Dancing With The Pink Pony Star
Notes on astralization & surviving the soul death of collective perception
“I feel more love than I ever have in my life. I feel the most unsafe I have ever felt in my life.” — Chappell Roan
A Question Worth Remembering
The first thing you should know about me, as the author of this essay, is that both my long-term and short-term memory are irreparably damaged.
Due to a combination of untreated hypothyroidism, multiple sclerosis, dissociative trauma (including *extensive* and *pathological* gaslighting as a child), AuDHD, as well as state-sponsored lead exposure in Flint, MI, I genuinely cannot remember most of my life prior to about 30 or so. When I do remember, it is in flashes, emotional impressions, and pockets of recollection. It is extremely painful and disorienting to have a clear sense of who I am as a person, and, to feel like I have no ability to recollect evidence of my virtues *or* weaknesses with consistency and integrity.
Such a cagey, unstable relationship with my perception of self due to physical and psychological injury wouldn’t be surprising to anyone who peeped my natal chart, but it has fundamentally reshaped how I engage with the world. This debilitating source of pain for me is the reason why I became a writer (I have cited that Joan Didion quote about writing to know what you think so many times I might as well get it tattooed; I also deeply resonate with writing origin story of Maya Angelou, who began writing as an act of self-defense when speaking her truth about being sexually abused resulted in unmediated violence — albeit in my case, I began writing to defend against my abuser, trying to plead my case and document my abuse for other adults), but also why I developed an especially acute sensitivity to other people’s opinions and perceptions of me, accompanied by an intense preoccupation with my ethics and morals. I have a tendency to engage in really meticulous, introspective nitpicking — the type of compulsive self deconstruction/destruction that not only manifested itself in what I am (pretty sure) might be OCD, but also dysmorphia in the form of bulimia, and an abusive inner monologue so vile I was ashamed to even tell my therapist the things I said about myself, to myself.
My lack of ability to remember has generated so much existential suffering that at many turns on this ball of dirt, I genuinely have felt like I didn’t deserve to exist because of how much of a threat I could become to others. How could I know, with any certainty, that I was a “good” and “safe” person if I couldn’t genuinely remember and account for my actions with sincerity due to functional amnesia? My solution for staying alive was to convince myself that this suffering would eventually manifest a purpose (more on this in a moment), as well as accepting that because my inner lorekeeper was a little on the fritz that, in the absence of written recollection, I must believe and accept what other people tell me about how I exist in the world without condition. For me, it has always been better to air on the side of caution and risk being vulnerable to harm than to become so detached from others and the world through the distance of amnesia that I became a pariah, or, worse, an abusive, irredeemable terror.
But in typical human paradox, despite the above disorienting state of affairs, one thing I have never questioned is that my “life purpose” would be fulfilled through the vehicle of my writing. Nobody needs to tell me that I am a gifted and skilled writer: in fact, this is the only thing I have ever been sure of with rock solid, immovable confidence. Since my late teens, I have been very clear my life is going to follow a very specific arc: my 20s would be spent focused on rooting out as much of the damage done to me as a child as possible, my 30s will be spent healing my physical body and experiencing life as a being, 40s would be a transition into my writing and creative career, and my 50s and beyond would be when I would step fully into a public existence, where my writing and creative expression would be the self others know of me. That quiet steadfastness is obviously a little concerning in the light of knowing you’re a basket case due to trauma: it begs questions of a personality disorder, even though I didn’t relate to this from a place of being better than, or having power over, entitlement, etc. etc. I felt more shame and dissonance, being unsure of how to…respond to that, and respond to positive, unsolicited affirmations of this personal truth I thought I hid deep within the recesses of oblivion.
So 2016-2018, when my brain finally started to evolve a fully booted prefrontal cortex, was a jarring turning point for me. I ended up in a series of very public (in a hyper-localized kind of way) incidents with three different people as a consequence of my writing, all of which ended badly for me. The successive, iterative impact of being seen and dealing with the reactions (both positive and negative) of those incidents was debilitating, specifically because they called into question whether or not I could trust the only thing I thought I could know to be true about myself: that I was a writer, and that my purpose for sharing my writing was not only to have a vehicle for alleviating my own suffering, but for actively liberating and transforming possibility for others. The dichotomy of feeling and believing I was the most loved, seen, and supported I had ever been, and yet, simultaneously, the most vulnerable and unsafe I could be as an adult, was real.
Somewhere in the midst of that timeline, unable to cope with this existential disaster and looking for answers to keep myself together, I publicly (and privately) asked a question that would change my life:
Did James Baldwin know he was James Baldwin?
A Saturnine Revelation
Circa 2017, I decided to begin to consciously & preemptively prepare for my first Saturn Return. As Alice Sparkly Kat points out in that post, the Saturn Return is not an isolated astrological incident of maturation, it reflects how successfully we have integrated the themes and lessons of Saturn, with key transits in the lead up to the return occuring at 7, 15, and 21. We are confronted with “the real”, our sense of belonging to society, and speculations on the utopian…as well as challenges around our sense of responsibility & obligation, limitations, boundaries, and the finiteness of life.
Intuition and magic have been touchpoints of “the real” for me, specifically because for both to be truly effective and helpful, you must have a grounded grip on the material. Intuition only works if it has data to draw and observe meaningful patterns from, and magical practices are the most useful when they are driven by a desire to take responsibility for ourselves, by consciously engaging with our limitations and finding growth within or through expanding them in some way, shape, or form. By extension, astrology, especially as I’ve gotten older, has become a language through which I personally observe “the poetics of being” - a way of understanding my self-actualized function in the relational ecosystem of being that is the Universe.
My decision to begin preparing practically and magio-spiritually for my Saturn Return was, in part, triggered by my profound distress at my writerly fuck-ups. Without dredging up too many old wounds, those aforementioned incidents involved me misusing my gifts as a writer in various ways that called into question all of that Saturnine good ish. Not only did it become readily apparent that my strategy of unconditional acceptance of others views of me was dangerous for everyone (namely because it eliminated my sense of responsibility for my agency and power), I also really questioned whether or not I was, in fact, a responsible and competent enough steward of power + possibility to be a writer…but not just a writer, the writer I was still, confusingly, very sure I was/am intended to become.
While living village of mentors, dear friends, and a therapist helped me navigate all of this in an intellectual way, I also turned to an unexpected source of insight and support: my Ancestors, including the Mighty Dead. Although the original essay is now lost to the digital vapors, I asked the question, “Did James Baldwin know he was James Baldwin?” as a bit of a hypothetical, spiritual thought puzzle. I wanted to understand if James Baldwin, the man his family and close friends knew, was aware that he was going to become James Baldwin, the creative constellation of being society has made of this living person — a representation, an archetype, an egregoric construction. If he was aware, how did he prepare for this transmutation?
How do you navigate this experience of living beyond yourself, when your body is still very much here, and you’re in it?
How do you create with an awareness of how your work, and thus by extension you, will live beyond that singular experience?
How do you prepare for the vulnerability and danger of having your actualized, imperfect expression accessible — and constantly perceived, and taken ownership of in a variety of ways by people who aren’t you — however impermanently and uncontrollably?
Especially when it hits a certain critical degree of collective saturation and influence?
What’s a self to do?
The Crown Of The Green Lion
Funnily enough, I received a literal answer to that question from a family member of Mr. Baldwin, one I have been sworn to secrecy around, so I unfortunately cannot (and would not, even if I wasn’t) reveal here.
However, beyond the synchronous and magical phenomenon as getting as close to the horse’s mouth as possible, my own Ancestors provided their own feedback to my query in the form of a dream: watching my corpse being eaten by a green lion, the sun setting behind the scene, forming a crown-like halo over my head.
In Western alchemy — of which I know vanishingly little, even though I have been a practicing sorceress for neigh on 20 years — the green lion eating the sun is a very particular motif. As Tony Leguia very articulately wrote of this symbolism:
“The image corresponds to the releasing of primordial essence…It is the beginning of a return to a more natural psychological state in which human beings flourish.
The ego perceives the encounter as terrifying because all transformational processes appear to be a kind of death to the ego. However, this process is the catalyst for an encounter with the Self. The instincts are amoral relative to human society and culture. Social conditioning aims to keep the instincts in check until the Higher Self is adequately present. Once present, our attitudes and feelings will be conditioned and directed by the Self. Otherwise, we experience a regression to the animalistic nature.
In the background, there is a new sun emerging from the waters. It is the new personality emerging from the encounter. The old Sun, having been killed by the lion, needs a replacement in the form of a new, resurrected Sun. Water is a feminine symbol and thus associated with the unconscious. Ultimately, all that we are emerges from the oceans of the unconscious, and our egos are but a bobbing cork on its waves. It is the unconscious that creates new patterns and modes of operation for the ego.We see seven red stars in an arc through the lion’s body. This evokes correspondence to…the seven interior planets...Here, they align with the instincts, initiating the destruction of the current personality and providing the raw material for its rebirth.”
Additionally in laboratory alchemy, this imagery is a metaphor for when aqua regia (an acid) comes into contact with any material except for gold, a.k.a., the Divine. Others have also likened the imagery to the process of photosynthesis in plants, deriving nourishment from the light of Divine in order to fuel our growth and flourishing. Notably, Saturn — which is associated with lead in Western alchemy — is regarded as the “prima materia”, or the base of all existence. I immediately understood that I needed to work with this metaphor magically, with the support of my Ancestors, to get the answer to my question.
So, per their instructions, during every solar eclipse prior to the start of my Saturn Return, I did a simple ritual practice I called the Crown of the Green Lion. Each time I consecrated a small beeswax candle in my name, dressed it in Saturnine materia, and then recited both the Saturn of Sol & Sol of Saturn calls from Jason Miller’s Advanced Planetary Magic, before visualizing myself being consumed by a green lion. As my earthen vessel was rent from bone and sinew, I experienced myself as the process of death, my flesh liquidating back into the earth as fertilizer, before reforming itself in the warm light of the Sun emerging from its eclipse. I did this practice a total of 8 times between 2017-2019.
(This is where I note: I had no feckin’ idea what I was doing or what the consequences of this foolishness were going to be. Do not recommend, lol.)
Mamushi
My Saturn Return happened to correlate directly with the initial lockdowns of the pandemic. At the time of its start, I was living in Chicago, and Governor Pritzker issued the shelter-in-place order the exact day it began, within very close range of its official start time. Depending on the house system you use, my natal Saturn is either in my 7th house (whole signs), or in my 6th house (Placidus), in Aquarius at exactly 0*. So to say this, as well as what was to follow, was on the nose, would be a wild fucking understatement.
From 2017-2019, my life proceeded to undergo a bunch of changes. I grew very withdrawn and quiet. I eventually nixed my (successful enough) Patreon for my writing, opting to shift back to the work that felt safer and more accessible to me as a professional diviner and witch-for-hire. I knew studying magic and divination would also enable me to have a more in-depth study of power, stewardship of responsibility, and myself, so that choice made sense on a purely selfish level. I was eventually diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and realized that the assessment my parents had done for me as a toddler definitely did, in fact, miss that I was AuDHD, along with being adopted for the second time as an adult. I also launched my flagship Juno Jar work, came back to Judaism as an adult, as well as growing closer to my Ancestors, too.
Then 2020 arrived, along with the wild ride of the pandemic. More successes and growth, but…there was a problem. The more outwardly successful I grew, in a terrifying inverse, the increasingly ill and debilitated my physical body became. On one level, my mental and emotional health was the best it had ever been: I graduated from therapy. I also worked through wrestling with and directly confronting the spectrum of emotions and thoughts I had about my writerly fuck-ups of yore, and took steps to repair what I felt I needed to take responsibility for. But physically, I was regularly spending upwards of 10-15 hours a day in bed cocooned in chronic pain, oftentimes in total silence (including not physically speaking to people for days at a time), barely able to function, and not eating because I could barely keep anything down.
In the hours where I was up and functioning, though, I was living a wonderful life. My days were structured around spiritual service and study, as I was deep in the process of learning magic directly from my Ancestors, alongside wrestling with the question of whether or not I was willing to formally convert to Judaism. I found a lot of meaning and insight in studying Daoist philosophy, struggling through learning Tsalagi (Cherokee), the daily practices of my Jewish observance, as well as continuing to reflect on Octavia Butler’s fictional spiritual philosophy of Earthseed, and the real world spiritual and activist practices it has subsequently inspired. My work in the world primarily focused on supporting folks in pursuit of wealth & prosperity: well-being and well-doing, all for the purpose of pouring it back into the world at large through mutual aid and political solidarity. I was making art and dreaming about ways to make more. I was living in my dream apartment. It was everything I ever thought I wanted.
As a proponent of understanding fiction as “learning through story”, there was an aspect of Earthseed philosophy that always stood out to me: that the supposed destiny of Earth “Is to take root among the stars.” While many people have (rightfully) critiqued the space colonialism of it all, this sentiment landed for me in a very different way: our ultimate fulfillment is in unlocking an awareness of ourselves as ancestors.
The association of stars with being an ancestor, including with the ultimate Ancestor itself — the Big Bang — is apt. We’re now pretty sure that the basic building blocks for all of life and sentience on this planet were delivered here due collisions with asteroids. The stars we are able to see with our naked eye is an excellent metaphor for the nature of being alive, as the light we see from stars is oftentimes the reflection of a cosmic object that may or may not still actively exist, but is nonetheless still shaping and influencing our present. In relationship with other ephemeral objects, we have navigated our way across this planet’s vast, uncharted expanses, created systems of preserving important survival knowledge, and documented patterns of "human becoming” that are so compelling that they may have survived anywhere for 50,000-100,000 years, helping to spur the development of complex mathematics, physics, medicine, the arts, and more across the globe. Stars as a metaphor for Change, and Gd - Nature, Creation, the Big Bang as the ultimate Ancestor - made a lot of sense to me.
In light of this, I turned to my Ancestors in my moment of confusion and dissonance, totally unclear what was actually happening to me. I didn’t know if I was physically dying or not, but I accepted that was very likely the case. I knew it would be either because my untreated chronic illnesses were going to take over, or I was going to do it myself in order to prevent becoming a burden on the people who helped me make it as long as I did, because I know how capitalism and long-term care work in a society without a functioning safety net. I was completely at peace with whatever was going to happen, whenever it happened, regardless of how it was going to happen. But nonetheless, I asked my Ancestors to help me navigate the unknown and either find healing in transitioning safely, or being ok until I could get the physical care I needed.
Facing The Cosmic Abyss
Divination and dreams from the Otherworldly Beyond prompted me to organize a birthday party that functioned, for me, as a living funeral, as well as setting up for a results-unknown ritual where I’d practice the process of dying so that when my body was ready to go, I could release with ease. Nobody who attended my party knew that’s how I felt about it, although they did know that I was planning a ceremony afterwards that involved a ritual (re)birth. When I bibliomanced the choice of ‘Gam ki elech’ (Gam ki elech b’gay tzalmavet, lo ira ra: “Though I walk through the Valley of Death, I will not fear,/Though I walk through the Valley of Death, my Gd is near.” (Psalm 23:4)) as the Hebrew ritual chant my now-husband, then-acquaintance led everyone in at the end of my party, I lost it.
The magical rite itself was pretty unremarkable: I fed the ancestors of around 50 people who were deeply formative to my life’s journey until that point — including the three people who inspired this whole arc of my life to begin with — to thank and celebrate them, and to ask they bless their descendants with good luck, well-being, and thriving on my behalf. While in a visionary state, I realized that while I understood the idea that the violence done to me had any silver lining or functional purpose was ludicrous, I also paradoxically realized that I could create a purpose for my suffering by being explicit about the fact that there was no purpose. I then had a moment where I experienced something that I can only articulate as 'the perfect realization that it was just another Tuesday', where I became nothing and seamless to being: not dead, or alive, or even somewhere in between — I just was, and 'I' was not there.
I came out of that space of recognition, tried to write about it, and then promptly hallucinated. In vivid sensory details while feeling like my physical body was burning to death, what felt like every single incident of violence that happened to me in my life, after my then-partner violated my ritual protocols and assaulted two people while under the influence in my living room. In my altered state of mind, unclear what happened in the moment but also deeply horrified, physically debilitated, and distraught, I…posted some things that could have been another abuse of my writing gift and my power. Every worst fear I could imagine for myself, or about myself, felt like it came true in an instant. And, if that were not enough, I was sure I was dying, and this horrific nightmare was going to be my legacy.
It was not good, to say the very least.
To Be An Ancestor
I came up with the term ‘astralization’ - to become an ancestor, or to experience it by proxy while alive - somewhere between 2017 and 2018.
I realized pretty quickly that what I was musing on when I was, “Did James Baldwin know he was James Baldwin?” was actually about a very particular manifestation of public soul death that can happen not only with the advent of fame and celebrity, but also with the receipt of extraordinary amounts of power over others (cough, being a billionaire, cough, direct democracy, cough, white supremacy.) The example I usually use for this is Beyoncé: if you think of Beyoncé, you're not thinking of the Beyoncé who gave birth to three children and gets called mommy on a daily basis unless you know her personally. You're instead accessing a constellation of her work, momentary snapshots of her consciousness that may or may not be identical to her mind, other people's thoughts about those snapshots and/or her work, and other people's emotions and projections that are associated with the above, even if there’s misinterpretation and misunderstanding. The Beyoncé you access is a canvas and a receptacle, not a person, it’s an impression of memory, much like the light we see from real stars. Confusing the two is not only very dangerous for us as a collective, but dangerous for her as an individual. It’s where all sorts of dysfunctional parasociality, abusive behavior, entitlement, and ownership arises.
So my question was actually: how do you prepare to responsibly fulfill your role in society if you have a creative impulse and instinct in this culture in light of that, one where following it has the potential to transcend the limits of capital and death itself, even if you don’t see its full ramifications first hand?
This psycho-spiritual experience happens to all of us in some form on a much smaller scale, usually without us realizing or soliciting it, but this particularly public and virulent version has happened in more limited forms until recently. For most of us, our beingness would be remembered by our families (or not, if we acted with particular malice), or if you were possessed of a particularly notable skill, you could become a subject of community folklore. There was maybe some sort rite of passage(s) that helped you find your way and ritual contexts that might help collectivize some of this actualizing distress. Or, you were a king, an empress, oracle, martyr…and just on the public mythos record by virtue of the power vested in you over others.
Then humanity changed and grew, languages and practices sunk into the depths of time, and we forgot (or were forced to forget) the names of those who came before along with their accumulated insights. Technology has improved, we’ve recovered some of those names and their accumulated wisdoms and fuck-ups. Change changed those changes, and mass media emerged, and amongst the royals and political elites cames the mercantile and creative classes, wielding just as much power and influence if not more, on occasion. Change changed those changes, and the Internet was born, and yet even with access to the history of the world in a little device in a lot of our pockets: 99% of what has happened in the history of the Universe — in minute detail — will forever be incomprehensible and unknowable to us as a collective, let alone as individuals, even if we can sense patterns of it deep within time and space.
But, even more terrifying that that lil existential tidbit, suddenly virality - the spontaneous engulfment of literally any-fucking-body into the global consciousness, potentially through no will or desire of their own - is possible. We’re in late stage capitalism, so this is particularly dehumanizing and exploitative. In an afternoon, in a minute, in a secret photo or video taken of you, your soul can be thrown into the horror of being known and viewed as nothing but what other people make of you, in a way that feels near incontrovertible, unless you’re willing to seek out more and more power, or control, or command of attention, and thus can sometimes experience a prolonged and twisting death of your own sense of self-possession. It can scar you and permanently disfigure your perception if you don’t have support and good boundaries, provoking unrestrained, bottomless hunger that tempts increasingly escalated acts of self-harm and/or pursuit of control of others to sate the ache of. You can become disillusioned, or delusional. The panopticon of being perceived makes you either police yourself to the point of self-suffocation, or you become a terrorist or a recluse, trying to control others to protect your own sense of peace. It becomes increasingly hard to find your way through the wilderness of projection(s) back to a semblance of normalcy and groundedness, where you have people who call you by your name, and not the one they’ve given you.
That shit’s terrifying, and if you’re not afraid of it, you should be. Without a clear understanding that our ancestors have mounted this hill of being conscious — over, and over, and over, and over again, each with a variety of takes on what it means and how to deal with it — you can die a death that’s imperceptible to the naked eye.
While I am obviously not a famous person (and may never be), I experienced astralization during my ritual (re)birth, a.k.a., the green lion eating the Sun. To become the writer I felt (feel) I am meant to be, I needed to understand how to properly steward that power and responsibility. It was, to quote Tony again,“…a confrontation against the truth that the ego is neither the sole occupant of our minds nor ultimately who we are. It is simply the role we currently play.” I played the role I was called to play: to be responsible for the ways my finiteness is known by others, and to acknowledge the finiteness of those I know, as a vehicle of change (…you know, the writer purpose stuff.) I took responsibility for the harms that happened in my home, though my hand didn’t cause them. I deleted the posts because they were irresponsible AF. I confronted my ex and laid bare for him the irreparable harm he could have caused with his wounded actions, beyond the impact of non-consensually kissing people. I tried to understand what I did that may have encouraged him to lie about being intoxicated, and to shirk his obligations as a sober sitter, because he couldn’t or didn’t or felt like he couldn’t be honest about his own limitations. Or mine. I draped a death shroud over what I thought I knew about what it meant to be, let alone what it should be, to be myself.
In the midst of dissolution and disturbance, I realized I lost my ability to grasp hold of very binary thinking, while still being crystal clear about my responsibilities and obligations to others as an extension of (and separate from) myself. I found myself able to hold the understanding of me that others held with no denial or self-abandonment, while also not being too vested in fixing myself into place, either. My memory has actually improved a little and now what I can remember of my traumas, I do not experience as a memory or belief about who I am as a person. They Just Are. It is downright miraculous to know that even in writing this behemoth of an essay, I am not particularly attached to how it’s received beyond being interested in the responses themselves, and engaging with them appropriately, so that my choices give others a better quality canvas to draw inspiration from.
I once wrote that my only duty in this life is to become a Great Ancestor, and that is still true. Writing that sentiment was, ironically, the work that directly connected to two of my instances of writerly mishappenings. Every time I put fingers to keyboard about it for a period, I was upset and angry that someone close to me would take so brazenly from the wisdom wounds of my body in such a violently neglectful way, commoditize my responsibilities as their own, and then try to spin them into a cheap knockoff brand around “being a good ancestor.”
Being a Great Ancestor is not about a tangible physical legacy, it is about living in a way that answers the uncertainties of those who will come after you. It’s known the stories of your own contradictions and complexities through your being *and* your doing will fulfill that purpose in some way, even if you cannot comprehend their circumstances or even the questions they might ask. It is not about just dismantling systems that withhold discovery from those those who would come after you, but getting to the root of those systems of control and violence by understanding what drives them: a fear of death and no compassion for that fear. Achieving that means you cultivate so much compassion and gentleness for yourself, first, that you actively desire to remove any beliefs or behaviors, places, patterns, and dynamics from your embodied existence - from you, through you, with you - that remove your ability to relate, to make meaning where there is none.
We are not actually driven to change by fear, even if it seems that way, but rather by an inexplicable desire for connection of some sort. To know and be known, to see and be seen, returns us to our default human state: meaning-making that wants to transcend all kinds of finiteness and limits, for better or for worse. We fulfill our destiny as a species when we strive to remember and step into that place of creation, but we persist - collectively - in forgetting how to do that, because we’re so committed to being someone doing something at all hours of the motherfucking day.
Dancing With The Pink Pony Star
Chappell Roan’s meteoric rise into public consciousness through the success of her debut album, Rise and Fall of A Midwest Princess, is the stuff of many people’s deeply misguided dreams. While I can’t deny that there are many advantages of this type of experience in our society, one look at even an iffy guesstimate of her natal chart was enough for me to get a sense of how terrifying this all has probably been for her to go through. Outside of it being a solid branding and marketing decision, as well as a therapeutic one per her own testimony, Chappell Roan creating herself was — hands down — the best thing she has done to protect herself in this moment from the ravages of spontaneous, fame-induced soul death.
When we intentionally create a collective version of ourselves, we can be responsive to what our pursuit of meaning-making produces in the world more easily, because it’s ultimately not about our self. This collective self shouldn’t be a lie, or a manipulation to do harm: it’s about being in the world in a way that lets us connect safely with others, without abdicating our agency, or exposing ourselves to unnecessary harm. When we allow this meaning-making, collective self to be what it needs or wants to be for others — when we allow its praise, or detraction, to pass through and to become a commentary on the Divine, Life, or Nature, or whatever the fuck you want to call it — and keep our finite, wounded, tender human bits veiled and hidden away for the compassionate witness, we better act as an agent of Change, because we’re not being driven by aversion to cruelty or punitive measures, however subtle (“it comes with the job”) or overt (stalking) they may be.
As my auntie Desiree Adaway has said, “Accountability is something we do, not something done to us. It is not cruel or punitive. It does not make us less human; it makes us more deeply connected.” Chappell protecting her own safety & sense of wholeness while having this harrowing existential challenge tossed, by firmly delineating the separation between herself and her collective self-creation, embodies to this to a T. It’s not lost on me that her natural Saturn is in Aries and likely in her 6th house: her star stuff is to change how we see her, and thus, how we see ourselves, through disrupting what we may think is normal or acceptable, but is actually debilitating or our own and other’s well-being.
‘Cause after all is said and done, at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to dance in peace with the Divine at the Pink Pony Club.
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