Like Wildfire

If it burns like wildfire within, you’re probably a Sagittarius.

Envision a stage, lit, and the roar of a Woodstock crowd as the Emcee announces, “Fire and Mutability are in the house, so let’s give them a big round of applause.”

There’s something indescribable, ethereal, about the connection one feels to music, right? How do you pinpoint the ‘how and why’ of random notes and tunes that raise goosebumps on your skin? As it is with recognizing one’s ‘self’ described in the characteristics of a planetary sign: a narrative ‘astrological’ arc that precedes you, an invisible rulership that somehow shapes and defines your being: resourcefulness, willpower, drive, and passion.

Fire is a passion that I won’t deny. But does it drive you? Does it spread, like wildfire, to those within reach? Can they ‘feel the heat of you’ in their presence?

As with every ‘sign’, like the planets and moons themselves, these traits can wax and wane; but if we let ourselves be defined by any one element, we might burn up, or be consumed, in the process.

Fire is passion tamed by Water. Earth is the soil lifted by Air.

“Give a warm welcome to Empedocles on stage.” The crowd goes wild. He’s a solo act from a distant place. His voice is whisper-thin, lifted, surreal, on a cloud, but they hush to hear it, and are enthralled.

It’s the intelligent and perceptive who enjoy a balance of the elements as opposed to being propelled by one. Now this is a notion I can get behind.

I know nothing about astrology. But I do know a thing or two about being human. I’ve seen the color of our sun and felt the pull of our moon. I’ve lived on a planet. I’ve felt the fire’s heat. I’ve burned and been burned. And once, I very nearly drowned.

I get goosebumps, and sometimes cry, when the ‘right’ kind of music strikes its mighty chords.

“Folks! Let’s give it up for Earth, Air and Water, all the way in from Hellenatown tonight.”

We are all capable of living a life of dignity or detriment, in exaltation or in fall, not because our souls are invisibly manipulated by some remote planet, our talents and traits managed by daylight or by night, but because we are human, and because we are alive.

Our cosmos is a mystery. But isn’t it one of your favorite tunes? One you listen to over and over again, on constant replay, without ever being certain as to why and how the notes make you wonder, and sometimes cry!

“We welcome to the stage that action-packed and energetic act. It’s Cardinal ladies and gents, backed by longtime band members, Capricorn and Libra.” They bring life to the stage, whipping the audience to a frenzy in delight. Everyone is dancing. There’ll be no sitting down now.

It’s a concert we attend yearly, twelve stages, multiple acts; some you love and connect with deeply, and others that aren’t your thing. But isn’t that precisely why we go? To be entertained, and surprised; and to have our humanity touched, revitalized, and acknowledged? To have our thoughts challenged, and our feelings turned-on? Triggered, and lit, like wildfire?

But regardless of your beliefs in science or pseudoscience, there are some acts that all Sagittarians should probably avoid, ones that sting the ears and hurt. Don’t let this critic be your guide. Check them out on your own time, in the safety of your own space and inner-most self, before their next tour: Retrograde, Combustion, and Accidental Debilities.

They’re not my thing. Perhaps they’re also not yours?

I’ll just settle back here on my old blanket, as the concert wraps up and the night comes to a close. There are a million stars in the universe, and that is a view I can never get enough of.

“Here we go. Give it up loud for Essential Dignity.”

“Thanks for coming. Have a safe trip home.”