I cannot believe how fast the month has gone. It means my manuscript deadline — September 2021, which has always felt like a far-off thing — is almost here.
I can feel it in my body, the thrum of anxiety that’s more noticeable than usual, accompanied by the unrelenting higher-than-average heart rate. It’s not the let-down stress of last week’s pet emergency; that particular kind of drop always manifests in explosive migraines (of which there were several). No. This is different. The anxiety of hurtling towards — or waiting for — a life-changing deadline transforms my typically high functioning, low-level “angst” (my natal family’s word for anxiety) into a live wire. I’ve felt it before, most notably when applying to PhD programs, when I woke up early and ran straight to the bathroom, my body already so tightly wound (and, at the time, unmedicated) that my nonconsensual morning ritual in the four weeks leading up to hearing back from programs was retching into a toilet bowl.
The deadline looms, and my body knows. In those early hours when I am trying (futilely) to go back to sleep after the 4am wakeup call my body has helpfully provided, I can easily imagine the increased stress of what the next year is going to bring: the revisions and copyedits, the fact checking, the legal read, the blurb asks, the marketing and publicity and spreadsheets and the essays I’ll be writing to promote everything I just wrote, the promotion cycle, the reviews, the sales, the inevitable emotional crash after the promotion cycle — and then, of course, the pressure of selling the next book.
For obvious reasons, not the least of which is my physical health and overall wellbeing, I’m doing my best to take care of myself now. First things first, with my healthcare providers: checking in with my long-time therapist and my PCP. But also: spiritually. Also: looking to the clues in my natal chart for how I can best take care of my body, and my creativity, in this moment, now.
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When my body won’t settle, or when I’m having trouble grounding — being present, landing in this moment here now — I look to my moon in my natal chart. I remind myself of what my moon needs.
The moon is often described as governing our emotional lives, but it also rules the physical body. In my book, I talk about how essential it is to consider what these signatures of the moon imply — our emotions live in the body, after all. Trauma lives in the body; in studies by the CDC, childhood trauma has been directly clinically linked to an increased likelihood of physical and mental illness in adulthood. The body keeps the score, as the saying goes.
When we feel unwell, caring for the body can be an essential first step. This is not to suggest that the sources of our ailments are spiritual (or are entirely spiritual) — that is, in fact, the opposite of what I am suggesting. It is, rather, to care for our emotional selves by tending to our physical vessels out of care and compassion rather than out of resentment or demand, to be tender with our bodies rather than demand their productivity, only appreciating them for what they can “do” for us. There is a sometimes Protestant detachment to the physical self that is present in how we talk about our bodies, whether optimizing or identifying with them — our hearts and minds and souls can be a source of Self and unification, but the body is a sinful adversary. For queer people, this can certainly be true in more ways than one.
For me, considering my body through the lens of the moon is a helpful way to both be present and to give myself a small set of tasks that are not oriented around capitalist productivity but, rather, around my body’s nourishment for its own sake. It is a reminder to be gentle with myself. To re-parent myself. To be as tender with my body as if it were the body of someone else I loved.
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This is the kind of thing we explore in my upcoming class, Astrology for Writers: How to Make Your Writing Work For You, which begins on August 1st. The moon, for example, is where we find nourishment: the sign and the house it is in (and also the house that it rules, if your moon is not in Cancer) are all indicators of where you can find creative, spiritual, and emotional refreshment through engaging with both the emotional and the physical.
I will confess: I had some major doubts about owning up to y’all that I’ve been struggling with anxiety just as I’m getting ready to teach a course. Coming out of academia, I still struggle with the idea that the person in the driver’s seat can be human. That the person you’re learning from can actually have their own shit. But looking at my moon (which is, for the record, in Capricorn) reminded me that vulnerability is one of my challenges and also callings in this life.
I teach the intersection of astrology and writing because I live it. I teach it not only because this is my work, professionally, but because for me, it’s the integral work of my creative practice.
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Registration for Astrology for Writers: How to Make Your Writing Work for You ends at 10pm Eastern tomorrow July 31. The course begins (!!) on Sunday August 1st! Payment plans are available here. I hope to see y’all there!