Recently a new friend asked if I could write a blog post about whether or not I believe in astrology. It’s a simple, concise question that has unravelled me ever since he asked it.
Initially I thought, what is there to believe? The stars exist, we are a infinitesimally small part of a much larger, more gargantuan cosmic system, and we have been looking up to the heavens for answers, signs, and clues about our existence for centuries. Doesn’t everyone believe, to some degree, in astrology?
Last week we took our staff golfing, and one of the line cooks asked what my tattoo was. I explained that it’s the Saturn symbol*, Saturn being the ruling planet of my zodiac sign, Capricorn. I then explained that, by happy accident, I later found that I was born on the cusp of Sagittarius (two fairly polar opposites) and when I lowered my arm at my side, suddenly it was the Jupiter symbol. He thought this was cool, saying, “Oh yeah, Greg mentioned that you’re an astrologer? That it’s like, your religion.”
Trapped by the social bulwarks of her time, fictitious Esther Greenwood descends from the calm waters of youth, down into the tumultuous seas of adulthood. The transition from girl to young woman is a largely overlooked, undervalued journey. Surrounding Esther are dormitories and suburban neighbourhoods teeming with women who have filed into their rightful place as mothers, placid mats underneath the feet of haughty, carefree men. Sexual liberation is not available to a young woman afraid of getting pregnant, and ambition is reserved for the boys pursuing careers as doctors, poets, and professors. What happens to the girl who doesn’t fit into the mould of her sex? Where does that ambition and introspection and consciousness go? Largely autobiographical, The Bell Jar is Plath’s only novel and extends literary vocabulary beyond its male-dominated limitations. The story portrays the coming-of-age story aptly, meticulously detailed, and merciless.
These annual updates are published further and further apart. I reread my 2014 year in review and realized that I had loyally documented my experiences, month after month. I sit at a kitchen table, in my new house, surrounding by a chaos of boxes and furniture that hasn’t quite got a home, and realize that I am as scattered in my memories as I am in my possessions. Read More
I took a sabbatical this summer. I did not publish creative content online. My blog, as you may have noticed, lay dormant like burnt grass on a suburban lawn, and my YouTube channel saw small smatterings of glimpses into my daily life. These were conscious choices. As beautiful and clear as the summer days were, they were meant for the outdoors. I have spent the past six months preparing for winter, and have a myriad of hobbies, projects, and outlets I will be engaging in. I had a rough winter, and I am doing my best to approach the upcoming darkness with light and grace, not fear and anxiety.
Having spent my summer engaging in long-term creative projects, like my children’s book, and other writing endeavours, has meant I have submerged myself in a different type of creativity. In the winter and spring I was uploading weekly content on my channel and blog. The inertia of these weekly habits perpetuated upon its own momentum, and I had never felt so creatively productive.
I decidedly dislike new year’s resolutions. To abruptly stop in the middle of winter and decide that it is the beginning of one thing, the end of another, is too arbitrary for my tiny girl brain to handle.
A goal I’ve been putting off and picking up and dropping mid-sentence and losing track of and scooping up hurriedly again is my spiritual practice. Without getting too deep into it, I’ve embraced the ideals of paganism for the past three years with varying degrees of dedication. Witchcraft (not necessarily Wiccan religion) is something I’ve always, always, always been interested in. It’s only recently that I’ve realized that other people’s perceptions of witchcraft played a large factor in my inability to embrace it further.