20.04.2020

Taurus season always arrives like a balm, a field of belonging we can sink deeply into no matter which way our year and world has spun. That has never been more true than this ride around the sun. As he crosses the border from an incendiary Aries season that saw the old world burn, the earthy grounding of the little bull's playing field proffers welcome relief and good grounding.

Taurus connects our body to our heart and head. In truth not one aspect of this holy human trinity exists in isolation but we have a terribly modern tendency to override what our mortal coil is screaming at us to observe. Our capacity to ignore or underresource the temple we each call home is staggering. Yet despite our abuse and wilful ignorance, the body never lies. It knows what you need better than you think you do. It mainly operates in spite of your consent or denial. And it has been waiting patiently for your call and the embrocation of your loving attention since day one.

All the greatest secrets of life are hidden in plain sight inside us. Though we may look outwards constantly, wrapping our heads around other people's nonsense and getting tangled in conspiracy theories and cereal box wisdom, your greatest guru lives inside you. Their good book is written into your cells and encoded in your bones. The holy pilgrimage is to meet yourself there and to come as you are.

Taurus season is the best medicine because it delivers a prescription of delight. It calls us to embodiment, to immerse ourselves in the world of our senses. To eat and drink and be merry, to dance and laugh and love. Yes even now. Especially now. The little bull's domain is a fragrant meadow and a fecund field of dreams. It offers a smorgasbord of sensual experience as an offering to haul you out of your freaking head and back into your body.

And in a strange new landscape, where nothing but change is certain and the ground yet quakes, the port in this storm is inside us. Take blessed shelter there.

be easy.

take your time.

you are coming

home.

to yourself.

- the becoming | wing

Poem by Nayyirah Waheed

Art by Brooke Shaden

Words c. Kerrie Basha 2020

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