I chose autumn to be born, to move from realms in spiral galaxies that swirled with uncertain and joyful dust, from starry excitement and pulsing night skies, toward a time created from my mother’s dreaming of my heavenly, absent father.
In a night-time sleeping bag on remote national forest land, there is little distinction between the deeply wooded landscape and the vast open, indigo sky. My eyes ached with the cadence of autumn. I chose my sun sign October time to conceive my son, who carries his bruising bravely. Once, while he played near a gnarled old maple, a brilliant monarch rested on his smiling, open face. Such a hopeful face. So, was he special, to be touched thusly? Or was the monarch injured? Special, injured, intact, broken—what are any of us, then? Who interprets those signs? Who made those words?
When September brought lengthening days, my daughter was born. She perched on bed edges, bouncing to her own musical laughter from beginnings in a distant border town, where campfires and communes held her snug and safe, then she leapt into fabricated city-scapes, where lights shined bright on false freedoms. She ricocheted back to a blue-collar holding cell, and are we all prisoners, then, inside lives that we construct and inside walls that we put up then decorate prettily, to cover some inner chaos?
My own persistent feelings wash up again and again on the edges of these pages.
This is what I know of the difference between wise waiting and dangerous inertia: absolutely nothing.
On stalks supporting dark, drooping heads of the Russian sunflowers after first frost, a busy, up-and-down chipmunk reminds me: Sun sign in Scorpio, a gift. It enables me to live into the mystery of things, releasing the need to own answers.