.

In my favorite film, Wings of Desire, an angel named Damiel longs to experience life as a human: “To be excited not only by the mind, but at last, by a meal – the curve of a neck, by an ear. To feel your skeleton moving along as you walk… Or to feel at last what it’s like to take your shoes off under the table and to stretch your toes barefoot.” Perhaps the one thing that differentiates us from the angels is our physicality, and that must mean our bodies have something to teach us. Patience, for one thing. Balance, for another. “Instead of forever hovering above, I’d like to feel there’s some weight to me, to end my eternity and bind me to earth,” says Damiel.

I think sometimes that I’ve never really been committed to being here, in this body, that I find physicality a bit of an imposition a lot of the time and that carrying extra ballast is a way of binding me – reluctantly – to earth.

But lately I’m remembering that great joy can be found in the simplest of physical activities. Without my poor old body, I couldn’t spend long, quiet afternoons in the back yard, spade in hand, digging weeds from the damp, dark loam. Couldn’t feel the sap of spring rising in me, the urge to dance and to laugh so hard at my friends’ dinner conversation that I can hardly breathe.

The disembodied Damiel longingly muses, “At each step, each gust of wind, I’d like to be able to say, ‘Now!’” Now is all we have, and people like me, who live too much in the illusory past or future, neglect the wisdom of inhabiting the present. The body is our link to the present moment; ask anyone with a toothache.

So at this New Moon in the physically-oriented sign of Taurus, I pause each day to dutifully perform my determined little exercises -  in hopes, yes, of building my health. But more importantly, it’s to remind myself to take part in the physical world, the present moment, and to inhabit my whole life – including my physical body, down to the feet that keep me rooted here. To remember to appreciate the opportunity to inhabit the physical world and learn from it, and to open myself to other, more spontaneous physical and emotional activities. Even if only to breathe in the fragrant spring air and smile  into the sun. Even if only to say, “Now!”

© April Elliott Kent

Through the Looking Glass: Careful there, Alice!

Each year at the Aries New Moon, I imagine the great mass of humanity bursting out of the starting gate like the bulls running in Pamplona – highly charged with vim and vitality, impatient to get on with the business of … what, exactly? At the New Moon, we’re never exactly sure. We’re long on energy, but short on perspective. And Aries, of all the signs, exemplifies this New Moon spirit. At the Libra Full Moon (April 6, 2012, at 17.23 Libra), our task is to cast the cool eye of appraisal over the ideas and ventures that were  initiated at the Aries New Moon (March 22, 2012, at 2.22 Aries). Do they seem revolutionary and creative, or merely impetuous – even reckless?

Without the restraint and perspective for which Libra is famous, the unleashing of Aries energy can occasionally lead to real danger. My sister, born at the New Moon and with Aries rising, was a bristly, calamitous child. Once, impatient to be let in the house, she slammed her palm on the glass pane of the front door and cut her hand badly. On a particularly memorable spring morning, as we crept through a neighbor’s yard to get a look at their baby bunnies, she suddenly cried out in pain; when I turned to find out why, I saw that she had stepped on a large, iron rake, and a prong had impaled her big toe.

Her lack of caution occasionally got her into trouble, but still, you had to admire her spirit.Aries-like, she simply didn’t know the meaning of fear. She harassed her baby sister with real vigor, but she was just as fierce on my behalf when mean kids messed with me on the playground. And she loved an adventure. When our mother announced that we were moving 3,000 miles away to California, my brother and I crumpled in despair, devastated to leave our friends in Indiana – but my sister’s eyes lit up, and her toes tapped with excitement.

On the other hand… well, the blood. The cut glass, the punctured toe (and in later years, the thumb caught by the sewing machine needle; the hand neatly sliced by a broken water glass while she was washing the dishes). So while I applaud the je ne sais quoi of the intrepid Aries, I’m relieved to take a moment during this Sun in Aries cycle to rest, sip a cool drink, and meditate for a moment on the balancing attributes of Aries’ opposite sign – the measured restraint of Libra.

Where Aries is spirited, Libra is smooth. Aries rushes, but Libra glides. On the playground, Aries shoves a kid off the swing so she can have her turn; Libra sweet talks the kid until he not only vacates the swing, but agrees to push her while she takes her ride. Aries and Libra are each determined to get their way – they are, after all, cardinal signs, and like to be in charge – but they differ stylistically. Aries favors the direct approach; when Aries wants something from you, it is plain what it is and how he intends to get it. Libra, on the other hand, is a master strategist, flattering and charming his way to victory.

This is not to say that Libra’s approach is perfect. Libra’s job is to consider all possibilities before acting; but while Libra may have more perspective than Aries, this does not necessarily translate into great clarity about which course should be pursued. In fact, Libra can find herself overwhelmed by these possibilities, weighing first one, then the other, then the first one again… until Aries is jumping up and down in frustration: “Just! Choose! One!”

But while Libra’s careful weighing of options can be maddening, it is the perfect astrological antidote to Aries’ most unfortunate tendency: the failure to take other perspectives into account while dashing madly through life. It’s usually passion rather than a lack of caring that makes Aries behave this way. If you are a tad insensitive from time to time, or if your pursuit of some object, person, or goal occasionally blinds you to the wants and needs of others, then you are acting from the untempered Aries side of your nature. What’s needed at these moments is a bracing draft of Libra, the quiet voice of prudence that reminds you of the needs, rights, and opinions of others.

When we embrace our inner Aries, we can get so charged up that we don’t care who or what stands in our path – we just keep ramming into the obstacle until it gives way. This single-minded determination to overcome obstacles can be employed to invaluable effect. Formidable activists Cesar Chavez and Gloria Steinem, pioneering statesman Thomas Jefferson, and visionary artist Leonardo da Vinci and Vincent Van Gogh were born when the Sun was in this sign. But as these famous examples suggest, the unbridled enthusiasm of our Aries instincts are often most effective when tempered by the Libran traits of strategy, diplomacy, and artistry.

Each of us possesses both Aries and Libra tendencies, although not necessary in equal measure. Often, with maturity, the youthful impulsiveness of Aries naturally gives way to the measured approach of Libra. My sister’s rash Aries instincts still get the best of her on occasion (though it’s been years since she impaled herself on any sharp objects), but as an adult she also possesses a Libran sensitivity to the feelings of others. And hers is one of the finest marriages I know – probably beause she was already a feisty, full-realized individual before she became someone’s partner. It’s exactly this kind of positive Aries self-confidence that makes full Libra partnership possible.

At this Full Moon, Mars and Venus – ruling planets of Aries and Libra – are in square aspect to each other, and hard aspect to Neptune as well. More than usual, conflicts arise between what we want (and with Venus square Neptune, we may have only a tenuous idea of what that is) and how best to get it. Where in your life are you an impatient Aries, charging out into the world with enthusiasm but occasionally in need of direction and feedback? (Look for the house in your birth chart with Aries on the cusp.) At this Libra Full Moon, introduce that wildish part of yourself to your Libran alter ego. Somewhere in you lies the balancing instincts that know how to restrain your impulsiveness, where to maximize your creative zest with keen artistic sensibilities – and when to put on heavy shoes, to avoid getting a rake stuck through your toe.

How to find this Full Moon point in your birth chart

© April Elliott Kent

A neighbor shared the story of being unexpectedly confronted by an unfriendly dog that promptly took his entire hand into its mouth. Most people’s instinct would be to pull the hand away, and in doing so probably shred the flesh against the dog’s teeth. But my neighbor’s instinctive reaction proved much wiser: he pushed his hand further down into the dog’s throat. The dog gagged and opened its mouth, allowing my neighbor to pull his hand out, uninjured.

During Pluto transits, or when you’re grappling with some tough aspects from Pluto to planets in your birth chart, the best response may be similar to my neighbor’s approach with the dog: when you’re feeling trapped in the jaws of life, don’t pull away – go deeper. Going deeper into the experience, letting yourself feel everything there is to feel, is the first step to getting past it. Be fearless, decisive, and committed in dealing with Pluto situations; half measures, designed to protect you, will only get you hurt.

I get this question a lot, and this is actually one of the things that confused me when I was getting started in astrology. I’ll take a crack at making this simple.

If you like your instructions in writing, drop down below the video and a step-by-step example, using an Astro.com chart.

If you’re more of a video person, you can take a gander at this one, which is about 7 minutes long  (select the “full screen” version to see it a bit better):

The video goes into a lot more depth as to the hows and whys, but here’s the quick and dirty method.

Let’s say you’re reading one of my essays and I mention an upcoming New Moon at 2.22 Aries. First of all, what does 2.22 mean? It stands for 2 degrees and 22 minutes. Each sign has 30 degrees, numbered from 0 to 29. Each degree has 60 minutes. (It’s kind of like a clock; think of the degree as the hour.) So this means the New Moon was about 2 and 2/3 degrees into the sign of Aries. Not very far along at all.

Fine. In which house of your chart does this New Moon fall?

1. First, get your chart. If you don’t have your chart, go to Astrodienst and calculate it for free. You’ll need your date, exact time, and place of birth. Then, come back and join us.
2. Okay. You’ve got your chart. First thing to do is find the house cusp with Aries on it. Aries looks like this:
3. Rejoin me by scrolling down to the bottom of this image:

You’ll see Aries highlighted on the above chart in the bottom right-hand quadrant. The 30 degrees of Aries (0-29) in my chart straddle the 5th house cusp. That means some of Aries is in my 4th house (before the 5th house cusp) and some Aries falls in my 5th house (after the cusp).

The question is, which part of Aries is in which house?

I think Astrodienst provides an amazing service to up-and-coming astrologers and students. I’d have killed to have access to free chart drawings when I was starting out. But between you and me, I find their charts kind of hard to read. Here’s the skinny.

Underneath the list of planets in signs is a little table that shows which degrees of which signs are on the house cusps:

Well, AC stands for Ascendant, and that’s the 1st house cusp. MC stands for Midheaven, and that’s the 10th house cusp. But what happened to the 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th house cusps?

They are always at the same degree as the opposite house cusp, but in the opposite sign.

In this chart:

• 1st house cusp is 1.55 Sagittarius, so the 7th house cusp is 1.55 Gemini
• 2nd house cusp is 28.39 Sagittarius, so the 8th house cusp is 28.39 Gemini
• 3rd house cusp is 1.08 Aquarius, so the 9th house cusp is 1.08 Leo
• 4th house cusp is 15.41 Pisces, opposite the Midheaven at 15.41 Virgo
• 5th house cusp is 11.18 Aries, opposite 11th house cusp at 11.18 Libra
• 6th house cusp is 6.41 Taurus, opposite 12th house cusp at 6.41 Scorpio

So the 5th house cusp in this chart begins at 11.18 degrees Aries. This means that anything at 0 – 11.17 degrees of Aries falls in my 4th house, and everything from 11.18 to 29.59 degrees of Aries falls in the 5th house.

Therefore, the New Moon at 2.22 Aries falls in my 4th house.

“But I don’t see Aries anywhere on my chart!”

This is called an interception. This means the sign doesn’t appear on a house cusp. But I assure you, there are still 30 degrees of Aries in your chart. Signs don’t just disappear – least of all Aries.

In this case, all 30 degrees of Aries are completely contained in the house between the cusp with Pisces (the sign before Aries) and the house with Taurus (the sign after Aries) on the cusps.   So anything transiting in Aries falls in that house.

I hope that helps!

One day, driving back from an otherwise uneventful trip to Trader Joe’s, I became so angry at a fellow motorist that I screamed – and it felt so good that I screamed some more. I screamed so enthusiastically that my husband, over in the passenger’s seat, started to get kind of concerned. He later told me that my screaming and anger had made him feel “as though someone was standing on my chest.”

Oh, dear. I know that feeling. I’ve been on the other end plenty of times, watching otherwise rational people rage out of control in a way that makes me fear for their safety and their sanity. I feel that way at family gatherings when talk turns to politics and controversy quickly ensues, and when I don’t click past the cable news shows fast enough while channel-surfing. I feel that way reading the e-newsletters from the astrological organizations I belong to, when an astrologer starts spouting anger toward an astrologer with a differing approach or perspective.

It’s worth noting, at the New Moon in Aries – ruled by Mars, the god of war – that anger has its place in the vast scheme of things. It’s a warning sign that something or someone is being threatened, and acts as a motivator to remove the threat. And in my defense, I will say that although I overreacted, my fellow motorist had jumped his turn at a four-way stop and nearly rammed his SUV into the side of my tiny Toyota. I was, indeed, threatened. Except that I can’t see that anger really helped me in that situation. And in fact, it probably harmed me, stoking up my blood pressure and upsetting my sweetie as well.

My over-the-top reaction to a minor traffic incident got me thinking, and it dawned on me that earlier that morning, I’d had my feelings deeply hurt by someone who I felt hadn’t recognized and appreciated some things that I’d done. I had swallowed those feelings whole, because they embarrassed me; but they were still there, festering, until an inattentive motorist “overlooked” me and triggered my little emotion bomb.

No matter how old we get or how confident we may seem, there’s a vulnerable, newborn Aries baby inside all of us who wants to come first. And when it doesn’t we scream bloody murder, like an infant who hasn’t been fed quickly enough.

The emotion of last resort

Anger is the emotion of last resort, which kicks in only when other warning signs have failed to get our attention. When someone crosses the line with you, a quick and assertive response is in order. We need to stand up for ourselves, and when fear, good manners, or pride keep us from doing so, anger is the natural result. But anger is the nuclear weapon of the relationship arsenal – its only power lies in its ability to intimidate or frighten others. Anger stamps a vintage from the grapes of normal, healthy, Aries wrath, bottles it up and places it in a dark cellar for months. What results might be a great wine – but will more likely turn to vinegar, corrosive and sour.

These days, it seems that anger has moved from being the emotion of last resort to the first line of defense. There’s plenty of righteous anger to go around, and also quite a bit of misguided wrath. More and more, we’re seeing angry, organized groups take to the streets in a sense of empowered outrage. Unfortunately, there are still plenty of people who are cultivating anger as way of life without much self-reflection. They’re screaming, screaming, screaming behind the wheel of a car, and it doesn’t seem to be doing much good.

I can’t help but wonder how much of this anger is misdirected embarrassment about other matters altogether. It’s difficult to admit, even to yourself, that you’ve made mistakes. It’s even hard to admit when you’re in difficult circumstances despite doing everything “right.” Maybe you can look back and see where you were duped or could have done things differently; that’s a hard pill to swallow. But at some point, swallow it we must, and then move on.

The Aries New Moon demands action and courage, not anger or blame. The most effective Aries people I’ve known are people of action. They are not saints – they have tempers, and don’t always exercise the best judgment; but neither do they blame the world for their problems, or meekly accept their helplessness at the hands of fate. Even if it’s something as simple as marching in a demonstration, writing a letter to the editor, volunteering for a charitable organization, cutting down on their gasoline consumption – they do something. And if they have a beef with you, they come right out and tell you instead of letting their resentment fester.

First, make a plan

The path to action is not so straightforward at this New Moon, though. Mars – Aries’ ruling planet – is moving retrograde in Virgo and opposed Neptune. Virgo’s ruling planet, Mercury, is in impatient Aries and conjoined restless Uranus, both flanking the Sun and Moon in Aries. We’re eager to leap forward and conquer new worlds, but it seems every step we take toward action leads us back to square one or mired in a fog of confusion. The resulting frustration can lead you to want to scream, again and again.

Fortunately, Mars is also in a close trine to powerful Pluto in Capricorn at this New Moon. Hidden deep beneath the frustration and anger, you’ll find Capricorn’s cool, restraining voice of reason. “Go ahead and take action,” Pluto in Capricorn advises, “But first, cool off and make a plan.”

Look to the house of your chart where the New Moon falls, at 2.22 Aries – it tells you where you’re ready to take much-needed action in your life. The true source of any anger that emerges around this New Moon can be found in the house where Mars falls at 6.55 Virgo. And in the house containing Pluto at 9.28 degrees of Capricorn, you will find a strategic plan for holding your emotions in check and getting what you really need. Need help finding where these fall in your chart? Click here.

Aries isn’t partial to strategy; it’s the part of us that prefers to shoot first and ask questions later. But while temper tantrums and name-calling may temporarily feel satisfying, this New Moon’s most effective warriors will be those who are disciplined and organized. Don’t get angry – get effective.

I’ve grown lazy in the garden, and everything would be dead if it weren’t for the much-needed rainfall that ended our winter drought last week. Now the lawn, which we let turn brown and dusty until the rains came along and took pity on it, is lush and verdant and keeps my husband busy for at least a couple of hours each weekend. He resents this deeply, and I can’t say I blame him; but I like the green nonetheless.

The plants are suffering, though. A number of them need repotting, and I should’ve pruned back the rose bushes a month ago; but now they’re full of beautiful, dark red  foliage and I don’t have the heart. Anyway, it’s not that I don’t have time to devote to the garden, because truthfully I’m bone idle a lot of the time. I guess we just had such a short, stinting, mildish winter here that I feel a little cheated, and I’m reluctant to drag myself into spring mode.

Once I do, though, I’m bound to enjoy it. As I’ve mentioned before, I fancy myself a sort of horticultural messiah, raising plants from the dead. I really like a lost cause, always have. Had a lot of stupid relationships because of it, early on. Seems I have the eye to see the potential of a thing — can see the prince in the frog, the princess in the chambermaid, the Academy Award winner in the struggling character actor — as well as the conceit to think I can coax realization from potential. Transformation of something broken and half-dead into something beautiful and lush is thrilling as hell.  But resurrection — bringing forth life from death — is a labor of love that requires a lot of energy, and for that reason it’s a tough act to pull off.

Energy — that fine, pure dominion of Mars — is, in fact, the common denominator of life and death; hence, its astrological rulership of both Aries (birth) and Scorpio (death). In the garden, there is no life without death; foul, impolite, Scorpionic matter gets turned over and around and makes the soil a rich and nutritious thing. The hard labor of insects and enzymes, the vibrant energy of breaking down organic material into a usable state, is the foundation on which spring’s brave and tender beauty is built. So if all we celebrate of spring is the Aries emergence of green and vibrant foliage, then we’ve lost half the story of Mars — the dark, earthy, breaking-down Mars of Scorpio. 

I attended Catholic grammar school for several years, and grew to love the ritual of the church. It may sound morbid, but I always loved the week before Easter; loved the sober, chilling Stations of the Cross, loved that there was no Mass celebrated on Good Friday, the day when Jesus’ death on the cross was remembered. My father’s death a couple of years before had disposed me to dwelling a bit heavily on the death side of the life/death equation; joyful Easter Sunday, with its triumphant messages of rebirth and the impermanence of death, just didn’t resonate for a grieving ten year old. All my new beginnings — moving to a new place, living in a new family structure, joining a new religion — had been precipitated by a sudden, violent and quite permanent death. So Good Friday was the one day when I felt in sync with my congregation, tuned into the passion of the savior, testifying to the battering, violent, painful expression of Mars in his breaking down clothes. It was many years before I came to trust that the joyful lifeforce symbolized by Easter is as valid as the tragic drama of Good Friday, and that, as one is the constant companion of the other, it is just as reliable. 

On my desk is an old photo of my sister and me, ages 6 and 5, in our frilly blue Easter dresses, standing with our brother in our grandmother’s lush rose garden in rural Indiana. The photo’s out of focus and fading with age, and it looks exactly the way I remember my first nine springs — soft, hazy, tender. In my sadder moments I wish to see life as gentle and uncomplicated as it was then, to feel the pure Aries thrill at life’s limitless opportunities. But most days, I wouldn’t trade the wisdom of a lifetime of Scorpio’s breaking down process. Loss and savagery, failure and ruthlessness, cruelty and hurt come to us inevitably as a natural consequence of Mars energy in the world — the price paid for progress — and we lose our innocent Aries enthusiasm soon enough; but over time it is broken down into the rich, emotional loam of Scorpio, from which beautiful things grow.

A new photo taken today would look like this: Our brother has been gone for many years now, so it’s just my sister and me posing together in the arid, post-nuclear landscape of the California high desert where she lives with her family. Instead of Easter dresses we’re wearing our customary funky leggings and big shirts, mugging for the camera. The new photo is sharp and clear, but look closely and you’ll see a kind of softness — not the softness of happy, uncomplicated little girls, but the gentleness of strong women who’ve lost loved ones, had their share of disappointments and have grown deeper for it, and closer to one another; who nurture scraggly gardens, cozy homes, and happy families in arid terrains. Look closely and you may glimpse giggling Aries girls in those two Scorpionic women as they turn over the soil, drinking life deeply, sharing a hearty laugh on a beautiful spring afternoon.

The Vernal Equinox, when the Sun enters Aries, marks the beginning of spring in the Northern Hemisphere. This year the equinox takes place on March 19, 2012 at 10:14 pm Pacific Time.

© by April Elliott Kent

As a writer, I’ve worked with my share of editors. I’ve appreciated every one of them. A couple of them, I’ve downright loved.

The editors I’ve loved working with have had something important in common. Their focus was on what was right with my work, instead of what was wrong with it. I mean, eventually we got around to refining the disjointed thoughts and cleaning up the sentences that occasionally trailed off without any ending at all. In this, they were every bit as exacting as their job required. But the process began with their enthusiasm for the best of my writing, followed by coaching designed to help me bring the rest of it up to the same level.

All this is soothing for the writer’s ego, of course. But there’s also a practical lesson in there for any of us who find ourselves in a position of critiquing others, as parents, bosses, coaches, or even friends: most of the time, high standards combined with encouragement inspires better results than criticism alone.

The Full Moon in Virgo – especially this one, with the Moon conjoined prickly Mars in Virgo, and Mercury square Pluto – is a good time to meditate on one of the keywords commonly associated with Virgo: criticism. Virgo’s criticism is a consequence of two other keyword qualities, discrimination and discernment. Like its opposite sign, Pisces, Virgo is idealistic, embracing dreams of perfection – but Virgo can be a bit pessimistic about the capacity of mere mortals to live up to these ideals.

While Pisces is blessed with the ability to overlook imperfection, Virgo is tasked with seeing each failing that stands between us and the vision. Sometimes, it must be said, Virgo indulges in negative criticism; the world is full of faults and mediocrity, and Virgo’s inability to ignore these things can turn her into a cranky scold. But sometimes, Virgo criticizes because she is enraptured by a vision of greatness that lies only a few punctuation marks away.

My mother was born with the Moon in Virgo. When I tell astrologers this, they tsk-tsk – “You poor thing!” they say, imagining a childhood spent practicing hospital corners and declining verbs under the supervision of a scowling prison matron. It’s true that Mom’s standards for us were high. Get good grades. Be polite. Always do your best. Be the bigger person. These were hard to live up to, and when we were small and learning these lessons, Mom was tough, and tolerated nothing less than our best effort.

Expectations like these could be pretty rough coming from someone who doesn’t like you and has little hope that her opinion will improve with prolonged exposure. But luckily (and perhaps this is the influence of her Venus in Pisces peeking through), Mom made us feel that she really liked us. And even when she scolded, she prefaced her comments with something like, “I know you’re better than that.” Even when we really, truly weren’t.

Mom used to say that most people behave just about the way you expect them to behave. If you treat them as though you assume they’ll do the right thing, then they will go out of their way to prove you right. I never figured out whether she was right about this, or whether she was just a really good judge of character and surrounded herself with diamonds in the rough. But for whatever reason, for more than three decades, I watched the unlikeliest people blossom in her presence. People loved her – not just because she was friendly and funny, but because she made them feel like better people than they had ever imagined they could be.

I thought of Mom when a Virgo friend posted about honesty one day on Facebook. She wrote something like, “People think that being honest means criticizing people for everything that’s wrong about them. But I believe honesty means that when someone is really wonderful, or has done something amazing, then I should tell them that.”

I like this perspective. My friend was not advocating that we massage others with condescending, Hallmark sentimentality. Rather, it’s a reminder that criticism doesn’t have to be brutal, and that the ability to perceive the faults that prevent others from being great is no more important than the ability to make them believe that they are capable of greatness at all.

If you find yourself in a position of being someone’s “editor,” I propose beginning not with a litany of errors and failings, but with a vision of what she might become – and more importantly, the ideal she envisions for herself. What if everything were to come together in just the right way – if she found the true center of herself, committed to the hard work of being and doing better, of humbly serving her vision? What would her paradise look like?

And how can you help her get there?

©  2012 April Elliott Kent