Gemini: You know who’s excited about quarantine!? Well, excited is probably the wrong word but BOREDOM RESEARCHERS! https://99percentinvisible.org/episode/the-natural-experiment/ Join their experiments. See what’s going on with your old friend Boredom. Doodle around the edges of it. Build a shrine of pushpins and binder clips. Burn looseleaf as sage. Sit until you turn into cloudscapes, until your breath and your voice stop feeling like weapons. It’s a peace you deserve.
Cancer: Last Thursday night while Shamanic Journeying via Zoom, (Like one does.) the stars were dragged Blair Witch style into a dark wood shining only with fluorescent blue leaves. Plants are sometimes the only kind of touching, aren’t they? The only hint of life? The big leaves were both warm and cool to the touch, shifting colors because they were a dream. Curl up in those dark dream leaves until some helping creature arrives to lead you to a bright meadow.
Leo: As the person who built an Aurora Borealis/ the door from Russian Doll out of tissue paper and LED lights, you can accomplish most things. Step one: Learn all the names of the flowers before you graduate to fungus, grasses, butterflies, and birds. String up the prettiest names like lights, make your gardens like lights, make the petals like lights too, why not? Delphinium, pulmonaria, kalanchoe, whatever names feel best, say them like prayers.
Virgo: “The sky over the city has too much light, baby. You can see the stars a little but you gotta work for them.” N.K. Jemesin, The City We Became. What pulses in the city of you, now without the thrum and crush of your commute? Now that you’re not being honked at so often when you hesitate for a nanosecond at green lights. Now that you’re commercial-free, where are the new gaps? See if you can hear it, or better yet, hold out your hands to the sky and wait to be touched.
Libra: A long walk in the woods, if you can. Not on the weekend, that would be nuts. It’s okay if the walk’s in your mind, or on watercolor paper. If you can’t ride your bike along the rivers and creeks or dance in a crowd under a big bridge any time soon, what then? Can you listen to those gentle studying songs until you sleep new lessons? Can you, very carefully, twist ropes into wings? The stars are sending new ways for you to sit in the sun and every puzzle you can hold in your two warm hands for hope.
Scorpio: Like everyone (Well, not everyone.) you are a business rebuilding, a Festival Girl whose travels have paused. Be even more than usual the stars’ favorite palindrome: drawn inward. Your imagination will grow forests and populate seas. Make your Tolkein-maps of undiscovered realms. Your mantra for now is here be dragons. It’s okay if you don’t yet see the treasure underneath.
Sagittarius: You’re a library. And the head librarian of that library. Ask the Front Desk (also you) where the Mystical Experience section is. Turn left at the card catalog of Conversations Your Barbies had, head past the Disco Songs Your Mom Used to Sing. The Special Collection is showing the archives from the Museum of Bad Advice, but don’t sign in there just yet—you just washed your hands. Check out as many items as you’d like, the City of You has changed its overdue policy.
Capricorn: If there’s one thing that (dear but un-re-watchable) Friends got right about the Nineties, its how much every day turned on the axis of coffee. Tired from doing not-very-much until sunrise or from a young, walloping misunderstanding of the proportions of a gin and tonic, we would migrate to our (way more rewatchable!) friends in basements, on porches, in just-barely-bookstores. We can’t do most of that right now, but: A porch, a cup of good coffee, a Sunday you feel ambivalent about, a dear friend, and peace.
Aquarius: As much as the stars are OBSESSED with Marie Kondo, there really is no one right way to clean a basement. If you want to go scorched-earth and pitch it all out, go ahead, the stars won’t tell anyone. If you want to lovingly turn over every document, write a sonnet to every shred of ephemera, every errant leaflet, go ahead, why not? It’s your basement, and even if it isn’t, too bad, you’re the one doing the work. Go down the steps and start.
Pisces: Every classroom you’ve even been in, teaching or learning, home or away, LOVES you. Each one keeps like love letters the maps you’ve drawn of them, the spreadsheets, the procedures, the hand-written signs. Buildings know how to love all-encompassingly and so do teachers, so do students. The windows are open to the summer breeze. The sun is giddily shattering concentration and helping the houseplants to feed themselves. The pencils are all sharpened, the dry-erase markers are fresh and multicolored. These things remember, and so do you.
Aries: Get caught in the rain without worrying that your phone will catch a raindrop. There will be no need to sleep overnight in rice. You have a blowdryer and towels if you need them. Loosen your mask before it starts to feel like drowning. If, once you’re inside again reading with your coffee, the sun comes out, you don’t even have to get up and look outside for the rainbow. The rainbow will come to you.