November 16th- there’s a glimpse of moving into greater expanse, our knowledge and optimism populating forests in a way that creates a choir of onlookers cheering us on in our urban and pastoral marathons. But that’s the awareness of possibility which exists for an instant only to be interrupted by teachers sternly brushing all the electrifying, life-shaking, revolutionary knowledge under the grass. The authorities seem to bury and ban what gives us life, drugging us out, numbing our faculties in the meantime, so that our light of optimistic purpose is suspended in an indecisive haze of misty moodiness. This is where we are: with conviction that all the firelight of joy exists, but caught in cerebral overexposure to options and the ache of separation from the ultimate.
When a grandpa toad emerges, calling us down from our one-room schoolhouse to a lake with tall grass after a raven sweeps the sky and turns the bustle of our studies into empty night, we sense a sudden power within listening to uncover the forbidden zones under muddy weeds. The toad croaks and sings in an ancient tongue, sacred scripture and drunken nonsense, inviting us to join in. Our hollers reach the stars, and tentacles of vitality pierce the sky, opening it up for light’s nourishment. All that’s needed for renewal is to first listen, and then speak the roaring language that makes the fire come to life in our chests again.
-World Shadow Horoscope, November 16th, 2020