The Season of the Leo: Burn it Down or Let it Grow Us?

Until the last few years I scarcely paid attention to astrology aside from reading an occasional newspaper horoscope and thinking “meh, ok” or “that doesn’t seem like me at all” with indifference.

Then I started my current job and early on my coworkers were discussing their signs and characteristics and their “rising” and other confusing terms. My coworker asked what my sign was. “Leo,” I told them. They seemed taken aback. “Reeeally?”they responded. “Interesssting.”

I didn’t know what that meant. Was I atypical, was I failing as a Leo? Whatever that meant. I was amused and curious. They offered to do a birth chart. What the hell is that? I asked. “Give me your date of birth, time, and location .” “Can I ballpark the time? I’m not sure,” I said. “Abbbbsolutely not, it must be exact.”

Turns out I’m not just a Leo. I’m a Leo rising, Virgo moon. 4 of my birth chart signs are in Leo. “Damn, you’re fiery. You’re a low key Leo.” Ok. I still didn’t understand what anything meant or why my interest was piqued, but it was. Fuck it, why not? I downloaded the @costarastrology app to teach me more.

Since then its been an ever evolving process of learning and curiosity and humor. Sure, it’s not scientific. But is it fun and community-building and connective, just because? Hell yeah.

And for all the stigma and woo woo write-offs about it, I’ve enjoyed it all. And find myself paying attention when I meet people, when I go on dates, and in thinking back on previous interactions. 

And you know the thing about astrology? It’s written off as bogus, unfounded. In my short experience it also seems to hold stronger importance for women, millennials, and especially queer and POC folks. But why? And isn’t it ironic it’s so often viewed as less legit? A tradition that perhaps gives hope and levity and explanation to a mad world that sure as hell ain’t fair. Would that be the case were it a tradition strongly upheld in, say, white male culture? If it was a sport, if it was a religion. I wonder, I do wonder.

I stumbled across this article that elaborated on how astrology has become like religion to us millennial folks, especially in light of decreasing religiosity.

The article said: “Young people have grown up contending with a major recession, climate change and a more general awareness of seeing a political and economic system that many feel hasn’t benefited them, Nicholas said, so it’s not surprising that they’re pushing back against those systems at the same time they’re exploring nontraditional religious beliefs and finding ways to integrate it all.
Nicholas was raised Jewish and still practices the tradition of honoring the new moon, which she brings into her astrology practice — what she calls “a way of being ritualistic that isn’t dogmatic, isn’t sexism, doesn’t have this history of empirical violence.”

“I think that it’s a yearning to return to something. There’s a rejection of things that don’t work,” Nicholas said. “Socialism isn’t new, and astrology definitely isn’t new, and earthly spirituality or living in accordance with the earth’s rituals isn’t new, it’s ancient. I think we’re yearning for something that technology cannot give us, that capitalism cannot give us.”

So that’s something. Something to think about and reflect on. As we critique what’s considered legitimate or worthy. Maybe it’s something, like anything else, that could bring us even a bit closer to one another.

It certainly has for me and my team. We’re a compilation of a Leo (me!), thee ever astrology-knowledgeable Pisces, the curiously skeptic Gemini, the deeply loving Cancer, and the sternly feeling Capricorn. That’s us, all one small and together community, in more ways than one.

So it’s now that I must tell you, this week started Leo season (MY time, biiiitches). I had to look it up, but it allegedly entails the ushering in of energy, passion, and self-expression. That’s pretty rad. But also, it’s mercury retrograde...so...
Just love one another, maybe. Remain curious and open, maybe. Examine power structures and who has the power to define what and when and how, maybe. Remain ready to giggle, maybe. And just say fuck, life is wild and explosive. Cause maybe, just maybe, it’s written in the stars.

And then again, astrology could be just as racist and sexist as America itself. So maybe those damn millennials have it right to find guidance but not take it too seriously after all. Examine and question everything. Anarchy and shit. Fuck everything, let's burn this fucker doooown. Aren't we all just star stuff anyway, Mr. Sagan?

7/17/2019

Question: What vocation would you have if time and cost was no limitation?

Thoughts: FUCK BREAD

Songs on rotation:
India Arie 
Jamila Woods
P.S. Thank the goddesses for black women.

Anarchy and Carly Rae

Previous conceptions of romantic love now feel oddly distant and somewhat sickening. And not because I'm practicing polyamory for the first time in my life and am somehow enlightened or better for it. Rather that it has challenged me to redefine love in ways that are not rooted in ownership, possessiveness, in losing oneself, in giving up on communication. I'm learning the art of expressing needs without fear of losing something that's not mine. In fact, I find I've become more fearful of losing myself to an inauthentic relationship. Anarchy. Relationship Anarchy and the like. Maybe it is for me, maybe it is for you. Uprooting expectations and norms and fables. At least questioning, fixing shit that is long [ever-so-sometimes] broken.

And I still get lost in a Carly Rae bop, like anyone.

A Diagnosis. An Acknowledgment. A Commitment.

F34.1 Persistent depressive disorder, with intermittent major depressive episodes, with current episode. Childhood. Chronic. Depression is nothing new to me, but something about having this read out loud to me by my psychologist was equal parts affirming, upsetting, and grounding. I realize that in spite of how long I've been working on wellness and constant improvement that I carry around a lot of internalized mental health stigma and shame. That others have it way worse and I don't have a right to flounder. Often I don't give myself credit for how far I've come and the emotional weight I consistently carry. My struggle more recently has been walking the line of radical acceptance (vs tearing oneself to shreds) whilst practicing self-accountability and progress. A diagnosis isn't everything, but it certainly gives one a jumping off point and better understanding of possible ways to battle that which ails you.
I'm very fortunate to have access to continuous health care (though I was on a waiting list for a year and a half for this provider); to have found an irreplaceable support group that has served as a family and has helped me regain a sense of leadership and value; to have wonderful family and friends; and to be in a work place that allows me to fit in and serve as I can. I'm very lucky, I know this. And yet, there remains a struggle in learning to live well with a mental health (which IS health, btw) diagnosis and the realities of what that looks like, even a decade plus out of consciously and actively dealing with it. This is compounded by general anxiety, persistent migraines, and sleep apnea. I've known highs and low lows, I've known suicidal thoughts and extreme hopelessness, I've known light and love and coming back to myself and rediscovering hope and a desire to remain in this plane of existence. To be alive. Is to struggle, is to love, is to question, is to find support and validation and comfort however we can. I'm truly grateful for the days that feel easier and more carefree, which are comparatively often few and far in between- those days give me insight into what it might be like to live without a continuous presence of heavy emotions and buried pains and challenges of basic existence many never have to reconcile with or question. These struggles have brought me to grit and resilience, to perspective and consideration, to empathy and kindness, and for that it's hard to feel much regret or anger these days. And yet, it's heavy. As is life. I hope that whatever your individual struggles are that you find a loving home, emotionally and physically. That you find comfort and resolve and hope. At least in our struggles, we're together in that, too. I see you, dear friend, I see you. Until the next time we meet again, wellness and very best wishes to you for getting through this life. One moment and struggle and breath at a time. And at least in this moment I can give myself a pat on the back, a tight hug, and acknowledgement that I'm alive and kicking. You're doing it, Alex. You're doing it. And what you're doing is quite alright. Just keep swimming.

The Death and Dying of Fantasy

“What if pain—like love—is just a place brave people visit?” -Glennon Doyle

Is it even an option to not visit? That's never seemed the case to me.
It's there, it's loud, it's screaming and demanding.
Whether love or pain. Joy or sorrow. Mania or depression.
It creeps up and grabs you like a catchy tune,
enthralling you to dance and sway and sob in dismay.

Coming to decisions I'm equally confident and displeased about,
things to enforce, boundaries to draw.
Seeing where each of us are,
both a universe and each
precious.

And perhaps where I am is not such a place of pain,
but a space of disappointment.
In a place of seeing through fantasies, admitting realities.
Uncomfortable or unfortunate as they may.
Something I learned long ago
and it returns and returns.
Love is not enough. Love is not the answer.
It cannot build bridges that weren't meant to stand.

No concept of time, you say.
Once starved on a diet of kisses and snuggles and affirmations.
How tender, how useless, how quaint.
But not to me. I find those components wholly necessary
though not a substitute for substance. Not anymore.

Perhaps it's wise and mature and adjusted and honest
to say so. To stand up and claim this and that.
Yet still I am saddened to acknowledge it,
shall host a viking funeral with coins and flame.

Goblin Dreams

* * * *

Those depressive goblin nightmare boys I treasure so
How is it possible you taught me so much?
About myself and life and the lies we tell.
In loving you I've learned to better love and like myself.
My dear, my love.

High tops coming my way, red and space-themed.
"use emotionality as a radical tactic against a society
which teaches you that emotions are a sign of weakness"
Riding the waves and seeking to re-establish my own waves.
Hairy waves are hairy.
I'm not quite the manic pixie I thought I'd be
and thank goodness for that.
I am me.
la gloriosa donna della mia mente: the glorious lady of my mind.
One to myself, I'm learning who she is.
This glorious lady of my mind, my heart, myself.
To learn what it means to live life for me, just me.
Around me, in me, within me.
And I came to this, in part, with the loving kindness
of a depressive goblin nightmare boy.
Ah, the horraaa. Thank you, horror
and terror and maybe even, India.



You liked me until I no longer fit the mold,
until I'd spiraled and left you to yourself.
Thank you and thank her,
for the lessons I never wanted to absorb.
The teachers and lessons that splintered me
into oblivion and back to reality.
I came back, I found my way through
with and then without you.

The steadfast variable here, I'm so glad
is me.
This woman I love more and more every day.
Once you see it, it's nearly impossible to look away.
Can't take my eyes off you, impossible, implausible,
wonderful you.

February has been a time of love, sure
but also of loss, of heartbreak.
Of displeasing developments
and distance to and from addictions.
Realizing that in sleeping and shopping
I seek rebellion and freedom.
That new habits come hard,
weave to and fro.
Teaching myself the art of crochet
and vision boardin'.
Of pho and cupcakes and ube coconut bars.




Things that inspire me lately...

Lizzo and Jungle and Lion Babe and Le Butcherettes.
Unloveable and Umbrella Academy.

* * * *
Chicago love everywhere. Here and here and here.



"We're not fantasies, and we weren't made to save you." So Laurie Penny tells men on behalf of her fellow recovering Manic Pixie Dream Girls, those who unlike Beatrice or Bettina will live to become so much more interesting as they age and deepen. Becoming more interesting, however, will mean becoming less of the "submissive, exploitable, transcendent ideal" about whom so many young men fantasize.

Space Boots

New space boots and a fresh knowledge of the air.
It'll be sparse and likely, scary.
...they objectify love, it read.
The object of my affection IS my affection.
My heart, my heart
this new start, we'll get through it.
I'm right here, not going anywhere.
I love you, Alex. I love you.

Feminine Wiles and Giggles and Stares.

I wish I hadn't missed the appointment with my therapist last night, but in the moment I felt stuck and full of tears. As they slowly traipsed down my face, you grasped my hand and said it'll be ok. For that, I am grateful.

Sure, it's always ok, in the end. In the end. The beginning. This new end, another beginning. Tears signal sadness, signal fear, but I sit through them and the discomforts as so often I have. I think of things I might do, all on my own. To be more independent and strong-willed. And maybe I am, it's likely accurate that I underestimate my own strength, my own flexibility. Tonight is support group and I'm glad for the support. To find strength in leading and guiding others, in learning to channel my fears into something other than a deadlock. Into something that doesn't knock the wind from me.


And I think of all the things I've learned these past few months. The importance of patience and sometimes finding the more challenging recipes. Just for me and no one else. It's worth it, to know how to release my own endorphins. To protect alone time and cultivate sweet solitude. To focus on myself and not worry as much about maintaining relationships. There's more, so much more. To see and do and feel. With or without anyone else. But I know I am social and to even some, special, and I crave those bonds, those treasured souls in my life.

To ask for what I want and need, maybe even unapologetic-ally. To describe the steps from here to there, of my feminine wiles and giggles and stares.

It's Ok, It's Alright.

All this potential and discomfort, 

rolling around in my gut. Stuck to my bones.

Breathing through newly exhibited sensations

of anxiety.

I almost forgot what it felt like,

how it can settle into your being.

Make you stick to the bed like glue.

This Lexapro doesn't round out the edges 

quite like it used to. Nor like the last medication.

I'm feeling more, good or not.

Feeling the heaviness and fear in body,

but more in my brain. Stuck, feeling stuck.

It's a superpower to harness, I've told myself that many times.

Yet, in these moments it doesn't feel like a power,

I feel weakened and immobilized.

Rather, the superpower is learning to work on through it.

This anxiety, damned down to the depths of me.

What IS new is that I'm not defaulting to black and white,

my brain stays in a place of holding the gray.

Harnessing the tools I've built up and grown to hold dear.

I'm learning to glide through it, 

acknowledge the unease and sooth it in my soul.

You're ok, you're alright.

We've got this in tow. 

Even as I feel incompetent and worried that I'll be left with nothing.

It's ok, it's alright.

Right here, right now.

Working and working and hemming and hawing.

Nothing is an emergency, nor on fire.

The flames in my brain are alright, for now.

I aim to burn down that which holds me back,

sensations that attempt to convey I'm unworthy 

of existence or love and leisure.

Anxiety is a liar, I see that now.

Depression, too. Both of you are fucking liars.

It's alright, it's ok.

This day, the next. 

Working to be the best,

bestest version of me. Alexandr-ia.

She's lovely and great and struggling, still.

And it's alright, it's ok.

This day and any day.

Source: https://society6.com/product/anxiety617675_print