Any planet paused at the station starts poking us harder to make quite sure we get it. Which explains a good proportion of this year built on calamitous change and the course correction it always demands. At the conclusion of a retrograde, when we have had the whole time to do our revision, there always comes the test you still feel staggeringly unprepared to sit.
In old Uncle Saturn’s case he places squarely at our feet a leaden chest marked The Work. He pins us with an unwavering glance, clipboard in hand as the clock ticks interminably and demands to know what’s still inside. Intrinsically we know, no matter how elaborate our tango around it to date. He is neither impressed nor distracted and commands us to undo the lock. There is no choice but to comply.
Inside is our shadow and all that we fear to know or understand about ourselves. Our structure and function is ruled from within this grand strongbox, set back in the days before we knew why or how. The Work is its unpacking, joining disparate dots to form new constellations that mirror our truest form.
If you have never creaked open its lid, these are terrifying times when your defences or excuses desert you. Those are the people you hear screaming right now, clinging desperately to leaking life rafts, lost in space. Their time still starts now.
Mostly we are familiar, if still a little awkward with its contents. We see afresh the cracks in the fabric of our universe and the wormholes that threaten to suck us off course. We know that heavy lifting builds strength and that technique is borne of practice. Provided we are willing to commit, Saturn will tick the box.
Look to the next two days to show you your progress and pointers alike. You won’t be able to look away. There are no short cuts on offer. You will know what you need to do.
And in the end, it will be the greatest work of your life. Sleeves up, darklings.
Art by Mariano Peccinetti
Words © Kerrie Basha, 2018