Before the fourth noise complaint, my roommates and I would host house parties—a thrilling opportunity to feed my obsession with people-watching. Despite the pulsing of my speaker or the roars from our vacuum collecting glass, an Aries’ moons entrance never went unnoticed. One, in particular, would shout his own name upon arrival. Another one burst my bedroom door open only to yell gibberish, then slam it shut again. I briefly dated an Aries moon. He would arrive to the party late with a booming voice, but little fanfare. As a D-list celebrity, he didn’t have to command attention in a room full of recent theatre grads. His expensive sneakers and eccentric posse functioned like a spotlight.
This need to feel noticed, which is actually a need to feel special, is the defining characteristic of Aries moons. Really, it’s a defining quality of the human ego. We all want to feel like we matter. But Aries requires more than an offspring or stylish career to achieve a sense of value. As the first sign of the zodiac, Aries represents the core of our human experience, before laws or civilization. It’s the animal within us, raw, unpredictable, and bursting with imagination. Unlike Survivor, the animal kingdom doesn’t reward impressive resumes or demonstrations of empathy. It celebrates the ability to catch prey, to use force and defeat opponents in order to meet basic needs. Aries is quite simple-minded in this sense, but today’s society isn’t built for drama or feats of bravery. Perhaps this is why Marvel continues to thrive despite its predictive formula. Collectively, we’ve disowned our animal instincts—projecting them onto cinema and WWE. It’s no wonder Aries moons can be too much for the more feminine types; we must seem horribly boring to them.
I don’t know Lebron James personally, but I do know his moon is in Aries, although, it’s hard to imagine him shouting his name at my doorway. Lebron keeps his inner fire raging every day: competing, fighting to win, displaying his strength for thousands of people who cheer him on, as if the Clippers are a Lion and the Staples Center is the Coliseum. Obviously, we can’t all be professional basketball players, but it’s important that this natal placement finds a way to play hero, to organize their lives in a way that allows expression of their Herculean spirit. Otherwise, that inner fire can easily manifest into Aries’ shadow qualities: attention-seeking behavior, or even impulsive anger.
There’s at least a handful of discussions I’ve found on Reddit, various bands of Aries moons bonding over their short tempers, and seeking advice on how to extend them. Aries is a masculine sign. It’s a doer, containing all the energy and valor of a wildfire. With the feminine moon here, its expression is like an oxymoron. The moon reflects. It’s nurturing and vulnerable. Aries enflames. It doesn’t have time for reflection; it’s confident and spontaneous…of course this contradiction lends to frustration. If I were to offer readings to the dozens of Reddit users looking for answers, I would start with their childhoods. Since the Moon’s position typically reflects our experience of mother, most often, the Aries moon child experienced mom as domineering. Whether it’s true or not, the child may have felt that mom was stifling their will, ignoring how special and capable they are.
If they were never able to get their way when they were young, this perception often lingers, coloring their experience of road blocks ahead. So, when an Aries moon’s temper is triggered, it’s probably this sensation from childhood that is being activated—stamping their feet for the kid who never got to go to sleepaway camp. In other instances, this natal placement can be a karmic inheritance. If mother didn’t honor her own fire, it becomes the child’s subconscious responsibility to let it rage. With every moon position, the chart holder must discover their own creative way of molding the sign’s qualities into a safe container. The moon is where we land when we fall. It’s our emotional habits and triggers. A well-nourished moon provides the foundation for healthy ego-formation. And since Aries embodies the ego-archetype more than most signs, proper nourishment is essential.
Many of these individuals fuel their inner fire through fighting for a cause. I knew a double Aries in college who used every ounce of will she possessed in the name of charity. For a whole semester, she was notorious within my college theatre program. Everyone had a story about how Bethany tracked them down. Whether it was blocking me in my path to Bio Lab, tagging students in Facebook statuses, or sending text message reminders once a week, accumulating donations for the Children’s Hospital was her sole mission, and she didn’t let rules of social etiquette hinder her efforts. I hate to admit that I walked around campus on high-alert, running the opposite direction when I saw her fuchsia hair bow bouncing along Call Street. But she did convince me to donate.
By the end of the semester, she was no longer stalking theatre majors. Her Instagram transformed overnight, from a collage of pleas to a display of victories. It turns out she had broken school records, raising more money than she had even anticipated. This is my favorite example of Aries’ initiative, of passion that never loses steam. Aries loves to fight for an underdog. I think many discover themselves through this process. It’s no wonder Steve Jobs and Bernie Sanders also share this natal position. They belong to an exclusive club of fighters, one our society counts on, but the call to heroism is often challenging.
For a straight-forward sign, this natal position is surprisingly complex. I describe the Aries moons in my life as thoroughly consistent, yet unpredictable. But each of them have left an impression containing far more permanence than a flame, if not for their party quirks, than for their inspiring nature. Their combination of fearlessness and willpower is penetrating; I’d almost define it as super-human. Liz Greene says that all fire moons have an intense need to feel special, to feel as if they’re one of the gods. When the Aries moon accomplishes this goal, they truly appear as such. As a collective, we’ve always needed our heroes, however big or small. Thank God we have our Aries moons, the rare individuals who can rise to the challenge.
When considering each of the twelve houses that make up a natal chart, the sixth is the last one to penetrate my brain. But as I sit in bed, my morning coffee roasting my hands through its ceramic dwelling, I reflect on my own planets in Virgo’s house, and the unique relationships we each have with our bodies among the COVID-19 virus. With Uranus there, it’s no surprise that I feel like an anomaly within the pandemic. Uranus, as the spokesperson for the eccentric, colors my experience of work, routine, and health. Not to mention it’s roommate, Mars, bringing its motivating spirit to my sixth house, all living in the sign of Capricorn. Needless to say, this is an area of life I take more seriously than astrology itself. My desire to have a job/routine that offers freedom and variety is etched in the bags beneath my eyes, permanently puffy from the number of times I’ve cried before work. Mars grants the discipline to achieve, and the motivation I need to meditate each day, even when I’d rather continue binging Housewives. Despite all of this, I still find the sixth house boring compared to its eleven counterparts. But the insight it offers illuminates the mentality which drives our daily routines and rituals, especially during this global shift affecting precisely this area of life.
I come from a family with strong sixth house placements—my dad with a sixth house Moon in Cancer, and my sister with a packed sixth house including her Moon, Chiron, Mercury, and Pluto at the intersection of Scorpio and Sagittarius. My dad had a complicated relationship with health and work. An addiction to cigarettes and an aversion to vegetables culminated in a heart attack when transiting Pluto opposed his natal moon eight years ago. I remember his routine consisting of several Cancer-like activities such as daily phone calls to his mom, brother, or sister, or preparing our favorite meals for us three times a day.
In contrast, my sister’s experience is less straight-forward. Her bedroom alone reflects the contradiction of planets clumped in the eastern hemisphere of her natal chart. Above the collage of clothing and bags obscuring her carpet rests a row of hand sanitizers placed single file on her tallest dresser. Each time she sanitizes, she uses the first bottle before moving it to the end of the row, repeating the cycle every time her hands get dirty. Even her favorite video games become a ritualistic experience. While I’d rather devote hours to perfecting the looks of my Sims and décor of their homes, Gina prefers Live Mode because she can perform routines through the actions of her avatars. Her families eat breakfast at the same time each morning, and go to sleep at the same time each night. And you can bet each child completes their homework before it’s due. She is the only person I’ve seen use Grand Theft Auto as a way to practice safe driving—keeping pace with the computer cars and following traffic signals instead of bulldozing pedestrians and stealing BMWs. Order and routine offer her a sense of security, and with Sagittarius on the next cusp, a sense of expansiveness as well. Since she was already taking the semester off, the current state of our world has hardly altered her daily practices. But if it did, she would adapt, finding a new system to fulfill the planets and signs that make up her sixth house.
While scrolling through Reddit recently, I discovered some resources by astrologer, Brian Clark, whose perspective on the twelve houses provided new meaning to my previous understanding. He states that disease, health, and our everyday lives comprise the literal interpretation of the sixth house. Psychologically, however, it involves establishing rituals which encourage wellbeing and a sense of coherency. Spiritually, it means “creating space for the sacred in everyday life.” This period of isolation is an ideal time to find solace in our sixth house practices. What daily rituals are sacred to you, and how do they support your personality and soul? Perhaps Earth is undergoing some harsh sixth house transits these days. Then again, Virgo’s house is also the house of healing. Either way, my eyes look less puffy today.
I can recall the precise moment I discovered the meaning of what is now my favorite tool in predictive astrology. I was in bed, reading the final section of Liz Greene’s “The Luminaries” before my 11AM shift at Nesmon Cafe. As the title suggests, the book focuses on the roles of the Sun and Moon in our natal charts—what astrologers define as the foundation of chart interpretation. As I was nearing the end of yet another thrilling read by Greene, I wasn’t expecting much in the form of new information. Although, knowing Greene, I should have known better. It was in these final pages that she described the function of the “progressed moon,” a term I had never heard of before, even after years of practicing astrology. From that day forward, this information not only altered the way I approach predictive astrology, but also elevated the way I experience the world and my place within it.
Tracking your progressed moon is like taking an open-notes exam on your life. The answers are right in front you; it almost feels like cheating. And it’s so simple, astrology enthusiasts of all levels can understand how it works. Many websites such as, astrodienst.com have a Progressed Chart feature that allows you to pull up your current progressions just by inputting your birth info. It’s important to understand that your progressed chart is a separate entity; it won’t match your transits because it acts as a separate chart operating at its own pace. You can follow the path of every planet’s progression, but the moon is the most telling in terms of highlighting the themes of your life at any given moment. When we’re born, our progressed moon is located in the same sign and house as our natal moon. Every two-and-a-half years or so it travels to the following house and sign, forcing us to experience the themes and lessons of that sign along the way. This cycle continues, eventually completing its path once it’s traveled through all twelve signs and houses, about thirty years later. At this point, we’ve experienced our first Saturn Returns in addition to all twelve progressions. With an understanding of each sign’s unique experience and lessons, at thirty, we are more mature, more understanding, and more well-rounded.
When I learned about the existence of the progressed moon, mine had just entered the eighth house of intimate relationships. It was during this same time that I had a chance encounter that led to my first serious, adult relationship. Six months later, my boyfriend moved across the country to live in my Los Angeles apartment with me, sharing my bedroom for an entire year—it doesn’t get more intimate than that. Life put me in a scenario where I had to learn the lessons of Scorpio through experiencing its qualities firsthand. Looking back, I cannot fathom the accuracy of it all. Simultaneously, my progressed moon was in the sign of Aries, marking a period of initiating various projects and learning how to stand up for myself as an individual. Now resting in Taurus, those projects I started a year ago are finally finished and tangible. And my intense cravings for poached eggs and gourmet bagels are at an all-time high. Look up your progressed chart to see what themes and lessons the universe has in store for you right now, and find solace in the fact that you’re always exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Sometime around 2013, I realized how it felt to look back on a generation. I had just graduated high school and Boy Meets World was receiving a spinoff, fourteen years after the show’s emotional finale. Memes about 90’s Kids infiltrated Tumblr, and I noticed, for the first time, that low-rise jeans and lip-gloss had become obsolete. My mother explained to me that Pluto rested in Sagittarius for the majority of the 2000’s, finally entering Capricorn in 2008. If I were to describe the 2000’s to an alien who never rummaged through Abercrombie before phones had flashlights, I would describe the decade as very Sagittarian.
Nearly all the major pop stars of the decade were Sagittarians. Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Miley Cyrus, and Taylor Swift are just a few—all Sagittarians, all 2000’s royalty. Justin Timberlake is a Sagittarius Moon, and even Kim Kardashian, who rose to fame at the end of the decade, has Sagittarius Rising. The whole essence of the aesthetic at the time could be labeled “over the top.” It’s only too fitting that Sagittarius is known as the sign of taking things too far. It’s also no surprise that a major theme of this time was “sex sells.” Sagittarius has a reputation for flaunting sexuality, displaying it in a more overt fashion than its secretive predecessor: Scorpio. (That was the nineties.) The essence of the centaur was everywhere fifteen years ago. From Lil Wayne’s “I wanna lick lick lick lick lick you like a lollipop,” to Justin and Britney’s iconic, yet tacky denim and diamonds look. The 2000’s scream Sagittarius, and the more you reminisce, the more apparent it becomes.
The 2010’s took on a more serious tone, but that’s to be expected with Capricorn. Bubblegum pink gloss was replaced with a matte, charcoal lipstick. The focus deviated from cleavage to eyebrows, a facial feature that we associate with concern. Earth signs, such as Lorde and Beyonce, defined the aesthetic with a dark, more understated style. I always joke that Capricorn’s style can be defined as ‘trying hard to look like they’re not trying at all,’ which is how I would describe the fashion of the 2010’s. Skinny jeans and miniskirts were replaced with leggings and joggers. Belly-button rings and body glitter were replaced with septum rings and winged eyeliner. Pinks and purples were abandoned for neutral colors. Beyond that, the 2010’s marked a time of deep financial insecurity, as well as rampant publicizing of success and achievement through social media. And pop music, as we knew it, was swapped for indie-pop and alternative radio hits. I believe we will look back on this time and think, ‘why did we take ourselves so goddam seriously?’
In 2023, Pluto enters Aquarius, and one can only assume what that will mean for the essence of the next decade. If I were to guess, I’d predict that the fashion will become more individualistic. We may find it less trendy to follow trends; perhaps the trend will simply be “eccentric.” Music might return to a more futuristic sound of the 80’s, or a futuristic sound we have yet to even hear. Art may become less commercialized, and technology may change the way we live our lives in a drastic way. I, for one, can’t wait to see what comes of it all. The influence of our galaxy’s tiniest planet is fascinating to track. If you’d like to track its path as well, note that it often retrogrades, but for longer periods of time than Mercury or other planets. The 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s were less consistent due to the planet’s retrograding between signs, but the essence of the decades are still marked by Pluto’s path. The dwarf planet takes anywhere between ten to thirty years to travel through a sign, completing its lap around the entire chart every 248 years. Check out the dates below…
Oct. 1971 - Apr. 1972: Libra
Apr. 1972 – Jul. 1972: Virgo
Jul. 1972 – Nov. 1983: Libra
Nov. 1983 – May 1984: Scorpio
May 1984 – Aug. 1984: Libra
Aug. 1984 – Jan. 1995: Scorpio
Jan. 1995 - Apr. 1995: Sagittarius
Apr. 1995 - Nov. 1995: Scorpio
Nov. 1995 – Jan. 2008: Sagittarius
Jan. 2008 – Jun. 2008: Capricorn
Jun. 2008 – Nov. 2008: Sagittarius
Nov. 2008 – Mar. 2023: Capricorn
Mar. 2023 - ? 2043: Aquarius
As a child, I repeated myself a lot. “I want grilled cheese for dinner,” I’d inform my mom. “I want grilled cheese for dinner. I want grilled cheese for dinner…” I’d echo to myself twice more, hardly aware that my words were creating sounds, or that my mom could hear me over the rumbling of the dishwasher. “Why are you doing that?” She’d ask. “I don’t know,” I’d reply. In preschool, I didn’t know how to say the word, “computer,” opting for the more complicated, “perkapurter.” When the teacher couldn’t understand my pronunciation of my misguided vocabulary, I felt confused. Now, at twenty-five, I’m less confused than the kindergartner in speech class. But confusion has been replaced by something else…a lingering sense of incompetence.
Through studying astrology, I’ve discovered a few things: I’m not alone in this, we all have different ways of expressing our ideas, and precise articulation is meaningless without an open mind. Yet, it often feels like I’m alone. It’s hard to describe what occurs when these five-year-old feelings emerge out of a harmless question from a coworker. It’s as though everyone else has been rehearsing their lines for weeks, and I’m jumping in on opening night. Ironically, this is a nightmare I have quite often. My clenched jaw is indicative of my anxiety, but also my resistance to speak any words at all. Perhaps those with this placement spend so much time in their heads, because it’s the safest environment for their picture-like thoughts.
Science class was like a foreign language. The idea of photosynthesis proved incomprehensible until my mom discovered a technique compatible with my mercury—illustrating the ideas into drawings. Photosynthesis was no longer a scientific process; it was a story. Each character had their motivation and a clear relationship with one another. At last, I could understand what the other students understood from our first popcorn reading. “Were you listening when Mrs. Broader went over this in class?” My mom asked. “I thought I was…” I whispered. I wasn’t. I intended to, of course, but the generation of oxygen was far less interesting than my strategy for next week’s Bye Bye Birdie auditions. When the bell shook me out of my fantasy and plopped me in reality, I felt disappointed in myself. Beyond that, I felt as though I couldn’t help it. My mind had betrayed me, but boy did third period fly by.
In a perfect world, I would lie in bed from dawn to dusk with nothing but the company of my imagination. As a writer and astrologer, I hope to achieve that luxury one day. Creativity has nearly healed the insecure student in me, showing that intelligence can take on a variety of forms. But when confronted with the obligation to articulate myself in daily life, I still experience a kind of fear. It certainly doesn’t help that I’m an Aquarius; I doubt myself more frequently than I drink water. And like Pisces, I hesitate to separate myself too distinctly. I don’t just know, but I feel how we are all connected. Speaking from the point of view of my own individuality feels like a decision to abandon my school of fish, opting to swim against the tide and against the laws of nature. This is a lot, I know. And perhaps I’ve spent one too many nights falling asleep to the voice of Alan Watts…
Simply put, I feel how deeply our words affect others. I have felt it firsthand. Perhaps I am wounded, and perhaps the issue for me is more complex. But I tend to think Pisces, as a sign, feels wounded as well. The truth is, we’re all sensitive beings and there’s no harm in treating each other as such. There’s no harm in talking in circles if that’s what it takes to discover your point. It’s better to say the wrong thing and realize it, than to cling to your beliefs with such confidence that it blinds you like driving into the sun during golden hour. I won’t neglect to mention that Pisces possess a propensity toward delusion (emotions always run the risk of delusion). However, they are not close-minded. To think like a Pisces, is to think with the fluidity of the ocean, with its constant ebb and flow, seizing new pebbles with each wave that contacts the earth; and in turn, creating the sand that form our beaches. It’s unpredictable, but it’s creativity at its finest.
This is a daunting task for me: writing a blog on Virgos. I’m afraid to admit that I have the least experience with the sixth sign of the zodiac. In general, I feel we tend to misunderstand each other. My chiron falls in the first house in Virgo, so perhaps I’ve been avoiding some necessary practical energy that would prove beneficial to my growth and sense of confidence. However, the four years I spent in my college theatre program taught me more than just the history of Beckett, or how to open a wine bottle with a pen and a hammer. It illustrated what I had only read in Astrology for Lovers, and taught me the value in understanding those I cannot inherently relate to—in this case, Virgos.
If I were to describe Virgo’s energy in one word, it would be calm. Maybe this is due to the connection to their bodies, or all the quinoa and Bon Iver they consume. But their ability to harness control over their emotions seems more developed than Scorpio’s at times. Again, I don’t have many examples to use as reference. But let’s consider their opposite: Pisces—a sign I have quite a lot of experience with. Pisces is notorious for its role as the poster child of emotions, and more specifically, uncontrolled emotions. But if Pisces is a floodgate, Virgo is the gate, assessing the distinction between what’s allowed entry, versus what’s irrational and unwelcome. So, while Pisces floods right through any gate in its path, Virgo remains poised, its iron frame built solidly into the earth. To the more watery types, their rationality is both foreign and admirable. But through categorizing their emotions, they’re able to process them, at least to some extent. And in turn, they’re able to turn their focus outward—offering a helping hand to others and a solid, yet gentle presence to lean on. With that being said, life is not black and white. As humans, our conflicts and issues are extremely nuanced. So their help, however good-intentioned it may be, can appear to the less earthy personalities as an obtuse judgment. Some problems cannot find resolution through dissection and logic. And I believe this is Virgo’s lesson to be learned.
The Virgos I attended college with were mostly skeptical toward astrology, despite their blatant displays of the sign’s stereotypes. My theatre program, for better or for worse, immersed me in a jungle of type-A individuals who ironed their jeans, ate salads after a night of drinking, and expressed love for research papers. I felt a special kind of rage against those who also possessed a gift for creativity. My planets in Pisces offer a vast imagination with little care for mechanics or details. In my experience, great art requires both. Many artists I admire were born with their sun in Virgo. Even Liz Greene, my favorite astrologer, is a Virgo who uses her talent for classification to describe each personality of the zodiac in a way that is honest and clear. She has taken one of the most nuanced concepts in the world, and has dissected it to a point where the ideas are as straightforward as geometry. And despite my resistance to their rigidity, I can’t help but admire what I lack. In fact, I think I’m quite jealous of it. A Virgo probably could have told me that after the first sentence of this rambling nonsense. Perhaps there’s a reason the universe put me in a class full of Virgos during such a vulnerable time for my ego. We can all benefit from some honest logic. I certainly can.
After several years of studying and practicing astrology, I thought I understood all the major concepts involved. Then I read “The Luminaries” by Liz Greene. I ordered the paperback version on Amazon right at the precipice of my Jupiter return—a time marked by my long-distance relationship becoming one of a four-hundred square foot radius. In the final chapter, Greene discusses the concept of the progressed moon, which travels through each house of the natal chart for two to three years, teaching us lessons of whatever sign rules the house in which it’s residing. Immediately taking to the internet, I discovered that my progressed moon had just entered the eighth house of Scorpio. Before now, I never felt confident enough to contribute a unique take on this notoriously intense sign. I’ve never had a lot of Scorpios in my life, besides my grandpa who’s an extra-terrestrial obsessed, Buddha-loving, walking cliché of everything we’re told Scorpio embodies. Even interacting with him didn’t help me understand the sign’s “dark, underbelly” I kept hearing about. However, living in a progressed, Scorpionic state for the past year-and-a-half, I finally get it. I’ve been living in it.
I often describe Scorpios with two words, “deep” and “intense.” My mind then immediately jumps to Rupaul, a double Scorpio. On each episode of Rupaul’s Drag Race, he does a walk-through with the queens in the werk room, much like Tim Gunn does with the designers on Project Runway. Living in Los Angeles, I’ve done a fair share of paid-audience gigs. With each show I worked on, it became increasingly obvious that there is nothing more seemingly superficial than the job of a reality competition host. Reading from a teleprompter, faking a smile through all that makeup, remembering which camera to look at, and trying your best not to fuck up, because fucking up means wasting everyone’s time and money. It’s exhausting to watch, so I can only imagine how the performer must feel. Rupaul, however, uses his role as an opportunity to break through to his contestants. Rather than giving the queens advice on sewing or padding, he’ll ask, “Why are you so afraid of failure?” To the more light-hearted, this could come off a bit jarring and even condescending. But a little research shows that Rupaul, in typical Scorpio fashion, grew up in a broken home. He’s had to overcome his own demons at a tender age, which naturally lent itself to a deep and intense demeanor. Perhaps I should start describing the sign as “wise.”
My progressed moon is only halfway done traveling through Scorpio’s house, but I already feel lifetimes wiser than I did a year ago. The idea of this house functioning for intimate relationships has always made sense to me. I have an abundance of planets in the seventh house of one-to-one relationships, so with heaps of experience in that area of life, I see how the next logical step is the experience of intimacy. This is where you experience the nitty-gritty of a romantic union—where two people merge spiritually and share a connection beyond having the same taste in music. But we don’t always think about what merging with another individual requires of us. This is where the concept of death enters the scene. When death is associated with Scorpio, it rarely indicates a physical death. Rather, to participate in the Scorpio experience is to experience a death of the ego. A psychological death. Wow, look at me. I sound like Rupaul. But it’s true! The more enmeshed I became in my relationship, the more attention I had to put on my own identity and habits. I’ll never be who I was before this love, because love has transformed me. It broke down my ego and forced me to see myself and the world through a new set of eyes. Of course, this is the silver lining of death—rebirth. And although I just noticed my first grey hair, my soul feels like it’s the first day of school again. I was reborn with more clarity, and spiritual understanding than ever before. Life has more meaning now. Or perhaps life has always had meaning, and it just took my progressed moon to shake me awake. Nevertheless, I think it’s no wonder Scorpios feel so much—love and loss are life’s most meaningful experiences.
Wikipedia states that the idea of centaurs manifested out of a shock to nomads who had never before seen men riding on horses. This accurately describes how I feel when interacting with Sagittarians. I often play a game with my friends in which I propose the question, ‘If you could change any of your three signs, would you, and what would you change it to?’ I would swap my Leo rising for Sagittarius rising. As an Aquarius, I struggle to use my voice to my benefit, a quality that Sagittarius has in abundance. Much like their polarity (Gemini) Sagittarians ooze charisma and possess an innate sense of comedic timing. It’s a quality I sense immediately when interacting with them. When these masters of language and drama begin a monologue, it is akin to watching old footage of Joan Rivers annihilating Britney for wearing denim on the red carpet. Their uninhibited passion will catapult them to near hysterics. But just as you think they’ve lost their grip on reality, they’ll hit you with a joke to remind everyone just how clever and self-aware they really are. Pisces often make the same attempt, but lose sight of their point somewhere in the ethers. Sagittarius nails the punchline and knows when to drop the mic.
I’m always left wondering how this quality comes so naturally to them. Perhaps I’m clouded by my own Mercury in Pisces (communication isn’t my greatest skill), but it is evident to me that Sagittarians are born with a unique gift, one that I cannot help but envy. One Sagittarian friend of mine was devastated to discover that he has no Air in his chart. He asked, “Does that make me dumb? Aren’t air signs the intellectual ones?” The very idea that he was comparing his intelligence to mine was laughable. This is someone who ENJOYED the SAT because it offered him a “fun challenge.” As the sign that rules the ninth house of higher knowledge, it’s typical for these sun signs to have an intellectual focus in life. The ability to detach, however, can prove foreign to a Sag with too much earth or water. Sagittarius is the sign of expansion, which is a process with the potential to last a lifetime. Therefore, throughout their truth-hunting journey, they should stay privy to biases which may lead to passionate delusion.
Sagittarians’ need to expand and discover the truth fuels most of their actions, even if they’re not totally conscious of it, and much of their passion is a result of this. Whether it’s as trivial as knowing what time The Bachelor airs, or an obsession with comprehending all the facts in politics, when a Sagittarian begins its rise to reality TV level hysterics, pay attention to the subtext. More than likely, they’re up in arms in the name of the truth. Unlike Gemini, whose focus is fixed on facts and personal truths, Sagittarius is concerned with universal truths—higher laws, politics, and philosophy. With the state of our world today, it’s no wonder they’re always displaying their reactiveness, even if they’re technically the most mature of the fire signs. Although, in typical fire nature, they move on just as quickly as they react. Quick to forgive, Sagittarians are often said to have a heart of gold. I try to avoid describing signs with clichés such as, “heart of gold,” but the term does speak to each fire signs’ unique ability to see beyond flaws, and love intensely. Sagittarius exudes spunk, high-energy, and drama. Combine this with their universal perspective and moral focus, and you get someone who embodies a special kind of super-human, a real centaur.
October 11th fell in the middle of my 17-day retreat from Los Angeles. Nestled beneath three layers of blankets, I woke up next to my boyfriend of two months and watched the snow cascade down his window framed by Christmas lights. I celebrated the occasion the way I celebrate every big moment in my life—with a fresh everything bagel with cream cheese. My time in Boulder provided the opportunity to work on my writing while Garrett attended class, my first “I love you” since high school, and an editing gig that resulted in a hefty pay check. I traveled to Boulder twice more before Garrett graduated in December and began applying for engineering jobs in Los Angeles. I texted my mom one afternoon leading up to my Jupiter return with the kind of question an astrologer never knows how to answer: “Since my Jupiter is trine my Venus in the seventh house, do you think the cosmos will offer me a boyfriend this year?” After eight months of sharing an address with a man I only met a year and a half ago, I can’t help but feel that Jupiter hacked my phone.
If I hadn’t purchased my MacBook, I could have never made my first short film—a goal I didn’t even realize I wanted to achieve a year ago, or perhaps it just didn’t seem realistic at the time. Nevertheless, something pushed me to not only create a film, but to present it at my apartment’s monthly film screening. Each compliment I received reminded me why I never dropped $500 on a comedy writing class. I learned that I already possess the tools to produce high-quality narratives. Six completed scripts later, I wonder what was stopping me before.
Many would argue that this approach is actually quite mature, even more mature than the “mature signs.” And their head-on attitude makes for a healthier lifestyle than that of the more cautious signs.
Aries exhibit child-like attitudes in other aspects of life as well. They love a challenge, and putting all of their energy into achieving a goal is a quality which comes quite naturally to them. As a child, I had zero fear of rejection. Auditioning for every musical I possibly could, on top of dance class, cheerleading, gymnastics…I even ran for school office just so I could present a speech to the entire student body. I pursued the spotlight without an ounce of hesitation. And at home, I wasn’t much better, forcing my friends to act in my productions of Felicity: An American Girl Play, and coercing my parents into devoting an entire evening to living room theatre. Cut to me at twenty-four years old and I’m too afraid to play guitar at home out of fear of pissing off my roommates. I’m not sure when I lost the spirit of the ram, but boy do I miss its presence. Aries carry this spirit with them their entire lives—a quality I very much envy.
My mom describes it this way, “While everyone else is debating whether or not to do something, the Aries in the group is already doing it.” In the moon position, this intense need for excitement can prove challenging. If the moon isn’t nurtured in a healthy way through competition or frequent skydiving, then it must find some other way to get it’s fix. This can lead to attention-seeking displays or someone who unconsciously creates drama just for the thrill of it. Many Aries moon people thrive at competitive sports, because it’s the perfect outlet for all of that Arian energy. Lebron James, Tom Brady, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar are just a few professional athletes born with their moon falling in the first sign.
To put it simply, Aries are initiators. When I consider the four elements making up the zodiac, it’s hard to imagine earth, air, or water kicking off the astrological season. It must be fire. It must be the element defined by inspiration, because inspiration is where it all starts. And it must begin with the cardinal fire sign, Aries—the only sign confident and capable enough to set the remaining signs in motion, just as they’ve kept me in motion since the first grade.