A note, all too necessary in this litigious age: This article uses my personal experience to illustrate astrological ideas. I’m not a doctor (and I don’t play one on TV). I’m not even a medical astrologer. Nothing that follows should be construed as an endorsement or prescription of any kind. (There… that should satisfy the AMA.)
A few years ago, I got excited about the idea of doing a research project about the astrology of women and Mars. I sent out questionnaires. I began collecting books and papers on the topics of women and work, women and anger, women and conflict.
Then my progressed Sun entered Venus-ruled Libra. And suddenly, it was hard to remember what I’d found so fascinating about Mars.
I thought I might revisit the project while my progressed Moon was in (Mars-ruled) Aries. But while I certainly lived Aries energy in the last frantic couple of years, promoting my book, putting together a speaking tour, and giving lots of radio interviews, I never found the time or patience to listen to Mars.
The truth is, during my progressed Moon in Aries years, I overdid it. I worked like a fiend. In my personal life, too, I rarely slowed down. I was finally brought to my knees last November, when the progressed Moon squared my natal Saturn, and transiting Saturn entered my 12th house. I finished my last out-of-town speaking engagement of the year and segued immediately into cat sitting for three different friends – including one cat that became critically ill while I was watching him – all while frantically catching up on work.
That’s when the asthma started. At first I thought it was my usual mild, seasonal flareup. I saw an acupuncturist and figured I’d soon be on the mend, as that had always worked for me in the past. But my breathing just kept getting worse.
For months I struggled along, laboring for breath, doing as much work as I could. As my progressed Moon went void-of-course in Aries, limping toward the finish line of that Mars-dominated sign, I finally gave in. I had arranged a sabbatical to work on a new project I had in mind, but instead, I’ve spent a lot of that time trying to regain my health.
In early February, I broke down and went to a doctor. I didn’t expect him to help me, and he certainly didn’t; I just wanted to rule out any underlying problems. Then, on the advice of a friend, I went to a homeopath.
If you don’t know anything about it, homeopathy takes a sort of “hair of the dog that bit you” approach. The idea is that a substance that causes symptoms when taken in large doses can be used in small amounts to treat those same symptoms. My homeopath recommended a remedy that helped immediately, almost miraculously. It was Ferrum Metallicum.
Otherwise known as iron.
Ruled by Mars.
After two and a half frantic, progressed Moon in Aries years, I was literally burned out. And since Mars is the God who has been oppressing me, it seems reasonable that he’s the God who’s trying to heal me.
The New Moon in Aries Call to Action
I wasn’t thinking along these lines when I proposed a lecture for my local astrology group this spring. But they’d already heard all the other topics I’d developed, so it occurred to me to suggest my old Mars and women topic, figuring this would force me to finally sit with the red planet and listen to what he has to say.
The timing, as it turns out, is perfect. Because at this New Moon, practically the entire transiting sky – the Sun, Moon, Venus, Mars, and Uranus – is in Aries, the sign ruled by Mars.
The sky is calling us to action.
I’m still on sabbatical, and my progressed Sun and Moon are now both in Venus-ruled signs. In my heart of hearts, I feel like working in the garden, not sitting at my desk.
But Mars has summoned me. So I’m spending my days wading through questionnaires submitted by nearly 200 vibrant, interesting, lively women, and I’m loving every last one of them. I love reading about what makes them angry and passionate, about the men they adore, how they feel about sex and work and conflict. They make me laugh as they describe, at my urging, women celebrities that drive them crazy, and ones they look up to. They wring my heart with their stories of abuse. I hear Mars speaking through them.
I suppose I think of the planets and the gods they represent as something like the ancestors who live in our DNA. We think we’re completely unique, a product of our own creation – and then an elderly relative starts at the sight of us holding our fork, because it’s exactly the way her grandmother did it. We make our own decisions and choices, or so we think; but could it be genetics, years of television viewing, or our third-grade teacher making those choices?
Or even … planets? My colleague Dharmaruci thinks so. I don’t share his conviction about fate and causality – that the planets make things happen to us – but then I don’t particularly believe in homeopathy either, and that seems to be working for me. In any event, I have no problem conceiving of the Gods as co-creators of our destiny:
In a sense ARE separate, they need to be honoured, considered, listened to. But they are also intimately bound up with who we are and our destiny….. We are living according to nature, which as Jung said is the best way to live, if we let the gods lead us there and let ourselves be dragged through whatever we need to be dragged through in order to learn a few things. But it’s also our choice to go there. And there are consequences if we choose not to go there. If, in other words, we ignore the gods. – Dharmaruci, Fate, Free Will, and The Planetary Powers
At this New Moon in Aries, Mars leads each of us to the battlefield of a cold, indifferent world, daring us to leave a mark on it. (You’ll find your own battleground in the house of your chart where 21 degrees of Aries falls. Need help finding it? This post should help.) He leads us to the hard, wintry soil and demands that we break it open, to receive the new year’s plantings. And I believe that whether you are victorious or you go down in flames, Mars will be there, too, ready to lift you up from the field of battle – possibly waving a bottle of Ferrum metallicum under your nose.
© 2013 April Elliott Kent
