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The Church of Mother May I

I had it all planned I was going to watch the sun rise this morning from the Manhattan side of the East River, down at John Lindsay River Park. (Talk about a throwback of a reference.) Still delightfully depleted from May Day intuition readings, I felt a little too weary for such a strident call time. But even during Quarantime, Sunday is the only time when you can park anywhere in New York City, so my alarm was duly set.

Instead I woke to a soft rain coating everything and Grace’s little nose twitching as it does when she senses something extra fine. Her nose always knows, because the air smelled better than I remember it ever smelling in NYC–fresh, fresh, fresh, with none of that metallic rot that’s prevailed over the last 10, nay, 20 years of eco-terrorism. The peonies and lilacs by my bed only made the air finer.

So no sunrise, but coffee in bed, familiar and witch basking in the sweet smells and sounds–in the dueling songs of starlings, doves, pigeons cheerfully waging turf wars.

After you-hoo, I insist.
Oh, no, after coo-coo-you!

Only after I drank a second cup as well a big glass of lemon water–and, oh, sure, the last shrimp taco from Saturday supper–did I know how I felt and what was needed.

Which is to say: There’ll be no non-churchy church services this afternoon because this feels like a Sunday to receive rather than download information. And in Mother Mary May, we don’t heed quaranTime. We heed soul time.

If you have the means and time, dig your digits into some soil, unplug your devices, and fly in that sky inside you. Then next Sunday, let’s share what we find.

It’ll be Mother’s Day, about which many of us have complicated feelings. So we’ll reclaim this Hallmark holiday–give it back to Mother May, Mother Earth, the Mothers we carry within us. More than that, we’ll celebrate the divine feminine principle.

Til then, if you wish to gift a Mother’s Day reading to yourself or a loved one, book here. I bid you a peony-scented start to a beautiful week.

Astro PSA! The Practical Magic of Taurus

Today marks the beginning of Taurus season and Taurus is the change we need to see in the world. Ruled by Venus, the goddess of loving resources, this sign’s calling card is practical magic—the miracle that naturally transpires when we move faithfully into the unknown no matter what we fear and what troubles we carry. Taurus understands that to bloom, we must first dig deep—into the earth, into ourselves, into all that is buried.

Taurus can be thought of as lazy, but she merely refuses to expend precious resources on undeserving outlets. Above all, Taurus refuses to be rushed. She has her own time—not unlike quarantime—and takes however long is necessary to do a job not just right but beautifully.

On this first day of Taurus’s time to shine, consider what tasks we are still asking ourselves to complete. Do they confer compassion, concrete care, and/or joy? If not, maybe they’re not as necessary as we thought.

This is my favorite time of the year, one of gentle, gorgeous growth that not even a pandemic can touch. Beauty—the miracle of anything and anybody in its natural, optimal state— is everywhere, and my intuition and tarot readings focus on how we may individually channel it, not unlike a sunflower flourishing in a sidewalk crack. So book a session for yourself or a loved one. No one is turned away due to lack of resources— and watch for the new tarot love spread I’ve devised to channel the Venetian energy of this month!

Now We Must Listen

Here in the last stretch of Mercury Retrograde, which officially ends March 10, we are mere weeks from Ostara (March 19)–the astrological new year as well as the beginning of spring, glorious spring. During this quiet nascent time, the line between death and life is as blurred as the line between winter and spring. Notice it in the stirring of the air, suddenly fresher, suddenly sweeter; in the quality and length of daylight; and at dusk–magic hour, my favorite hour, when we are held by everything to come as well as what’s come before.

It is as Alexander McCall Smith writes: The voices of the dead—you can hear them still, if you listen hard enough. Late people talking, like children after lights-out: the faint, distant voices of our ancestors.Now is not the time to act. It is the time to listen–to the earth, to the ancestors, to each other. For any true-soul guidance in these dark times.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy