I began my life as a musician at the age of 12, singing with my cousin. I was a shy little Leo; she was a slightly older, brash and unafraid one, with a full-throttled voice. It felt natural to let her take the lead, while I mastered harmony. Harmonizing came so naturally that it never occurred to me to wonder why I felt so much more comfortable singing counterpoint to someone else’s melody.
My cousin eventually lost interest in performing. She didn’t need a stage; her personality and charisma were so big that she commanded attention simply by walking in a room. She would never be a harmony singer, drifting through life as a satellite, reflecting another’s light. But my Leo self was undernourished, so I kept performing. Unsure that I had any light of my own inside me, I needed lights upon me in order to be sure I existed at all.
Eventually, I learned to command a stage. It became the only place where I felt whole. I felt that way for a long time, though as the years went on I performed less and less. I still picked up the guitar occasionally, but more and more I glimpsed myself in my boring office jobs and bad dates, good friendships and happy hours, and eventually, a new career in astrology. Then, just before my thirty-second birthday, I got married. And just like that, after twenty years of guitars and clubs and recording studios and awful gigs and great ones, I suddenly found that I’d lost all interest in performing as a musician. Sharing my life with someone who liked me—plain old everyday me—I no longer needed spotlights to know that I existed.
I wish that were the end of the story, but getting off stage was just the beginning. I may not need performing in quite the same way, but I suppose I still need more attention than the average person; otherwise, I wouldn’t have published books or kept a website going for all these years. And I’ll admit that I still have a tendency to gravitate toward people with big personalities, who talk a lot, or who don’t mind driving the agenda. You know why?
For one thing, it’s easier to be a satellite than it is to be the Sun. It’s easier to respond to what someone else is doing than to initiate action on your own. It’s easier to let someone else fill the conversational void so that you don’t have to come up with something to say, easier to yield the floor to someone than to claim it for yourself. It’s easier to let someone else be the Leo, commanding attention and respect.
And it’s not just easier – it’s safer. If you’re singing harmony with the world, you can blame the melody if people don’t like the song. If you’re creating what someone asks you to create instead of what your heart tells you to, you have someone to blame if people don’t like the finished product.
If you don’t let the world see you, you can’t be rejected.
So yes, it is safer and easier to be the satellite. But it’s not what you came here to do. It’s cheating.
There is only way to detach yourself from the gravitational pull of larger satellites, and that is to place yourself at the center of your own solar system. Be the one who sings the melody. Write your own stories. Tell a joke at dinner and risk having someone step on your punch line. Wear the quirky outfit that makes you feel beautiful. Cut your hair the way you like. Go after the job you want instead of settling for the one that’s offered. Choose the restaurant where you want to have dinner; order what you like.
You may doubt it, but this Leo New Moon – and the big, Leo Solar Eclipse later this month – have news for you: you are not a satellite, not a reflection of anyone else. You are the Sun, filled with your own light, golden and warming, spilling out around the edges when your guard is down. When you laugh, your eyes sparkle. When you speak from your heart, you’re thrilling to behold. Just look at you.
You are filled with your own light.
© 2015, 2017 April Elliott Kent