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| Image by Maggie Carr |
Aries: I love marigolds. I love anemones. I love flowers that don't really get into the swing of things until the equinox, at least. The flowers that are still showing off when the first snow flies. I love the crocuses and the lilac bushes and the forsythia, of course: the harbingers of spring. Everyone loves those gals, the first ones to the show. But I love the ones that linger, the flowers that are keeping the party alive as the candles burn low.
Taurus: I'm not very good at writing short stories. I want to be—it's a literary form I admire—but they typically turn out to be glorified character studies, and/or meandering, plotless little adventures. When I was in high school, a well-written short story was the ne plus ultra, proof that you were one of the writerly types, but even then, I turned in character sketches and poetry and free-form dialog and essays. And listen, babes: I can write. But what does it say about me that the things I'm good at are never quite as appealing as the things I don't do perfectly?
Gemini: Grief is weird. My grandma died and I'm trying to figure out how to mourn her. I want to put on nice lipstick and wander around Walmart, like she would have. I want to go to bed for three days. I want to scream into a mattress. It's not just my grandma. I didn't grow a garden this summer. I didn't knit a shawl this fall. I don't know what my life will be like in a year—does anyone?—and I grieve the things and people I will lose along the way.
Cancer: You know what I'm curious about? What it would like to be rooted. I'm talking ninth-generation whatever-whatever, the family farm of a dozen generations, the family business, the town with the streets named after my ancestors. Do you think that would be stifling? Would there be pressure to stay, to remain in that place? Or do you think it would be sweet, to have your roots networked so deeply into the soil? Would your memories be your own, or would it be like dreaming?
Leo: Doesn't there seem like there's something kind of wrong with Justin Timberlake? I feel like former boy band members should be forcibly retired at the age of 25; just put those dudes on a horse ranch in Oaxaca and make them do therapy, you know? And I know in early post-NSYNC days, he was hailed as the second coming of blue-eyed soul, a spiritual successor to MJ but without the ick factor. But now! As outlined in Britney Spears's new memoir! We have confirmed ick factor! Anyway, I am looking forward to JT's display of contrition and/or non-apology; either way, he'll continue to act like a dillhole. File this guy under "ugh, men."
Virgo: You are a corgi in the sunshine, an illustration of a frog wearing a hat, a mouse wearing figure skates. You are a platter of cheese and meat and handmade (slightly lumpy) crackers. You are grapes on the vine, sun on the water, the smell of campfire at sundown. You are handmade socks and homemade stew. You are little kids burying their feet at the beach. You and I are both Billy Collins poems. You are quilts and cotton sheets. You are a lovely gift to the world.
Libra: I recently set an app timed on Instagram, because I was spending hours—literal hours—every day, scrolling and seeking that sweet dopamine hit. On the first day, I hit the time by dinner time, and it was like, "Oop, see you tomorrow!" The next day, I was much more judicious with my time, and I did get it under two hours, my daily maximum limit. I still check it a dozen times a day; it is my favourite app for messaging, because I am old and weird. But I no longer habitually settle in for a nice long trawl, which feels like a victory. Managing my own brain chemistry can be weird and hard; I'm grateful for the posts that make me laugh and cry, and I'm grateful for the timer that means I don't do it all day.
Scorpio: It's nine PM, it feels like midnight, and I'm ready to crawl into bed. Autumn is hard, buddies. It's not all Halloween dance parties and pumpkin spice lattés: we have to accept that we are seasonal creature and we are slowing down. On average, we get 30 more minutes of REM sleep each of these dark nights: a dreamer's paradise. And even in this short days, we rise with the sunrise and stand under the October sun, a glorious golden gift that is one last hurrah before winter's cold light. Enjoy these short days; sleep the long nights; revive yourself when the time is right.
Sagittarius: We Sags have a reputation for being flighty monsters who don't care about anyone's feelings, but in reality, each of my Sagittarian friends (with the exception of, ahem, myself) is the hardest-working bitch I know. They're constantly producing 'zines and scuba diving, making radio shows and taking dance lessons. They are the definition of life-long learners. Sit down, Archers! I am of your number and I'm tired just watching your Instagram stories. In reality, I think it's less that we don't care about anyone's feelings, and more that we are comfortable being weird in a world that doesn't like that. So, you know: carry on!
Capricorn: I love a low-capacity meal. The first 18 months of my son's life, we ate bagged salad with chicken strips and oven fries about once a week, and I think of that meal with great fondness. Sometimes I feel guilty for how much I love boxed mac and cheese and frozen dumplings, but I think God gave us those things because she wants us to be happy. As we go into a low-capacity season, please remember that we have tools like bagged salad and freezer lasagna that lighten the load; eat them with abandon, my loves.
Aquarius: My favourite colour is a dusky red, a brown-coral that a friend once told me was called "Nantucket Red," and isn't that just the most evocative colour name you can imagine? My kiddo's favourite colour is blue, just blue: not a fancy sky-blue or aquamarine or teal or navy, but the blue of school binders and the eight-pack of Crayola crayons. My mom's favourite colour is teal, or maybe cyan, but the colour of a robin's egg, especially when she can match it with red. When I walk into a room she's decorated, I look for the teal, and I usually find it. We leave ourselves everywhere, don't we?
Pisces: If you could design a ritual, what would it be? I think you'd plan something Druidic, an event fit for Stonehenge. But I also suspect that you might be the kind of person who would secretly baptize your sister in the river when you were both kids. Where do you find your sacraments—in the holy water, or in the edges with the cattail, every part of which is edible? In the church, or in the light streaming through the windows on a February day? In a wedding ceremony, or in falling asleep to the sound of your lover's breath? Nothing can keep us from the holiness of everyday life. We don't need Stonehenge to make mystery and wonder.
