The moon hid in a crescent and my mother is a star

Adolescence meant making a beeline for the Linda Goodman treatise on Star signs, in an attempt to define one’s proclivities. It was always a source of amusement. I spent a good many minutes of my walk this evening tuning in to a wonderful podcast that spoke about Simone de beauvoir’s “Second Sex” and the way she came about the idea of how women construct or define their gender and femininity. I wonder if the weekly star forecast and books on sun signs would have ever figured as part of this. Some people like attributing their traits to a sun sign much like the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator questionnaire and other such characterizations that are in popular use. The event of ones birth, places a person at a distinct point in the map of the constellations. It is the study of the stars really and I thought I would write a poem today about astrology, the sun and moon signs as a fun exercise.

Mother, I looked for your moon in the blue print of your birth. Which Lunar mansion was it hid within, there are 27 of them and this evening, I saw the moon wax Gibbous, almost full and wondered if it shone on the moving trains and the salty ocean, the time you graced the Earth. Was it behind a cloud or drenched in the Sun. Did my grandmother see it through a tangle of branches as she laboured to spill you out.  I looked for your Sun too, in the bright algorithm. It tried hard to pixellate you between the seasonal and the starry. It also had a Jungian analysis of your artistic aptitude and a freudian for your stoic strength. I love your fieriness, you know the times I have had my fingertips burnt in it's scalding flames. Your leonine regality, your self respect and yet your rootedness to hearth and home is so Cancerian. The Sun bounced between those months on your natal chart. It couldn't quite place itself in any cosmos for the  Gregorian calendar waxed a different sun from the lunar one. Then the astronomers trundled in and solemnly spoke of the Earth's wobble, they scraped  a few minutes here and a few minutes there; the hour looked much leaner now. Time is relative I know but it vacillated between your moodiness and self regard . So one time you looked like Cancer and another time appeared a Lion. And the term Lion gave me a heartache, such sexism even in the constellations. They needed the Libra scales of justice but I know not of many feminists that are born Libran who may draw up a new criterion for law school or a new zodiac.  I decided, I love you just the same because you are my mother. Any flavour you come in, you are born under a star, a star to me and a star you will always be. 

My Mother’s personality always keeps me guessing what her real sign should be. I know what her moon sign is but they are two different signs per two different systems. The map sets her star right; it’s the characteristics attributed to each sign that invariably get her wrong 🙂 (written on a walk one recent evening, fun exercise pondering astrology)

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