the new moon in aries for writers
happy spring equinox
First, thank you so much to everyone who joined Poison & Cure: The Art & Literature of Saturn in Pisces live. It was the first offering of its kind, and was just such a treat to be able to share with y’all. The lecture is now available for download for all the former English and Art History majors/nerds who missed it the first time around!
Also: it is officially Aries season. Happy Spring Equinox, beloveds.
Jeanna
It is tempting to tell you that since Aries season is upon us, now is the time to swing for the bleachers, to grab the bull by the horns, to insert go get ‘em metaphor here. And, sure. That can be true. We are entering that archetypal time of year where spring dawns, energetically and physically: where there is more light in our days, where seasonal depression begins to fade, where, for those of us in colder climates, the outdoors beckon. It is for this reason that Aries New Moons often feel alchemical to me: a near-biblical refiner’s fire, a rebirth for a new year.
And also.
The shift from winter to spring can be jarring, especially in a time where so much is changing around us. Because this is also true: timekeeper Saturn is newly in Pisces; lord of the underworld moves into Aquarius in a mere two days. The collective environment is shifting, its focus and nature of expression altered in fundamental ways.
Sometimes, we are in a season of life that perfectly aligns with what astrologers are saying about the lunar cycle or new planetary ingress. And sometimes, the “typical” narrative, or expression, of a season can feel entirely contrary to the way in which our life is unfolding.
Right now, for example, it may be that there are lovers who must fight and fighters who must love, the martial energy within all of us activated or accessed in surprising, unexpected ways. Such a role reversal occurs between two characters in the first campaign of dungeons and dragons fantasy Critical Role (no spoilers in this clip, or in the letter below). Keyleth, a kind-hearted, idealistic druid played by main cast member Marisha Ray, finds herself discouraged and despairing at the losses she and her friends suffer in a catastrophic war.
Ker, a guest star played by fantasy novelist Patrick Rothfuss, is a fighter more happy to utilize a blade than diplomacy. It is a classic case of opposites attract, and, in a mentee/mentor relationship, Keyleth and Ker find wisdom in the other’s strengths.
Time passes, and the older, seasoned Ker, rebuilding his city in the wake of the war’s devastation, returns in a later episode to write a letter to Keyleth (read aloud on air in a recording from Rothfuss, who wrote the letter himself, in this clip, if you’d rather listen; begins at 1:52):
When you make a mistake with metal, you can melt things down and start fresh. It is irritating, and it costs in time and soot and sweat, but it can be done. There is a comfort in iron, knowing that a fresh start is always possible.
But a city is not a sword. It is a living thing, and living things defy simple fixing. Roots cannot be reforged. They scar, and broken branches must be cut and sealed with tar. And this makes me angry, as it always has, and my anger has no place to go.
It was easier when I was young. I could use my anger like a hammer against the world. I was so sure of myself, and my friends, and my rightness. I would hammer at the world, and breaking felt like making to me, and I was good at it. And while I was not wrong, neither was I entirely right.
Nothing is simple.
I do not work in wood. I am not brave enough for that. There is a comfort in iron. A promise of safety. A second chance if mistakes are made. But a city is more a forest than a sword. No, it needs more tending than that. Perhaps a city is like a garden, then.
So these days it seems that I have become a gardener. I dig foundations in the earth. I sow rows of houses. I plan and plant. I watch the skies for rain and ruin.
I cannot help but think that you would be better at this. But circumstance has put both of us in our own odd place. You are forced to be a hammer in the world, and my ungentle hands are learning how to tend a plot of land. We must do what we can do.
Did you know that there are some seeds that cannot sprout unless they are first burned?…. I think it is interesting that there are some living things that need to pass through fire before they flourish.
There are so many singular lines in this letter from Rothfuss, himself a prolific novelist. So much wisdom about wielding martial anger — about those times when breaking [feels] like making; about the profound discomfort that comes when a healer is forced to be a hammer, when a fighter must patiently tend and wait for new growth.
But the line that most strikes me, that I return to over and over again, is the question: Did you know that there are some seeds that cannot sprout unless they are first burned? That there are some things which must pass through fire in order to bear fruit, in order to, as Rothfuss later writes, “find themselves better for it afterward.”
When we talk about sowing seeds in a fiery New Aries Moon, I cannot help but think of this: that any seeds sown in such times are ones that must first have passed through fire.
*
Right now, the sun sits at 0 degrees: the spring equinox, the very beginning of the zodiacal new year, that most potent degree a cardinal sign can occupy.
On Tuesday, March 21, we begin a new lunar cycle: the moon becoming new within the heart of the Aries sun at 0’50* at 1:23pm Eastern. Our emotions, our bodies, our felt and somatic experiences of the world purified and solidified and exposed for all — and most importantly, for us — to see.
This New Moon is loosely conjunct trickster Mercury, which offers us brash, playful curiosity as well as a ferocious resilience to the stories we are telling to and about ourselves. By sign, it is also conjunct Jupiter, which is generous, hearty, and full of faith for the path ahead.
Valuable allies when it comes to charting new terrain, strange environments, and unknown depths.
*
Our hands may not always be gentle. Our paths may not always be straight. We may sometimes bear scars, knowing we work with — and are ourselves — living things which cannot be entirely reforged anew. But how wonderful is it to be human: to re-member, to bear living witness to the days behind and the days ahead, to sit around a blazing fire and share our journeys with each other.
We pass through fire again and again, made stronger each time.
Happy Spring Equinox. Happy New Moon in Aries.
Thank you for reading this edition of astrology for writers. I am a working writer, and this newsletter is only possible because of folks who support my work with paid subscriptions, which, to me, is rather like a Patreon — an indication of support. If you are interested and able, you can do so here.
“Our hands may not always be gentle. Our paths may not always be straight. We may sometimes bear scars, knowing we work with — and are ourselves — living things which cannot be entirely reforged anew.”
Jeanna, my breath caught reading these words. I partially* amputated my thumb on 8 March, had surgery at our regional trauma centre on 11 March. I won’t see it until 28 March. I have no idea what I will be able to do with the nubbin. I’ll have to learn anew how to shuffle cards. I’m laid low to witness these big astrological events throughout March. Thank you for your insights.
*partially means I have some of the digit remaining
It’s the autumn equinox here.