November 17th, sadistic collisions of foundation and rebellion form a thirst for climax and resolution within ourselves. As spies have served, undercover, both slimy authorities with sunken eyes and renegades racing toward our cells as fast as they can in the traffic jam, we’re sitting ready, sweaty, on the edge. One part of us embraces the transgressive pulse when those liberators promise to bust open the doors and rejuvenate us. Another part of us insists on staying put, arguing that we’ve finally adapted to our limitations. Holy lanterns light our prisons and we’re possessed by self-flagellation; an invisible taskmaster hungry for bruises rips through those walls.
But a loving bug’s hug brings another possibility to our day, or perhaps our night. Outside the complex there’s a giant dragonfly with warm wings. Hundreds of humans wait in line to hug this fly, marking the rite of passage of their own flight into the universe. When this fatherly insect turns out to be the one sneaking into the jail cell, in its warm embrace we can feel a more true, enduring kind of foundation—not brittle, oppressive frames, but warm nourishment toward renewed flight. While in one sense, our gashes mark the ways in which we’ve rolled through confinement toward the discovery of proper shelter, and in a way we still live this limitation, one gesture of love melts frigid tyranny away, opening the soul to a mountain air of becoming on the other side.
-World Shadow Horoscope, November 17th, 2020