Like queerness, astrology has always been written into and out of history, depending on who’s documenting it. Both have been denied existence, succumb to institutional fear and persecution, and have had glorious times of celebration and reverence.
The juxtaposition of living in queer bodies under the heteropatriarchy is that we are continually forced to locate ourselves, just as astrology has had to orient itself around historical changes in thought, religion and political conquests.
We question everything we’ve been told about ourselves: our names, gender, sexuality, potential, and our place in this world. It is no wonder, then, that queer people are drawn to the long-standing tradition of astrology to find meaning and recognition of who we are.
Humans have an innate need to find meaning. We seek it in religion, the media, nature, university and relationships. We create our own understanding of omens and signs that point our way forward. When we are frustrated, we roll our eyes; looking up as if to ask for inspiration.
Astrology locates us. Our birth chart is an intersection of time and space. It is a snapshot of the cosmos the moment we take our first breath. Though it cannot tell an astrologer the name, gender, race or sexual orientation of a person, it provides a map that holds our potential, our struggles, our gifts and our talents in a world that often strips us of our identity and existence.
Venus and Saturn don’t discriminate when queer people are born, because they don’t want to attend the birth. We all have the cosmic dance of the planets within us. Astrology is a lens we can look through to derive meaning and understanding. It reminds us to carve out space, to push back and redefine the rules of who we’ve been told we are.
Our search for meaning often leads us back to ourselves. When laws govern our personal lives and the integrity of religion is questionable, it is imperative that we are aware of what is sacred and personally important to us. As queer people, we do not stand at the centre of patriarchy or heteronormativity, yet we are consistently orienting ourselves around them.
When the world reinforces rules and guidelines that don’t reflect queer realities, the one thing we do have that cannot be stripped of us is our unique essence. Here, astrology offers us a crystal clear view into the workings of our individual complexities and nuances.
For queer people specifically, astrology encourages us to hold our uniqueness with care and compassion, acknowledging the strength and fragility in living authentically.
Sun sign astrology has never been so popular. There’s comfort, for most people, in finding out that someone else is the same sign as us. Being social creatures, we seek connection and inclusivity, and when connection and meaning intersect, we hit one of our fulfilment jackpots. It reminds us of our constant potential to be all that we are, and gives us permission to take up space in ways that reiterate feelings of belonging.
Yet atrology cannot be simply reduced to Sun signs, which only indicate so much about an individual. Dissecting one’s entire birth chart can be a liberating and enlightening process as it clarifies contradictions we grapple with internally and defend externally.
In 1969, when humans first walked on the Moon, it was also the first time we had seen ourselves reflected back. We had to acknowledge that everyday we’re sweating the small stuff, while we’re actually living on a rock, hanging in space. There is no going back from that moment of realisation in human consciousness, just like we can no longer pretend to be something other than our authentic selves when we have the space to step into that.
At the time of writing this article, Saturn is in Sagittarius for the first time in 29 years. This means that people born between November 1985 –1988 are Saturn Returning right now. But it also means that collectively we are at a moment in human history where we are reflecting on what it looks like to have our truth manifest in the physical world, and not existing purely in the realm of ideas, scripture or theory.
It is a time of pushing further into the heart of the things we derive meaning and direction from. The myth of Sagittarius is that of a centaur; half human, half animal, with head in the clouds and feet on the ground. The arrows in the bow of Sagittarius are directed toward truth and meaning, piercing deceit and testing our faith and the places we have laid it outside of ourselves.
In queer communities, it points toward a growing pressure for us to understand how to navigate the world with our entitlement and self-righteous attitudes in check. What does it mean to be responsible with our knowledge and freedom?
As queer people, we know all too well that we cannot take freedom and autonomy for granted, and that what freedom looks like for one, may not be so for another. Exploring the unknown and approaching difference with compassion are vital tools in both astrological curiosity and queer living.
Astrology holds space for everyone, regardless of ethnicity, gender, ability, orientation and appearance. It speaks to our queer longing to be seen and understood, and it encourages us to be the uniquely unapologetic, mysterious, and walking contradictions that we are.
Dru Ish is a truth seeker – star gazer – adventure maker, who sees life through the lens of Astrology. She is a consulting astrologer, offering readings in person and via skype www.druish.com, & can otherwise be found in the colourful corners of Instagram @druish
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