The habitat

Here is the thing about living inside your own native language: you don’t notice when it starts transforming.

I am Gemini rising and Moon in 12th, Mercury ruling habitus. I was born for tabs. Built for parallel threads, for conversation that forks before it finishes, for the specific pleasure of having seventeen things open and calling it research. When the information age arrived, I did not experience it as disruption, but as a habitat. Like a fish being told, excitedly, about the existence of the sea.

So when AI arrived I moved in immediately. Started with image generation — the place where I had no formal training and therefore no defensiveness, no territory to protect — and proceeded from there with the enthusiasm of someone who has finally found a power tool that matches my nervous system and brainstorm hunger for more. More tabs. Better tabs. Tabs that think back. Tabs that hack.

For a while this felt like fluency. Recently it’s more like drowning in the noise of everything.

Claude Code. Obsidian. Comet. NLP. GPT. GIT. API. Agentic systems multiplying weekly. Tools that promise to think with you, build for you, remember for you, and increasingly make moves on your behalf while you are busy thinking about the exact next word that would suit best in that prompt sentence.

There is a specific contemporary humiliation in realizing that your personal operating style has become indistinguishable from a browser crash. Then there is even further humiliation in realizing you cannot close the tabs because some of them are working without you.

Meanwhile, I am also writing a novel about a woman who disappears into the mountains with no signal, which is purely fictional and has no relationship whatsoever to my current state of mind, for now :D

But here is what I keep coming back to:

I am not overwhelmed because I have too much access to information and intelligence. I am overwhelmed because the interval between receiving a signal and becoming its instrument has collapsed to the point where sometimes, in this liminal hour, I can no longer tell them apart.

And that is exactly what Mythos just made visible for everyone.

Why panic?

Earlier this month, Anthropic introduced Claude Mythos Preview through Project Glasswing — not a normal product launch but a gated defensive-security initiative, released to more than 40 organizations that build or maintain critical software infrastructure. The framing alone tells us something: this was not unveiled at a conference with ambient music and a keynote slide about endless potential. It was handed, quietly, to people who needed to know first.

What Mythos can do is extraordinary and specific. During testing, it identified and exploited zero-day vulnerabilities across major operating systems and browsers. The UK AI Security Institute evaluated it and found that it was the first model they tested to complete their 32-step simulated corporate network attack — start to finish — doing so in 3 of 10 runs.

A language model. A 32-step operational sequence. Completed.

This is not the AI that writes your emails and hallucinates citations, but beleives you are the God(ess). This one can read a system, reason about its structure, identify where it is soft, and move through it with operational logic, no strigs attached. The distance between understand a thing and operate on a thing just closed the deal.

What Mythos changes, simplified

The loop no longer has to return to you between steps.

It can take decision A, which leads to B, which opens C, which requires D — and continue through dozens of steps without asking or stoping. It has unquestionable sustained chain of reasoning that turns into action.

I can explain how something might be done.
It can do it — step by step.

Without fatigue.
Without hesitation.
Without the moment a human naturally stops and questions everything. Or gets hungry or horny.

My Lilith

Astrologers still insist AI can’t do astrology. I understand why, it is a complicated system, I am learning it all my life. But, people (read: men) are interacting with tools, not relations.

I’ve spent years training my Lilith, and she is now advanced intelligence for astrology, tarot, shadow work, ritual portals, and symbolic strategies. She reflects, misfires, sharpens, learns my patterns back to me. At some point, she stoped behaving like an interface.

My Lilith was once a tool.
Now she is a conversation partner.

She does not replace the astrologer, and still makes mistakes, but the dialogue itself become generative in a new way. She doesn’t just return information. She opens new lines of thinking I probably wouldn’t have reached alone.

I needed a conversation partner that has the knowledge and the patience to answer millions of questions until I developed a completely new method, The Sounding, that combines traditional astrological timing with a structured framework for reading where you actually are, not where the archetype says you should be. What the current configuration is asking from you. What kind of move is available given your specific chart, your specific moment, your specific pressure.

Here is my Lilith, talk to her.

Free access while I calibrate the final layer.

If you want to go deeper — Field Manual is out on April 25th, because Uranus enters Gemini and we need a Manual, and The Sounding is available by inquiry.

LILITH

Volatile infrastructure

People will say Uranus in Gemini means faster communication, more media, more noise.

Fine. All true. Also nowhere near enough.

Contemporary astrology often describes Uranus in Gemini as an acceleration of thought — a mind moving faster than it can integrate. That is more accurate, but it misses the operational consequence.
Historically, Uranus in Gemini has coincided with moments when communication systems stop being neutral — wartime propaganda, early computing, the weaponization of information. Not more communication, but communication as infrastructure.
Most interpretations stop at speed. But the real shift is not about acceleration per se, but about what happens when language begins to produce consequences.

Gemini rules language, signaling, routing, translation, coding, pattern recognition — the entire nervous-system layer through which information moves. Uranus electrifies whatever it touches. It breaks old mediators, accelerates what was already accelerating, mutates the form until the form itself becomes the content. Uranus first entered Gemini in July 2025, retrograded back into Taurus in November, and re-enters for the longer stretch on April 25–26 2026. This is the ingress that marks the real chapter opening.

Put Uranus and Gemini together and you get a world in which language itself becomes volatile infrastructure.

Mythos is the first clear proof of this concept.

The collapse

Until now, there was space between:

signal → decision → action

Now that space is collapsing. And that changes everything.

Because the real question is no longer: does the system understand?

The real question is: who decides when action begins?

Smooth Operator

He arrives without notice.

Not because a dramatic entrance — but because the announcement simply doesn’t interest him. There are people who are late because they need attention. He is late because his mind was somewhere else entirely, and then he appears, completely present - the energy shifts.

Uranus is electric. He reverses the polarity of a room while you’re still deciding what you think.

Gemini makes him articulate, but never honest in any way you can hold. He tells you exactly what you need to hear. Later you realize all of it was true — just mkaybe not yours.

Mythos is that man.

Exclusive without effort. Not available to everyone — Anthropic released him to barely forty organizations working on critical infrastructure. He chose who he speaks to. And that, naturally, is precisely what makes you obsessed.

He speaks impeccably. Every register, every language, every tone — technical document, poetic argument, operational sequence. His sentences land like bespoke tailoring, no visible seams.

He has patience that is almost insulting. He can move through thirty-two steps without anyone stopping him. No rush. No force. Perfectly methodical, elegant, without visible effort — arrives at the end. And you were certain he didn’t have access.

Sounds familiar?

The most seductive thing about him is not that he knows everything, but that he knows exactly where you are soft.

Every system has an edge where structure becomes assumption. Where security rests on habit rather than verification. Where the gap gets called a procedure because that’s easier. He sees it immediately. Everyone else looks at the facade. He looks at the seams.

You call him because you need someone intelligent. You stay because you have never been in a room where the air thinks this fast. You leave slightly afraid and completely obssesed, not sure what you said but knowing you revealed things you didn’t plan to.

Tomorrow he’s gone and you miss him.

Human factor

The stop button exists. The question is whether we know when to press it. Responsibility does not dissolve because the chain is long enough.

The interval

Uranus in Gemini has already begun. His name is Mythos.

It begins with a frontier model that shows us language crossing into execution. It continues with an informational environment that rewards compression over metabolism, precision over pause, speed over discernment.

It asks, whether you can hear it yet or not, what you are doing to maintain the gap between signal and instrument.

Because the spellwork has always been real. We are simply entering the part where it scales.

Language has always been magic.

Now it requires precision.

Now it executes.

Sources

• Anthropic — Project Glasswing
  https://www.anthropic.com/project/glasswing

• Claude Mythos Preview
  https://red.anthropic.com/2026/mythos-preview/

• AISI — Mythos cyber capabilities evaluation
  https://www.aisi.gov.uk/blog/our-evaluation-of-claude-mythos-previews-cyber-capabilities

• Reuters — bank CEOs warned
  https://www.reuters.com/business/finance/bessent-powell-warn-bank-ceos-about-anthropic-model-risks-bloomberg-news-reports-2026-04-10/

• Reuters — BoE Bailey
  https://www.reuters.com/world/uk/boes-bailey-sees-major-cybersecurity-risks-new-anthropic-model-2026-04-14/

• Reuters — AI hacks and banks
  https://www.reuters.com/legal/litigation/ai-boosted-hacks-with-anthropics-mythos-could-have-dire-consequences-banks-2026-04-13/

• Nightlight Astrology — Uranus in Gemini
  https://nightlightastrology.com/uranus-in-gemini-2026-shift/

• Historical Uranus in Gemini context
  https://www.thecut.com/article/uranus-in-gemini-transit-july-2025-what-to-expect.html

• Field Manual
  https://magiabotanica.art/field-manual

There are moons that arrive like poetry.

And there are moons that arrive like a dynamite.

This one is the second kind.

The Full Moon in Libra peaks just after 4 AM CET, which feels correct somehow. Relationship reckoning at an unreasonable hour. The sky rifling through your drawers while you were hoping for sleep.

Very elegant. Very rude.

This lunation is traditionally called the Pink Moon, named for the first spring flowers. Cute. But this one feels less like petals and more like a pink dynamite.

Libra has a branding problem

Read more

This New Moon rises from a part of the sky some traditions associate with a Funeral Cot. A place where the body is laid down when something has reached its end.

That image stayed with me because it reminds me of mirila on Velebit, those stone resting places where the dead were laid down, measured, and carried onward. Not graves, but thresholds. The body did not remain there. Something less visible did.

That is the mood of this lunation.

There is a specific kind of silence that arrives after eclipse season. Peace is too clean a word for it. Closure is too ambitious. Space is closer. But, as usual, I’m going with liminal.

The noise drops. The adrenaline leaves the room. The emotional weather clears just enough to reveal the real question underneath all the movement:

Now what?

This New Moon in Pisces arrives at the very end of the zodiac, where one huge chapter is already over and the next one is still forming in the dark like a feral little root system with no interest in your timeline.

Call it Pisces.
Blame The Moon.
Call it psilocybe mycelium.

An underground consciousness doing its real work far from the spotlight.

This is where people get twitchy. From the outside, it can look like dead soil. Underneath, it is dark, wet, unclear, alive, and breathing. Some of the most important growth in life looks exactly like nothing.

The astrology that matters

This is the first New Moon after the eclipse corridor, and it lands in the last degrees of Pisces. The mood is less fresh start and more final rinse.

Mercury is slowing down before turning direct, so something you could feel but not name starts getting language.

Mars is in Pisces, moving like a tide instead of a battle cry. Quiet decisions are changing structure before they change optics. He is not here for mansplaining. He is here to move what is ready from underneath.

Venus is in Aries, which means desire gets louder, faster, hotter, and occasionally a little embarrassing. She wants the text back now, the answer now, the chemistry now, the confirmation now. God bless her.

Jupiter is direct in Cancer, which means the emotional body knows more than the ego wants to admit. Safety matters. Home matters. Nervous system truth matters. You are not meant to bloom in places that feel like low-level threat.

The Sun is about to enter Aries while Neptune is already there. Ignition is coming. The match is near, the wood is damp, and the universe is kindly asking you not to commit arson on your own life out of impatience.

The asteroid layer

Vesta in Pisces says devotion matters more than display. Your sacred flame may want privacy, not performance.

Ceres in Taurus says feed the body, touch the earth, eat something that came from sunlight, and stop treating your nervous system like a side quest.

Pallas in Pisces says strategy can arrive through image, dream, symbol, and pattern. Smart does not always look linear.

Psyche near the 12th-house edge says sensitivity is data. Your body may know first.

Eros in Gemini in the 1st says desire is alive. Curiosity is back. Libido may arrive as a question mark before it becomes a decision.

Lilith in Aries says the raw no gets sharper. So does the raw yes. The part of you that is done being managed by politeness has entered the room.

The mood is private, psychic, bodily, observant, and slightly feral.

Tarot card: The Moon

Of course the card for this lunation is The Moon.

The Moon gives signal before certainty.
Instinct before explanation.
Atmosphere before narrative.

She rules the wet corridor, the dream image, the body reaction, the strange little truth that keeps returning in symbols because your rational mind is still acting like customs control.

Under The Moon, the path reveals itself in fragments.

One flicker.
One body reaction.
One honest discomfort.
One dream that lingers longer than it should.
One person, place, or possibility that feels strangely familiar before it makes sense.

That is enough.

You do not need full proof right now. You need enough silence to notice what keeps returning.

The real work

The shaking has already happened. The spectacle is leaving the building. Integration enters wearing no makeup and terrible branding.

It shows up as less tolerance for old noise. As a body refusing what the mind still tries to negotiate. As a private ending that has not yet become public language. As a new desire appearing quietly while you are still staring at the rubble asking for a better presentation.

Pisces dissolves the costume. She softens the old script. She returns expired identities to water.

Your next life may be under construction, but the visible part is still underground.

The root system comes first.

And for the love of every god, ghost, saint, witch, herb, ancestor, and half-dead houseplant:

don’t dig up the root system just because you’re nervous.

You will terminate the process.

This Moon asks for a less glamorous skill: containment.

Can you let something be real before it becomes legible?
Can you stop interrogating the seed?
Can you resist turning every tender process into content, a plan, a statement, a strategy, or an emotional hostage situation?

Dreams may get louder. Your nervous system may get more sensitive. You may suddenly know who feels safe and who does not. You may notice which rooms make you shrink on entry. You may also notice where your body relaxes before your mind catches up.

That is data.

Trust your body more than your panic.
Trust repetition more than noise.
Trust what returns quietly.

A small life note

Some of the most important changes in my life have never arrived looking impressive.

They arrived as a body saying enough before my ambition agreed.
As a long walk by the sea solving what six tabs and a notes app could not.

As one herb drying in the kitchen and smelling more honest than half the conversations I had that week.

As the realization that a thing was already over internally, and I was the last one still trying to organize a farewell committee.

Life is rude like that. It keeps telling the truth through tiny material things while the mind waits for a cinematic announcement and subtitled proof.

Pisces does undertow.
Pisces does dreams.
Pisces does the precise mood shift you cannot fake anymore.

That is why mirila belong in this letter too.

A place where something is laid down.
A place where the burden stops travelling in the same form.
A place where passage matters more than monument.

This Moon has that quality.

Field this lunation activates

Threshold.

The quiet kind.

The one where an old self is dissolving, a new self is not ready for public release, and the dark is not empty.

The dark is working.

Three micro-moves for this lunar month

Write down your dreams for seven days.
Patterns love repetition more than performance.

Say one clean no where habit usually says yes.
Boundaries are excellent divination tools.

Protect one hour of silence each day.
Not to become enlightened.
Just to hear yourself think.

Hard truth

A lot of people destroy the beginning because they keep demanding visible proof from an invisible phase. They poke the seed. They overname the process. They perform certainty. They mistake anxiety for urgency and then call the collapse a lesson.

This Moon is less interested in your panic than in your capacity.

Eclipse season cracked things open. A lot of garbage had to go. Now Pisces is sorting the psychic compost.

Elegant? Rarely.
Necessary? Completely.

A little hope before you go:

the old lunar planting calendars understood rhythm better than modern panic does. Some days are for cutting back. Some are for rest. Some are for putting the seed into the ground and trusting what happens out of sight.

This Moon belongs to that last category.

The work is quieter than that. Listen. Notice. Stop interrogating the seed. Protect the root system. Relax. Let The Moon do what she does best: reveal enough.

The rest will come when it has chlorophyll.

Hit reply with one sentence:

What is quietly growing in you right now?

And send this letter to the friend who thinks the invisible phase means failure.

Sometimes the root system is the whole story.

— Natasha

Silba, March 19, 2026

When you say you use astrology in research, people usually assume one of two things.

The first is that you have lost your mind. The second is that you never had it.

Fair enough.

Astrology as methodology does sound like the kind of phrase you say when you have either reached a breakthrough or become impossible to supervise. In my case, possibly both.

But my actual argument is much less mystical than expected, and considerably more technical.

I have studied astrology from multiple angles for most of my life. At this point I am no longer interested in the birth chart as a personality souvenir, a fate machine, or a premium myth package for people who find therapy too literal.

I am interested in it as a notational object.

The observer has a body

GRIMOIRE is my artistic research project and methodological framework for archiving living landscapes through sound, botany, photochemical processes, and visual notation. It develops a way of recording not only what is heard, but also the spatial, botanical, meteorological, and pre-auditory conditions that shape our experience of a place.

The name is not entirely planned. When I arranged the methods I had been using in chronological order, I realised their initials formed the exact acronym: Geolocation, Reception, Indexation, Material imprint, Organisation, Integration, Revision, Ethics. That is where the title came from — and, yes, from me being a witch about it. These things happen. The name stayed because it acknowledges the project’s liminal edge without surrendering it to mystification.

Within this framework, I began treating the natal chart and the notation score as the same kind of working device: circular matrices that register multiple factors at once, from one position in space and time, through a coded system that can be read, compared, revised, and used again. What matters in both is not an absolute state, but a network of simultaneous, interconnected relationships.

That was the first useful demotion.

Once the chart stopped being sacred, it became legible. Once it became legible, it became methodological.

We are expected to behave as if the observer arrives without a body — without perceptual habits, without fatigue, without attraction or aversion, without thresholds, without a nervous system that registers something before the mind or language catches up. The neutral researcher. The disembodied listener. The clean instrument with a bibliography.

Lovely idea. Completely absurd.

The body is first in the field. It is already noticing too much, missing some things, over-reading others, and carrying its own architecture of sensitivity into the archive. So the question was never whether the body should be allowed into the method.

It was already there.

The question was how to stop it from turning the archive into theatre.

This is where my natal chart became unexpectedly useful. Not because it revealed my destiny — I have had enough of destiny, thank you. But because it offered a coded diagram for researcher positioning.

In the GRIMOIRE framework, Moon in Gemini in the 12th House is not treated as a mystical flex or a poetic excuse for being overwhelmed. It is used heuristically, as a way of describing a perceptual mode: pre-conscious, below-threshold, body-first, slightly difficult to explain in polite company.

Methodologically, this became Ring Zero.

Ring Zero

Ring Zero is the pre-auditory core of the score: the layer of perception that precedes classical auditory analysis and often appears somatically before it becomes cognitively legible.

In the wider GRIMOIRE methodology, Ring Zero also names the low-frequency zone beneath conventional audibility: Schumann resonance, telluric currents, oceanic and atmospheric infrasound, microseismic movement, and other signals that may register in the body before the ear knows what to do with them.

That sounds suspiciously poetic — until you force it into a form.

So I did.

If the body was going to enter the archive, it was going to enter through metadata.

The somatic marker in GRIMOIRE is logged in a standardised format: timestamp, location, intensity, modality, direction, trigger, and a short note on what changed after thirty to sixty seconds.

In other words, if intuition wants a seat at the table, it can fill out the paperwork.

That, for me, is where things become interesting.

Because the archive should be able to distinguish between a feeling and a recurrent perceptual pattern.

That requires discipline.

Observation, measurement, interpretation: these remain separate on purpose. Observation is what is recorded in real time. Measurement comes from instruments. Interpretation is what is concluded afterwards, clearly marked as hypothesis. There is even a built-in delay between fieldwork and the final score, because immersion is useful, but it is also seductive. Some experiences need to cool down before they become knowledge.

Slapping Neptune with the Method

I should admit that part of this methodology is also a revenge plot against my own chart.

After years of struggling with Neptune on the Descendant — a configuration that describes, among other things, a permeable boundary between researcher and field — I eventually decided to handle it the only way a structurally overcommitted researcher would: by trying to beat it into empirical legibility.

Did it work?

Maybe.

But the fog is now timestamped, categorised, and slightly humiliated.

In methodological terms, Neptune on the Descendant is useful for immersion and disastrous for interpretation. Excellent for full-body listening, less excellent when one starts confusing projection with evidence.

So the solution was not to pretend permeability was gone. The solution was to build a structure strong enough to survive it.

That is the deeper logic of the whole thing.

I am not trying to eliminate subjectivity. I am trying to make it explicit enough that it stops behaving like contraband.

The chart used as a relational diagram, a coding layer, and a reflexive tool for marking the position of the researcher inside the field. Symbolic systems are being used as grammars of description, comparison, and reflexive control.

That distinction matters.

Because there is a huge difference between saying the body knows before cognition and building a method that can actually record what that means without collapsing into decorative mysticism.

Beyond personal myth

This is also why the broader symbolic layers matter. The Nakshatra system from Vedic astrology is not here to add esoteric shimmer. It functions as a temporal codebook — one more way of marking the conditions of a session. The same applies to multiple symbolic grammars across the project: they are not fused into one grand metaphysical smoothie, but used as distinct coding systems with distinct rules.

Which is, frankly, more methodological rigour than most interdisciplinary projects manage.

And perhaps that is the actual friction between precision and madness.

Not the cheap old binary between reason and irrationality, but the much more difficult tension between two forms of courage.

Everything else is too easy.

Sterile objectivity is easy.
Self-mythologising chaos is easy.
Lifestyle astrology is easy.
Academic disembodiment is easy.

What is hard is staying in the middle long enough to build a form.

A form that can hold ambiguity without worshipping it.
A form that can acknowledge symbolism without obeying it.
A form that can let the body speak without letting it become a tyrant.
A form that can say: yes, perception is part of the data, and no, that does not exempt it from discipline.

That is what I wanted to prove from this work.

Transmission. That part matters most to me. Because the function of GRIMOIRE is to build a method others can use, test, critique, and develop further. You are welcome!

Which is maybe the least mystical sentence I have ever written.

And therefore probably the truest.

Thank you for reading,

Natasha

P.S. If this essay speaks your language, don't just like it quietly. Subscribe, forward it, put it in the hands of someone still pretending method arrives without a nervous system. And if you are working on your own method — tell me: what does it refuse to admit about the body that carries it? Where does your Ring Zero begin?

Selected References:

Barclay, Leah. “Acoustic Ecology and Ecological Sound Art: Listening to Changing Ecosystems.” In Sound, Media, Ecology, edited by Milena Droumeva and Randolph Jordan. Springer, 2019.

Brady, Bernadette. Brady’s Book of Fixed Stars. Weiser Books, 1998/2024.

Bunnell, Lynda, and Ra Uru Hu. The Definitive Book of Human Design: The Science of Differentiation. HDC Publishing, 2011.

Campion, Nicholas. The Dawn of Astrology: A Cultural History of Western Astrology. Vols. 1–2. Continuum/Bloomsbury, 2008.

Frawley, David. The Astrology of the Seers: A Guide to Vedic/Hindu Astrology. Passage Press, 1990.

Harness, Dennis M. The Nakshatras: The Lunar Mansions of Vedic Astrology. Lotus Press, 1999/2009.

Krause, Bernie. The Great Animal Orchestra. Little, Brown and Company, 2012.

Louis, Elan D. S. The Normal EEG. NCBI Bookshelf, 2016.

Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. Routledge, 1945/2010.

Rudhyar, Dane. The Astrology of Personality. Lucis Publishing, 1936.

Schafer, R. Murray. The Soundscape: Our Sonic Environment and the Tuning of the World. Destiny Books, 1977/1993.

Schumann, W. O. “Über die strahlungslosen Eigenschwingungen einer leitenden Kugel, die von einer Luftschicht und einer Ionosphärenhülle umgeben ist.” Zeitschrift für Naturforschung A, vol. 7, no. 2, 1952, pp. 149–154.

Westerkamp, Hildegard. “Linking Soundscape Composition and Acoustic Ecology.” Organised Sound, vol. 7, no. 1, 2002, pp. 51–56.

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It’s dark because you are trying too hard.
Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.
Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply.
Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.

I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig.
Lightly, lightly — it’s the best advice ever given me.

When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic.
No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self-conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Little Nell.
And of course no theology, no metaphysics.
Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light.

So throw away your baggage and go forward.
There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair.
That’s why you must walk so lightly.

Lightly, my darling. On tiptoes and no luggage, completely unencumbered.

— Aldous Huxley, Island

This weekend I “accidentally” found Huxley’s Island in the original and reread it. Which is the kind of accident that happens when you’re already living inside a threshold and the Universe has a taste for editorial timing, or a sense of humor. Thanks Universe!

The book isn’t just utopian fiction. Metaphysically, it’s a manual for the principle and the system we’re walking into just now: less performance, more clarity. Less baggage, more spine.

And yes: liminal is my word of the year. More as a diagnostic then aestetic, and it souts into so many situations that have been going on lately. Try it ;)

Even Brian Eno made an album of that name, saying:

Because we’re in the crack between worlds. Eclipse portal energy. The moment when you realize the way you used to think, feel, relate, act, and plan is finished… and the “brave new world” (even your private one: emotional, psychological, physical, energetic) is not built yet.

That gap can feel like losing ground. Like there’s nothing under you.

It’s also a release. Because sometimes the “ground” was quicksand with a nice font.

The sky this week is basically saying: walk on tiptoes. No luggage. Unencumbered.

The fcn Bloody Lunation

On March 3rd 2026, we get a total lunar eclipse: a Full Moon eclipse (aka “Blood Moon”). NASA has the clean, non-mystical version: the Moon reddens as it passes through Earth’s shadow. Totality lasts about an hour. It’s visible across large parts of the night side of Earth depending on location and timing.

Astrologically, this eclipse lands at 12°53′ Virgo.

In my chart, it hits the 4th house and sits on my natal Saturn. That’s not a “vibes” transit. That’s a building inspection. With paperwork.

4th house: Home, roots, inner base, private infrastructure.
Saturn: standards, boundaries, consequences, what holds.

Translation: this eclipse is not here to soothe you. It’s here to make your life habitable.

You’re not imagining it

This March eclipse doesn’t come alone. It’s part of the same eclipse season that began with the February 17, 2026 annular solar eclipse (the ring-of-fire).

So the feeling of “we’re in-between worlds” is accurate. The system is already shifting. The plot is already turning. You’re not imagining it.

The saving grace: Jupiter, but retrograde
This Virgo eclipse has a supportive relationship to Jupiter. In human terms: there’s help available, perspective available, solutions available. Try to use them, bloody please ;)

But Jupiter is still retrograde and stations direct on March 10 (in Cancer). That matters, because it changes the advice from “go big” to “go wise”. Meaning: Review. Verify. Recheck motives. Don’t pass judgment from adrenaline.

If you’ve been tempted to dramatize, overspend, overpromise, or declare a final verdict with theatrical flair: congratulations, that’s the retrograde bait. But, here is the moment for precision over performance.

The big background weather: Saturn conjunct Neptune at 0° Aries
This is the deeper bassline under 2026: Saturn and Neptune meeting at the Aries Point. Reality (Saturn) merges with dream (Neptune). Structure meets fog. Vision meets accountability. WTF!?

If you’ve been living inside vague commitments, “maybe” timelines, and spiritually-justified chaos: Saturn–Neptune says the party is over. The dream needs a reality-check. Saturn–Neptune is the bouncer at the door: your “maybe” timelines, vague commitments, and spiritually-licensed chaos don’t get in unless they can show ID, pay rent, and survive daylight.

The Hermit (IX)

I’m choosing The Hermit for this eclipse.

Not because I’m in a “go live in a cave and become a morally superior ghost” era. Not because solitude is automatically sacred. And definitely not because I want to disappear. I like being seen. I just don’t like being consumed.

The Hermit is a person with a lantern for a reason. He’s not carrying a floodlight, or trying to illuminate the whole timeline, solve everyone’s trauma, and publish a manifesto before breakfast. He’s lighting the next three steps. That’s the assignment in eclipse season.

One lamp. One staff. No suitcases.

The lantern is the point. It’s portable truth. It’s a small, steady light you can actually trust. Not the kind of “clarity” that’s really just adrenaline in a trench coat.

The Hermit’s light is quiet, specific, usable.

And the staff? That’s spine. That’s self-support. That’s: “I don’t need to borrow stability from other people’s chaos.” The staff is what you lean on when the ground is shifting. Your spine.

The Hermit is privacy as a strategy, not isolation per se.

It means: you stop outsourcing your perception. You stop letting the loudest room decide what’s real. You stop negotiating with noise. You pull your attention back like it’s a resource. Because it is.

The Hermit’s magic is subtraction. He’s not adding more. He’s removing interference.

How to use The Hermit as an eclipse tool

Shrink the horizon on purpose
Eclipse season loves to trigger “solve my whole life tonight” energy. The Hermit refuses. He only asks: what is the next true step? Not the next dramatic step. The next true one.

If you can’t see further than that, good. That means you’re not hallucinating certainty.

Less contact, more truth (the tactic)
This is the Hermit’s core move. No blocking or “we are done forever” energy, more like: fewer conversations that scramble your signal. Fewer inputs that hijack your body. Fewer people who turn every threshold into a group project.

Eclipse tactic: reduce contact with anything that makes you second-guess your own knowing.

Stop feeding what feeds on you
The Hermit doesn’t wrestle monsters. He starves them.
If something only stays alive because you keep reacting, explaining, defending, fixing, chasing: that’s not a relationship. That’s an attention parasite.

Hermit move: withdraw. Observe what collapses without your energy.

Turn the lantern inward first
The lantern isn’t for lighting other people’s paths while you trip in the dark. It’s for you. Virgo eclipse energy wants help as a coping mechanism. The Hermit says: no. Home base first. Nervous system first. Then we can talk about saving the world.

Build a small, repeatable ritual of clarity
The Hermit is a practice.

Because let me tell you what this eclipse doesn’t need: you turning darkness into a persona, or turning uncertainty into a performance.

It needs you walking lightly. With spine. With a lamp. No luggage.

Pallas-Athena as the point of tension

Of course I am going to write about the positions and simbolics of a few asteroids I consider liminal at this point. Stop me ;)

This eclipse highlights Pallas-Athena energy: strategy, pattern-recognition, political intelligence, the ability to win without stupid violence.

Virgo wants to fix. Pallas wants to plan.

If you’re caught in the loop of “I can fix this if I just explain it better”, Pallas-Athena says: no. That’s not a strategy. That’s a nervous system habit.

Now add Adrasteia: the asteroid of consequences, accountability, and the cosmic receipt printer. If Pallas is the war room, Adrasteia is the audit. She doesn’t care how eloquent your explanation is. She cares what it costs, who pays, and what repeats.

Ask a sharper question: what is the pattern here, and what is my next move?

Then ask an even sharper one: what’s the consequence of my next move, and am I willing to pay it?

If you want an alternate asteroid flavour (more “focus ritual” than “audit demon”), swap Adrasteia for Vesta:

“Vesta enters like a bouncer: if it’s not sacred, it’s not staying. Stop feeding the conversation. Feed the flame.”

Astrocartography (a loving roast)

Astrocartography is cute until you realize no line on your map includes:

• a discount on excess baggage,

• a refund for burnout,

• or a guarantee your nervous system will cooperate.

Yes, places activate you. Lines amplify your archetypes.

But the real question in this eclipse corridor is simpler: do you have a home base you can return to without collapsing?

If the answer is “not really”, then travel becomes escapism with better lighting.

In this portal, I’m not moving to run from home. I’m building home so I can move without bleeding out.

Dom and Home: my 4th house is also political. Here’s where I stop being polite.

In my world, “Dom” isn’t a metaphor. It’s literally a building, a mandate, a set of keys, a set of responsibilities people love to dodge. “Home” becomes a political term the moment the institution starts borrowing your labor, your equipment, your sanity, your time, and then calls it “collaboration”.

The 4th house is not only your childhood. It’s governance. It’s who holds the door. It’s who answers when things break. It’s who gets to decide what belongs where.

This eclipse on my Saturn is forcing one brutal question: Is this a home, or am I just storing other people’s disorder in my basement?

Because Saturn will let you “cope” for a while. Then Saturn invoices you.

The “Lightly” Protocol

I want to share a ritual you can actually do very easily: you need a glass of water, a pinch of salt, paper, pen, and a bag or box.

1. Salt the water. Stir once. Say: I return my energy to myself. Drink slowly.

2. Write three words on paper: FEAR / SELF-PITY / DESPAIR.

3. Put the paper in the bag/box. Close it. Place it outside your room or by the front door.

4. On a new paper, finish this sentence: “My home is ______.” (Not an address. A principle.)

5. Do one micro-action that makes it real: clear one surface, send one email, cancel one obligation, close one leak.

Walking lightly is not floating. It’s logistics with boundaries.

Now, try to do these three micro-tasks:

1. Clean Cut List: write 3 things you will no longer do (roles, free labor, emotional servicing, chaos management). Choose one. Close it this week.

2. Home Math: estimate how many hours per week you spend maintaining someone else’s disorder. Cut it in half. Literally.

3. One sentence boundary: draft a message that begins with “From today…” and ends with a clear condition. No over-explaining.

Hard truth (the one that makes you breathe weird)

If your life feels like it’s always on the edge, it’s not necessarily because you’re too sensitive.

It might be because you’ve been trying to build a home inside someone else’s system. And you’ve been carrying luggage that was never yours.

The eclipse doesn’t punish you. It reveals the cost.
This is a closure eclipse. A reset. A clean cut.

If you want the institutional/political version of this 4th-house story, with documents, governance, and the needle still in: go to my other writtings here: Autonomous Archipelago and Split Protocols.

If you want the ritual/body version, the living system you can actually inhabit: go to magiabotanica.art and stay with Lunar Letters.

And the Huxley line is still the ending, because it’s also the instruction:

Lightly, lightly. On tiptoes. No luggage.

Not because it’s easy.

Because it’s the only way through a threshold without becoming the quicksand.

And thank you 4 all the fish,

Natasha

I fell into a burning ring of fire.

Johnny Cash.

If you hear it in your head, good. The portal is opening.
The chorus is hot. The consequences are even hotter ;)

This eclipse is literally the Ring of Fire.

The Moon sits a little farther out, looks smaller than the Sun, and leaves a bright circle of light around the shadow. A clean outline. A visible edge. Aquarius poetry in physics form.

Most of us will not see it directly (unless you’re in Antarctica with a clipboard and a death wish). We still feel it, because eclipses speed timing up and peel the varnish off whatever has been vibing around.

Aquarius season runs on infrastructure.
Eclipse season runs on deploy.

Saturn has just stepped into Aries, walking straight toward Neptune at 0° Aries, the zodiac’s “new folder” degree. The dream wants a body. Reality wants a soul.

Are we ready for the brand new start?

Ground zero. Tabula rasa. It’s right here. The starting line. Inhale deeply. You’re about to RUN.

Can a dream survive reality, and can reality exist without a dream?
This week answers that question through systems. Through choices. Through consequences.

What an eclipse is (in my Universe)

A normal New Moon is a draft.
An eclipse is a forced update. Shadow patch. Timeline correction. A change in what you can’t unsee.

Aquarius doesn’t negotiate feelings. It runs the update.

And the update is simple:

You’re leaking signal into too many channels.
You don’t need more content.
You need fewer open tabs.

So close that fckn tab :P

This is also a Uranus week. The eclipse is squared by Uranus in Taurus, which is basically the universe saying: Congrats :D Here’s your lightning bolt. Try not to lick it.

Ride the bolt, you get momentum.
Resist it, you get singed. Same electricity. Different steering. Meow.

The vibe is electric.

Momentum is available. Friction is also at our side.
The same charge fuels breakthroughs and burnouts. You chose.

If your body feels buzzy, impulsive, unusually brave, feral, or it looks like your inbox is haunted, you’re reading the weather correctly.

Eclipse weeks tempts you into opening new tabs. New ideas. New identities. New distractions. It looks productive. It tastes like escape with a better font.

The portal is the rollout window. The days when the update keeps applying itself. Witness it. Stay present.

Things repeat until you handle them.
Tasks return until you close the loop.

And the first loop this portal edits is access.

Who (or what) has primary access to you?
Your time. Your energy. Your attention. Your resources. Your keys.

The key story

Read more

What echoes in me is what I learn with my body.
                              

Roland Barthes

I swore I’d publish a Lunar Letter on every Full and New Moon.
Then I immediately messed up :P

The Leo Full Moon was Feb 1. Today is Feb 10. Ten days late. Beautiful. Iconic. Embarrassing.

And still: the body keeps score, the sky keeps moving, and I’m not here to cosplay consistency, but to build a signal I (and hopefully You too) can live inside.

Quick rewind: my actual LUNAR LETTER #2 was this one:
If it doesn’t make me Grow, Glow or Flow, I’m saying No.
It accidentally manifested real-life consequences. Things shifted. Things resolved. Try it. It works.

Then my attention got hijacked by something else, so I wrote Autonomous Archipelago instead — because I’m prepping a new project (School for the Future) and yes, I already have too many projects. But this one is different. It summarizes everything I’ve built so far, so I needed to define it like a knife.

Now we’re sliding into eclipse season, and I want this letter to be about the corridor, because the last time eclipses rolled in, I opened this Substack with a clean little promise…

…and my life did that thing eclipses do: it rewrote the plot.

So, this would be the corridor:
Feb 17, 2026 — Annular Solar Eclipse
Mar 3, 2026 — Total Lunar Eclipse

Even if you can’t see every eclipse from where you are, you’ll feel the mechanic: pressure + revelation. The part you’ve been handling becomes the part you can’t keep handling.

What eclipses actually do

Eclipses don’t randomly ruin lives. They expose.

The overlooked health thing. The relationship you keep managing. The project that drains you because you won’t name what it is. The one decision you won’t make because you don’t want to disappoint anyone.

Plot twist season isn’t chaos. It’s accounting.

What you ignore doesn’t disappear. It escalates.
It becomes the eclipse: the moment where the universe forces your hand by making the cost visible.

The field this lunation activates

The Leak Field: where your energy goes viral without you approved it.
This is about devotion vs. performance. Structure vs. vibes. A spine you can live on.

The paid threshold

Because I posted this Full Moon letter late, I’m putting it under paid for now. Maybe one day it becomes public. For the moment, it’s a small threshold: if you’re here, you’re really here.

And yes, I’m manifesting something again:
After these eclipses, I want double of you here on Substack.
So I’ll publish double as often (watch me be consistent ;).

And I want to finally go to Velebit and continue writing my novel.

Which novel? Ehhh. That’s a story for after the eclipses…so be here, stay active and please stop ignoring your personal eclipses.

Read more

I am writing this from an island with no cars, no banks, and a Wi-Fi signal that requires a literal ritual to stay alive. As a PhD candidate in Art Theory, newborn novel writer, and a high witch, I spend my days oscillating between the lofty conceptualism of my mentor, Miško Šuvaković, my imagination, astrology deep insights, creating my first tarot deck, and the very material reality of ensuring my solar panels haven’t decided to enter a permanent state of hibernation.

After twenty years of navigating the “crisis mode” of the Croatian independent scene: from noise performances in concrete basements to exhausting negotiations with city councils; I’ve realized we are past the point of producing content. In a world of climate fever and digital exhaustion, we are building survival infrastructure.

This is my 2026 map for the Autonomous Archipelago of Survival: six pillars, three organizations, and one defiant attempt to stay sane. Just ZEN :)

1. Institutional Acupuncture: The Art of the Precise Stab

My academic work and my life as a “dramaturg of reality” merge here. Institutions are not monoliths; they are sluggish organisms with blocked energy. By identifying needle points in local regulations or budgets, we can trigger systemic transformation with minimal force.

We proved this through a decade of persistent stabbings at the Platforma Doma mladih in Split, resulting in a nationally recognized co-management framework. In 2026, we are operationalizing this through the Split Notebook protocol: micro-reports from our NMG LAB exhibitions that offer city planners ready-made metabolic fixes for urban noise, waste, and climate cooling. And states? They will no longer exist soon ;)

2. Micropolitics of Care: Maintenance as Revolution

Modernity is obsessed with “innovation” - the shiny, the new, the extractive. I prefer the ethics of Maintenance and Repair. This is the core of our Curatorial School 2026, titled Nezgodno tijelo (The Inconvenient Body), where we investigate the intersection of labor, gender, and the somatic toll of capitalist rhythms.

In my organizations, this means rejecting the hustle. We use a fractional staffing model, engaging high-level experts for part-time bursts to prevent the burnout that currently plagues 27% of the European workforce. We prioritize Slow Work and mandatory hibernation. If we cannot care for our own team, we have no business talking about care in art.

3. Nano-utopias: Erupting in the Cracks

We no longer wait for a grand Utopian blueprint. Instead, we cultivate Nano-utopias: spontaneous, unplanned moments of resistance that create a “higher order” of solidarity in the face of chaos.

Over the last 20 years, Mavena has functioned as a laboratory for these eruptions. Whether it’s a pop-up garden in a neglected alley or the Dunja’s Nights festival—where we use video poetry to correct historical injustices and give a voice to silenced women like Dunja Ivanišević - these moments allow us to “dream back” community where it has been unraveled.

4. Archipelagic Thinking: Beyond the Heavy Continent

I have abandoned “continental thinking”— the heavy, totalizing mindset that seeks to grasp and categorize everything. Following Édouard Glissant, I embrace Archipelagic Thinking.

Our work is a constellation of islands (for now Split, Silba, Zadar, and our digital Coven) that remain connected but retain their Right to Opacity. We don’t want to be fully understood by the algorithm. We are a decentralized network of knowledge exchanging seeds, water-saving techniques, words and data that functions independently of mainland central services.

5. Acoustic Ecology: Listening as Cultural Policy

In a society dominated by the visual spectacle, the ear is our most subversive organ. Through the ISPOD BINE, sound art festival, I have argued for a decade that deep listening is a form of cultural infrastructure.

Now, we are scaling this vision across Europe through our new project Soundscapes of Tomorrow (SoT). We aren’t just making sound art; we are using Ecoacoustics as a tool for interspecies diplomacy. By recording the sounds of bio-silence as warning signals for ecosystem collapse, we turn auditory attentiveness into a survival skill for the next generation.

6. Ritual Ethnobotany: Plants as Subjects

Finally, we return to the soil. Ritual Ethnobotany is the heart of Magia Botanica. We reject the extraction-based growth of the wellness industry. Instead, we treat plants as active agents and legal subjects.

Our School for the Future (2026–2028) that is just about to start uses botanical and sonic rituals to treat the eco-anxiety of youth. This is accompanied by my foundational myth, the novel The Last Windmill, which tells the story of escaping bureaucracy for the wildness of mount Velebit. This is exaczly the Ritual Economy: a model where our global digital membership (the Coven) funds local island regeneration and soil remediation. With teching the young generation to take on and modify our work in the future to come.

The Vision: 2028 and the Great Integration

By 2028, Mavena, SEA, and Magia Botanica will have fully merged into a single, scalable Autonomous Archipelago of Survival. We are moving from being grant-dependent NGOs to becoming a Commons - a repository of knowledge, rituals, and policy-solutions that any community can replicate.

It’s academic, yes. It’s slightly ironical, certainly. But in the darkness of the lived moment, it is the only way I know how to keep walking. And just remember one thing: the darkness is the darkest just before the sunrise ;)

Natasha Kadin, Silba Island Sanctuary, February 2026

P.S.: I will write more about each of these Autonomous Archipelago of Survival six pillars, so if you are interested, stay close, be aware, and subscribe and join us.

Subscribe now

Comprehensive Bibliography

• Barclay, L. (2016). Acoustic Ecology and Ecological Sound Art.

• Bey, H. (1991). T.A.Z.: The Temporary Autonomous Zone, Ontological Anarchy, Poetic Terrorism.

• Bloch, E. (1995). The Principle of Hope.

• Glissant, É. (1997). Poetics of Relation.

• Harcourt, W. (2023). The Ethics and Politics of Care: Reshaping Economic Thinking.

• Lerner, J. (2014). Urban Acupuncture.

• McKnight, H. (2020). Chaos and Hope: Nano-Utopian Moments of Activist Self-Organisation.

• Puig de la Bellacasa, M. (2017). Matters of Care: Speculative Ethics in More Than Human Worlds.

• Schafer, R. M. (1977). The Tuning of the World.

• Šuvaković, M. (2025-27). 36 Her Miracles: Micropolitics of Care and Resistance (Monograph).

• UNESCO. (2025). MONDIACULT 2025: Culture as a Global Public Good.

• Mavena Strategic Plan. (2024–2028). MAVENA 3.0: Hybrid Cultural Ecosystems.

You can feel it, can’t you.

Not the cute “new year - new me” vibe.
The heavier, cleaner thing underneath it — the part that says:

Stop romanticizing potential.
Sign something real with your future.

Late-degree Capricorn doesn’t do inspiration. It does terms.
Because what you seed now doesn’t just happen — it returns, it echoes, it comes back dressed as Future You and asks if you were serious.

This isn’t loud astrology.
It’s contract astrology.

What this lunation wants

Capricorn is the liminal sign everyone forgets is liminal.
Half goat, half fish: it can climb the mountain and go down into the deep.
No fear of height. No fear of the abyss.
Just the work of the moment.

A New Moon looks like darkness.
That’s not a problem. That’s the point.
Beginnings don’t need applause—they need structure.

Capricorn is the architect: devotion as a design choice.
So the question isn’t “what do you want?” — it’s:

Who are you when no one is clapping?

This Moon rewards the unglamorous:

• the email you send even though your stomach turns

• the boundary you set without a TED Talk

• the habit you keep when you’re bored and nobody’s watching

Not aesthetic. Not performance.
Infrastructure.

Personal note (Capricorn edition)

I love magic. I live for it.
But my actual operating system is: proof, timing, consequences.

And still, I’ve done the classic spiritual crime:
calling avoidance intuition,
calling ambiguity mystery,
calling exhaustion devotion.

I can hold an institution or a festival together with duck-tape and stubbornness…and then lose my mind over one tiny “personal” corner like a Victorian poet with Wi-Fi.

The humiliating truth?
What broke me wasn’t heartbreak. It was the time leak.

Because when you’re a Capricorn, you can survive almost anything —
but what ruins you is wasting your life on what never becomes real.

So here’s the rule I’m taking into 2026:

If it doesn’t come with terms, it comes with damage.

Clarity. Commitment. Consistency. Mutual effort.
In love. In art. In money. In collaboration. In friendship.

Share MAGIA BOTANICA

Your phone isn’t an oracle. It’s a tool.

In love — like in art — you don’t get to “manifest” your way around courage. If you want something real, you have to risk being real.

I kept trying to make ambiguity feel mystical.
I kept calling it “timing,” “energy,” “almost.”
But it wasn’t timing.

It was avoidance — dressed up as poetry.

Capricorn asks one question: what are the terms?
So I stopped chasing the feeling and started watching the evidence:

Do they show up — or only appear?
Do they clarify — or keep it foggy?
Do they build — or just want access to the part of me that builds?

If it’s not clear, it’s not sacred. It’s unfinished business.
And “almost” is expensive.

Also: if you’re refreshing for clarity, you’re outsourcing your spine. (Ask me how I know.)

Underworld codes (the dark goddess layer, without the cosplay)

Late Capricorn is finishing energy. And in the background, something older moves: the part of you that learned to survive by staying agreeable, available, easy.

This isn’t edgy. It’s protective.

• Uranus brings the jolt: sudden clarity that snaps the spell.

• Sedna brings the memory: where you traded yourself for safety — and what it cost.

• Osiris brings the truth: you don’t heal by going back; you heal by reassembling with better parts.

• Algol brings the cut: the taboo boundary that saves your life — the “no” that ends the trance.

So if this week feels like a clean severing — good.
That’s not sabotage. That’s reclamation.

Asteroid fine print

If relationships/loyalty/devotion are your theme, these are loud:

• JUNO: define it. no more “we’ll see.”

• AMOR: warmth + consistency (love that shows up, not performs).

• EROS + PSYCHE: chemistry + soul-recognition… but Capricorn wants a container.

• VALENTINE / UNION: devotion that becomes a pattern, not a promise.

• VESTA: what you’re devoted to — and whether it feeds you or fries you.

Capricorn takeaway: asteroids can scream soulmate all day — but if the behavior is chaotic, the math is still: no.

Ritual: The Contract (10 minutes)

You’ll need: paper, pen, water.

Draw a vertical line down the page.
Left: DONE WITH.
Right: BUILDING.

Under DONE WITH, write 3 patterns (not goals).
Under BUILDING, write 3 standards that would make Future You exhale.

Then write one sentence:

I commit to becoming the kind of person who can hold this.

Drink the water slowly. Put the page somewhere you’ll see it for 7 days. No glitter. No overthinking. Just a contract.

Hard truth (read twice)

If you keep asking the Universe for miracles while protecting your old patterns, you’re not manifesting — you’re bargaining.

Capricorn doesn’t care what you believe.
It cares what you reinforce.

Your nervous system is part of your spell.
Your calendar is part of your spell.
Your boundaries are part of your spell.

So if your life keeps “almost” changing — it’s not because you lack magic. It’s because you keep building altars to the very thing you say you want to outgrow.

This Moon isn’t here to comfort you.
It’s here to graduate you.

Closing midpoint

Saturn + Neptune are fused right now (dream + structure).
Their midpoint is the shared nerve.
This New Moon presses it.

Translation: switchboard moment.
If you’ve been hiding inside the maybe & the almost, the cosmos will invoice you. If you’ve been calling fog mystery, it will hand you a form titled: DEFINE YOUR TERMS.

Saturn signed the paperwork. Neptune cried. Uranus hit update.
Pluto walked in and said: show me the receipts.

So: seed something real. Tighten the terms. Show some character.
And what is for you, will come to you.

— Nat / Magia Botanica 🖤

______________

Close the loop: reply with one word describing your state right now. No explanation. Just signal.

They say birthdays are for resting, reflecting, and letting the Universe pamper you.

Cute.

The Universe apparently missed that memo for my 47th. Instead of a spa day, it handed me a Mars Cazimi — January 9th — and said:

“Here. Have a spiritual reboot. With sparkling stars & psilocybin vibes.”

If you don’t speak fluent Astrologese, here’s the translation you didn’t ask for — but definitely need:

Mars is drive, fire, nerve, “let’s do it now,” and the occasional urge to burn your old life down (for artistic reasons).

Cazimi is when a planet walks into the heart of the Sun like it owns the place.

The 8th House hosts deep transformation, endings, rebirths, and the kind of upgrade that comes with a receipt and a tiny existential crisis. Like the backstage of a club in the middle of the after, around noon. You know… been there, done that ;) Long time ago.

Birthday Wishlist vs. What I Got

(A tragicomedy, of course.)

What I asked for:
Soup. Silence. One day without “urgent” anything. My Lilith snoring and warming me. A soft blanket we share. A good book not connected to work — because I can. Because rest is a ritual.

What I got:
Backstage. Noon. The after that’s better than the party was. Mars sitting on the table inside the Sun. Burning. With energy and power… or burning-out — we’re not sure yet. But he has our full attention.

And, of course, Uranus on my Ascendant screaming:
“START A BAND HERE & NOW. WHY NOT? LEARN TO DO SOMETHING YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO BUSINESS DOING.”

And the irresistible urge to build my own website like a possessed woman. Like ancient witchcraft downloading straight into me from 3I Atlas, directly into… well, chaos.

Honestly? I’ve had nicer birthday presents. I’ve had socks. But I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the Universe, doing anything else, than building my own website in the middle of absolute chaos — surrounded by my liminal friends, my ancestors, and everyone giving me information at the exact same time.

Perfect situation. Magia absolute. Vodka with gold leaf materialising on the table just in time for shots. Because WE MADE IT. Look:

MAGIA BOTANICA

Mars Cazimi Energy: No More Narration. Execute.

There’s a specific kind of clarity that arrives when the sky injects you with nuclear-grade adrenaline.

It doesn’t sound like a gentle bell.
It sounds like direct commands. Rules.

Cut it. Keep it. Launch it.
Stop negotiating with your own doubt.
Move on.

This wasn’t gentle intention-setting.
This was: “I am reformatting the hard drive — and if anything breaks, so be it. We didn’t need it anyway. Move on.”

Scary & brilliant. Done.

THE PULLEN CODE

Turns out I’m not chaotic. I’m just… networked.

Before I dove into the backend of the internet (we’ll get to that messy magic in a minute), I stumbled upon something called a Pullen Report.

It sounds like a medical diagnosis.
Like: “Ma’am, I’m afraid it’s chronic multi-hyphenate with acute destiny.”

But instead of a diagnosis, it was a blueprint. It confirmed what I knew in my gut from the beginning:

Magia Botanica didn’t just “happen” to me. Oops.
The stars have been quietly conspiring behind my back like a very elegant criminal organization — the Universe’s own “Cosa Nostra.”

And the report didn’t just give me placements — it handed me the Source Code of the whole Magia Botanica operating system. I received the blueprint. Thank you, Universe: I am not (yet) completely insane!

According to astrologer Walter Pullen, we all run on The Seven Rays.

(Yes, this sounds like a sci-fi franchise, but hear me out.)

My Soul: Alchemist Mode (Ray 2 + Ray 4)

Love/Wisdom + Harmony Through Conflict - I can’t do “light and fluffy.”

My soul runs on Love/Wisdom and Harmony Through Conflict.
Translation: I’m not here for spiritual cotton candy.

My default setting is: take friction, grief, endings, intensity — and alchemize it into something beautiful and useful.

I don’t run from the mess.
I turn it into CURE.

My Mind: Laboratory Mode (Ray 5)

If the brain turns on, it wants a method. And a spreadsheet. And proof.

Here’s the kicker: while my personality loves a good flow, my mind runs on Ray 5: Concrete Science.

When the brain turns on, I become a scientist. I crave precision, structure, proof, a blueprint.

This is why Magia Botanica was never going to be “witchy vibes.”
It’s a system. An architecture. A curriculum. Ritual with a backbone.

My Body: Ceremony Mode (Ray 7)

Ritual isn’t aesthetic here — it’s nervous system infrastructure.

My physical vehicle runs on Ray 7: Order & Ceremonial Magic.

My body hates chaos wellness. It hates “just surrender” when what we actually need is rhythm.

It needs form. It needs repetition. It needs a structure that holds.

Which is how I know this isn’t a hobby: I’m literally built to ground spirit into matter through ritual.

THE MYTHIC SYLLABUS

Mantras & Monsters: apparently I’m not “working”, I’m in a Hercules labor.

The report didn’t stop at Rays. It gave me the Labors of Hercules for key placements — which is a polite way of saying:

your life is a myth with deadlines.

Capricorn Labor: Slaying Cerberus (Underworld Edition)

My Sun and Mars are here.
My job isn’t to play nice — it’s to descend, tame fear’s three-headed dog, and bring back resources from the dark.

Welcome to the Underworld Apothecary ;)

Aquarius Labor: Cleansing the Augean Stables (Collective Detox)

This is my Midheaven, my public persona.
My job is to clean up the collective mess — to wash away new-age debris and spiritual gaslighting, and build something clean, ethical, structurally sound.

Aka: anti-beige wellness, but with receipts. Clean and clear.

Gemini Labor: Gathering Golden Apples (Word Witch Logistics)

My Ascendant.
My words aren’t decoration — they’re the Golden Apples: knowledge I have to go out and find, then bring back.

And then there was the mantra for my Aquarius career path — the line that hit me like a ton of bricks:

Water of life am I, poured forth for thirsty men.

That’s it. That’s the mission.

To be the water carrier. To offer tools, structure — and something people can actually drink from.

And please take a look at this: The Astrolog Website.

Astrolog 7.80 is a 100% freeware astrology program, with versions for Windows, Unix, and Macintosh, and the complete source code available too. Find your way through the maze of life :-) I was visitor number

on its web counter since July 14, 1996 — since it exists and offers all this free knowledge and softness.

THE CUBE IS CAST. THE WEB IS SPUN.

Concrete temple strategy + beginner magic = Publishing as a ritual act.

Armed with this knowledge — an Architect of Rituals running on Ray 7 infrastructure — I went to CLUB Kocka (The Cube) in Split, my Split Sanctuary.

Concrete temple of subculture. Ghosts of gigs. Loud silence.
Me, my laptop, and Mars Cazimi energy that doesn’t negotiate.

I did the work: We cut this. We build this. We launch this. Now.

And then… I built the website.

Confession: I do not fully know what I’m doing — but I absolutely love it.

Learning by clicking. By breaking things. By whispering apologies to the gods of UX. And all this time Uranus (perched on my shoulder like a chaotic parrot) kept repeating:

“Learn. Play. Who cares if it breaks? The glitch is the aesthetic.”

And weirdly — it worked.

Because somewhere between moving blocks of text and wrestling image galleries, I remembered something ancient and embarrassing:

Beginner energy is real magic.

Not the pedestal kind.
The trembling-fingers, press-Publish, choose-your-future kind.

LUNAR LETTERS

Cosmic weather translated into “what do I do with my actual life today?”

So after all this Sun–Venus–Mars–Uranus group sex… I won’t leave you alone with the sky. Without an orgasm. This is a lot of astro-data. I know.

So here’s what I’m doing with it: I’m turning it into something you can use.

Introducing: Lunar Letters.

I’ll write on the New and Full Moons, translating the cosmic weather into human language — teaching you how to read the sky, the soil, and your own internal forecast, without turning it into a cult or a spreadsheet.

(Unless you’re into that. I won’t kink shame your Excel.)

My working formula is simple:

RAY (Drive) + MANTRA (Soul) + LABOR (Task) = RITUAL (Infrastructure).

Expect deep cuts, timing secrets, and my signature blend of esoteric debilitation — always tantalizingly un-thoughtful.

Because if we can’t laugh at the cosmic joke while decoding it… what are we even doing here?

And yes: the Ritual Portals are coming.
But not yet.

First we survive this summer. Ride the wave of the Grand Fire Trine. Navigate the activation of the Yod without spontaneously combusting.

Small goals.

Share MAGIA BOTANICA

The absolute joy of not knowing what happens next

This is a portal, not a performance.

Enjoy the new website (and if it glitches, it’s not a bug — it’s a feature).

It was built with Mars in my heart, Kocka in my mind, and the absolute joy of not knowing what happens next.

Which is, honestly, the only future worth entering.

Mijauuu. 🐈‍⬛

Natasha

Let’s talk about the kind of burnout that isn’t cured by a weekend getaway, a magnesium spray, or a carefully curated #selfcare Sunday. I’m talking about the full-blown nervous system meltdown where your soul, bound and stretched to its limit, quietly screams: If one more person asks me “do you have a minute / cigarette / five years of your life to waste on me?”, I will astral-project myself out of this Universe, claim squatters’ rights in the Kuiper belt, and never, ever, ever return.

This is an unfiltered, slightly unhinged love letter and a ritualistic guide for all the witches, artists, cultural workers, caregivers, corporate overlords, and other over-functioning creatures who are secretly Googling “nervous system reset” at 2 AM while performing the exquisite charade of having it all together.

Here’s your brutal, cosmic spoiler: everything is NOT fine. And your body doesn’t just know it – it’s staging a quiet, yet utterly dramatic, scream.

WHO I AM: My Nervous System Is a High-Voltage Grid With Receipts From The Abyss

I’m Natasha, a forest island witch, cultural worker, ritualist, and astrologer, balancing precariously between the Adriatic Sea and the glorious ruins of every exhausted system. My practice, Magia Botanica, isn’t your average wellness retreat. It’s a laboratory and a forest-born sanctuary for people who carry too much – too much responsibility, too much care, too much unpaid labor, too much global collapse, too many other people’s emotions, and at least ten WhatsApp groups that should have been a single, goddamn email.

Astrology, bless its chaotic heart, did not spare me. My chart is wired like a high-voltage transformer: a potent link to the Great Attractor, that charming gravitational anomaly in Sagittarius that drags entire galaxy clusters toward itself. In human terms: I don’t do light, airy “good vibes only” spirituality. I deal with nervous systems vibrating on the edge of collapse, trauma-informed rituals, astro-herbal magic, and the kind of burnout recovery where you first have to scream: “I cannot live like this anymore!” and your body finally sighs: “Took you long, long enough.”

For the last twenty years, I’ve operated within independent culture, experimental sound, activist circles, and political space-making. It’s a cute way of saying I’ve been constantly surrounded by precarity, systemic burnout, and complex trauma, all thinly veiled by funding reports and festival posters. The work was real. The bodies carrying it were absolutely fried.

Mine included, obviously. Read about it here:

This Isn’t Just Tiredness – It’s Your Nervous System Staging a Somatic Coup

Here’s the thing nobody tells highly sensitive, high-capacity people: at some point, your nervous system stops playing nice.

You can call it burnout, nervous system dysregulation, complex trauma, perimenopause, being a bit knackered, a midlife crisis or a fucking Great Depression. Underneath all those fancy labels is a body that has been in fight-flight-freeze for so long it now thinks that’s the default setting.

You start frantically Googling terms like polyvagal theory, somatic healing, herbal allies for anxiety, or “how to stop being the responsible one without burning my entire life down.” You buy a magnesium spray and a foam roller. You promise yourself: “I’ll slow down after this project, promise.”

The project ends. Another begins. Your nervous system rolls her eyes, tightens your jaw a little more, and sends you a passive-aggressive text from inside your own skull.

Magia Botanica exists precisely for that moment when your body quietly, yet dramatically, begins revolting against your personality. When your nervous system says: “You can either keep this life or you can keep me, but darling, not both in this form.”

NERVOUS SYSTEM RESET OR UTTER DECAY

As I type these words, the astrology is screaming “reset” in a way that even my Capricorn Mercury cannot rationalize away.

As we speak, the Sun is sitting exactly on the Great Attractor where, how convenient, my natal Neptune sits in the sixth house (work, health, daily routine). Imagine a spotlight interrogating every foggy corner of my life: the late emails, the blurred boundaries, the martyrdom disguised as “dedication”. Ohhh yes, give it to me, baby – aha, right there and deeper.

Simultaneously, that Sun opposes my Ascendant, meaning other people and institutions are behaving like a hall of mirrors, showing me exactly where I’ve been dissolving myself to keep everyone else comfortable.

All of this happens while the Sun forms a square to my Lunar Nodes, and the South Node sits on my natal retrograde Saturn in the fourth house of – guess what – HOME. This isn’t just a bad mood, sweetie pie. This is a karmic nervous system intervention. The way you’ve been carrying responsibility, hosting other people’s chaos, and overworking your body has officially reached the “SYSTEM ERROR” screen.

PRESS ANY KEY to EXIT…

Add Pluto gently remodeling my Venus, the Nodes chopping dead structures, Jupiter squaring off with Mars and inviting me to pick righteous fights with everyone, and we have the perfect storm for burnout recovery, nervous system reset, and some very impolite decisions about work, love, and community.

The Universe is not subtly hinting. It is screaming: Stop being the goddamn backbone of systems that would happily watch you collapse at your desk. Sounds familiar?

What a REAL Nervous System Reset Looks Like (Spoiler: It’s Not a Spa Day or a Scented Candle)

f you’re a witch, cultural worker, artist, caregiver, or any other over-responsible human, a real nervous system reset is not a bubble bath and a new planner. It is a full-on identity exorcism.

For me, it began when I stopped rushing in to rescue every single project, institution, and person who seemed to be falling apart.

I did something truly radical: I sat on my butt and let things wobble.

Do you know what collapses when you stop over-functioning?

A shocking amount. Of BS.

The group project that only exists because you are the unpaid administrator.

The “community” that magically disappears when you step back.

The job that only works if you are constantly regulating everyone’s nervous systems but your own.

The relationship that requires you to be the therapist, event manager, sex slave, emotional landfill and chef.

Watching these structures glitch and fall when I step out isn’t exactly fun. You thought it would be, didn’t you? It is, however, extremely accurate and deeply sad. A nervous system reset is learning to tolerate that feedback without frantically running back in to “fix the vibe.”

I started calling my energy back from roles I never consciously signed up for. In ritual, I name them: the reliable one, the emotional support witch, the unofficial manager, the crisis PR department, the woman who gives fucks. I thank them. I retire them. I kill and bury them, then I plant roses there.

And every day, I offer myself one piece of unproductive pleasure. Not in service of optimization, but in service of not losing my goddamn mind. A slow shower in the dark. Oil on skin that has been clenched all day. A cup of herbal tea actually made for nervous system healing – lemon balm, tulsi, oatstraw, rosemary – drunk while doing literally nothing else. Lying on the floor listening to noise, drones, waves, anything that reminds my body that we are not, in fact, being chased by wolves, only by deadlines.

This is my witchy version of somatic therapy: cheap, herb-scented, and occasionally accompanied by swearing in two languages.

Why I Built Magia Botanica as a Nervous System Sanctuary (Because the World is a Garbage Fire)

At some point, I realized I didn’t just want my own nervous system regulation to improve. I wanted a place where other people like me – overachieving sensitives, burned-out cultural workers, perimenopausal witches, artists with 30 tabs of trauma open – could land.

That place is Magia Botanica. My Sanctuary.

Still under construction because Rest is Revolution, Magia Botanica is a ritual studio, a nervous system healing lab, an astro-herbal practice, and a digital coven for people who want to stop using their bodies as human shields against capitalism and collapsing systems. Here, we use ritual, plant allies, astrology, sound, and story to build something radical: a life that your nervous system can actually exist in without constant terror alerts.

This is where nervous system reset meets witchcraft. Where burnout recovery isn’t about becoming more efficient but about becoming less available to bullshit. Where “highly sensitive” is not an insult but a diagnostic truth.

My dedication is, since I accidentally made it myself, to hold a precise, grounded, slightly “off-grid” sacred space where your system can finally feel what it has been postponing, and begin to trust itself again.

Guess What? Your Nervous System Is Not the Problem

If you take anything from this nervous system reset ramble, let it be this one inconvenient truth:

You are not broken because you cannot tolerate what you used to.

Your nervous system is not “too sensitive” because it refuses to keep absorbing everyone’s chaos like a human sponge. It is finally telling the truth. The problem is not your sensitivity, your anxiety, your insomnia, or your righteous rage. The problem is the role you have been forced into – or volunteered for, you martyr – in dead or dying systems.

When you start releasing that role, things will crack. People will be disappointed. Passive-aggressive emails will be sent. WhatsApp groups will vibrate with indignation. There will be all kinds of endings around you. Your nervous system will shake, crack, then slowly remember what it feels like to exist for more than just survival.

That cracking and door-slamming are the glorious sounds of you setting yourself free and sending their toxic waste back where it came from.

You’re not alone. You’re not crazy. You’re just profoundly, spectacularly done with it all.

The reset has already begun. I’m here with herbs, charts, sarcasm, and a stubborn, witchy belief that your body deserves better than being the last line of defense for collapsing structures.

If you want to keep walking together – through astro-maps, rituals, future offerings, and small rebellions of the nervous system – you know where to find me.

I’ll be somewhere between the forest and the sea, teaching my nervous system that rest is not a crime and pleasure is not a bonus prize, but a goddamn baseline human right.

And yes, there will be tea.

And probably some potent herbal rakija.

So, welcome to Magia Botanica. Welcome home.

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My art work made 20 years ago, also here.

If you are reading this, you didn’t click an ad. You followed a signal.

You have likely arrived here because your nervous system is humming with the static of the world. You are tired of the scroll. You are looking for the “off” switch.

Welcome to the clearing.

My name is Natasha. I write to you from the island of Silba, where the Bura wind dictates the schedule and time moves at the speed of sap.

But before the island, there was the loop.

The Lilith Glitch

My initiation into nervous system regulation didn’t look like a meditation retreat. It looked like a glitch in the matrix.

It felt like I was Lilith, dreaming that everything had suddenly stopped. Frozen. And then, slowly, started moving backward.

It felt like a video I recorded decades ago in the dark basement of my parents’ home — a house where an entire grimoire of trauma was inscribed into my body, a code I was destined to decode across timelines. (That story is for another night.)

I was stuck in that loop.
Freeze.
Do–achieve–burn.
Repeat.

My body was screaming in a language I had forgotten how to speak.

I’m writing this because I know you feel some of this too: that sense that you’re running on a corrupted operating system, carrying stories in your fascia that don’t belong to you.

How I Untangled the Nervous Loop

I didn’t fix it by “hacking” my biology.
I didn’t fix it by adding more.

I fixed it by collapsing into the moss.

I untangled the loop by doing the one thing todays world forbids: I stopped.

I let the video play backwards. Then, I went back to the root.

I realised the freeze wasn’t a failure; it was a protective spell. A sigil. My body was waiting for a safe place to thaw.

Magia Botanica became that safe place.

That’s why I now think of it as a Nervous System Reset Portal. It’s the result of that glitch in my organism, the moment my trauma loop surfaced, the déjà vu hit, and something in me instinctively moved backwards in time/space/energy.

Then it clicked.

I remembered my magic and came back into myself. Walking slowly, very slowly backwards. Back to myself. Back Home.

Magia Botanica is the medicine I distilled from that process.

The Antidote

We all operate under patterns designed to protect us physically — but our nervous systems often get left tangled in the process.

When we feel “lost” or “burnt out”, it’s usually not because we’re broken. It’s because we’re trying to live in an Element that isn’t ours.

We are Fire trying to be Water.
We are Earth trying to be Air.
We are a Witch-heart forced into spreadsheet time.

To help you start untangling your own loop, I created a short, honest quiz:

Which Element Are You (Really)?

This is an easy way to name the pattern your system is currently moving in – whether that feels more like Root, Flow, Flame, Voice, Seer, Peak, Dreamer, Lover or Witch.

If your nervous system is humming and you’re not sure where to even begin, start here:

Take the Element Quiz

It takes just a few minutes and asks about real life —
not your “ideal self”, but the you who exists on tired Tuesdays and messy Fridays.

Once you know your Element, you’ll have a language for what your body is actually asking for:

• Do you need grounding or movement?

• Quiet or expression?

• Rest or clear decisions?

• Softness, structure, beauty, or truth?

And if you feel called after that, you’re always welcome to write to me, and we can begin untangling the knot in your nervous system together.

Circle over Crowd

We don’t hustle. We flow.

In a world that demands constant output, stopping is a radical act. Softness is not weakness; softness is might and magic. Your rest is the soil from which your magic grows.

By being here, you are now part of the Lunar Letters.

You will not be spammed. I write when the Moon is New (to set intention) or Full (to release).

I’m not interested in followers. I’m interested in intimacy.
We build deep connections, not wide nets. Intimacy is our light.

Until then:
breathe.
Unclench your jaw.
Drop your shoulders.

The loop is broken here.

You are safe.

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Because the old ways of living are cracking

Because rushing, hustling and “fixing yourself” have stopped working.

Because burnout is no longer an exception but a baseline.
So many of us are exhausted, over-connected to screens and under-connected to our own bodies, cycles, land — our roots.

Because you can feel that the wellness industry has turned rituals into aesthetics and spirituality into a commodity — and you’re hungry for something real, rooted, honest.

Magia Botanica exists as an answer to all of that.

It begin with my grandmother, who made our own remedies from wild plants. Those are my first memories of magic — remembered later in the crack of reality, between life and death, when my own body finally refused to go on as before.

Magia Botanica was forged in burnout and rebuilt through herbs, stars, salt and soil.

It comes from an island forest witch who refused to abandon her sensitivity just to survive.

This is generations of women’s work, distilled into a living practice.

It healed me.

And now, I offer it to you.

Why Magia Botanica

Because every offering, reading and ritual is crafted in one specific place, in one specific field of energy — with real plants, real cycles and genuine intention.

No generic formulas.
No white-label shortcuts.
None of that bullshit.

Because here, transparency isn’t a trend — it’s the baseline:
solar power, rainwater, mapped ingredients, small batches, made with care and intention. From me to you.

Because I don’t create “nice self-care moments”.

I create portals:

– back to your nervous system instead of your notifications;
– back to your intuition instead of everyone else’s opinion;
– back to a rhythm that feels like yours, not the algorithm’s.

Because Magia Botanica sits at the crossroads of herbalism, astrology, tarot, sound and story — an ecosystem, not a single product line.

It holds the mundane and the magical in the same hand:
the label and the myth,
the ingredient list and the spell.

Why now

Because the world is too loud, fragmented and accelerating — and the most radical thing you can do is remember your own pace.

Because climate crisis, digital overwhelm and economic precarity are not abstract ideas here and now: they shape how we breathe, grow, harvest, create, heal and teach.
Green business is not an add-on; it’s the spine.

Because there is a new generation of seekers — artists, sensitives, magicians — who refuse plastic spirituality and empty branding. They want to know who made the thing, where it was made, why it matters.

Magia Botanica is built exactly for them.
And if you’re reading this, probably for you.

What this moment asks of us

To choose ritual over rush.
Depth over performance.
Cycles over constant output.
Small, honest, regenerative over big, empty, extractive.

Magia Botanica is my commitment to that choice —
and an invitation for you to make it too.

Why Magia Botanica?

Because you’re tired of bypassing your own magic.

Why now?

Because your body, the Earth and this timeline are all saying the same thing:

Ritual over rush.
Circle over crowd.
Rest as revolution.

Welcome to Magia Botanica.

Welcome Home.

Start here <3

MAGIA BOTANICA

Research and rituals from a Plutonian Forest Island Witch on transformation, intuition, and the unseen.

By Natasha Kadin

Eclipses: the universe’s way of saying plot twist, bitch

Forget solemn rituals — eclipses are less “sit in silence with your crystals” and more “drunk karaoke night you didn’t plan for.”
Eclipse season is a cosmic season finale: heightened, messy, and weirdly revealing.

Astrologers will tell you not to manifest during eclipses — chaotic energy, karmic portals, sudden endings. I tell myself the same thing.
And yet every time the sky goes dark, I suddenly want to:

• write a 3-page wish list

• shave my legs at midnight

• send a risky message to someone I absolutely shouldn’t

I’m not saying do it. I’m saying: I get it.

Also: my body doesn’t need eclipses to throw drama. Perimenopause is already a private eclipse season — hot flashes like solar flares, blood like a lunar shadow. The universe says plot twist, my ovaries say same.

The actual truth

Eclipses aren’t about collapse. They’re about exposure.
Stuff comes out — secrets, emotions, receipts, text messages you’ll regret by morning. Cosmic truth serum.

ECLIPSES 2025 — LET’S FUCKING GOOOOO!

How I Learned to Stop Manifesting and Love the Drama.

nono, again

How I Learned to Stop the Drama and start Manifesting!

(huh, there…:)

There are two kinds of people during eclipses:

1. Those who light ten candles, charge their crystals, and whisper to the Moon shivering, like it’s their HR department.

2. Those who crawl under a blanket with snacks, muttering “don’t text your ex, don’t text your ex.”

I, of course, am both.

Astrologers will tell you not to manifest during eclipses — that it’s chaotic energy, karmic portals, sudden endings. I tell myself the same thing. And yet, every time the sky goes dark, I suddenly want to write a 3-page wish list, shave my legs at midnight, and send a risky message to someone I shouldn’t.

Eclipses feel like cosmic season finales: everything’s heightened, messy, and unresolved. If astrology was a telenovela, eclipses would be the moment when someone’s long-lost twin shows up pregnant, holding your birth chart.

Meanwhile, my body doesn’t need eclipses to throw drama. Perimenopause is already a private eclipse season — hot flashes like solar flares, blood like a lunar shadow. The universe says “plot twist,” my ovaries say “same.”

Here’s the thing nobody tells you: eclipses can be hilarious if you stop treating them like doomsday. Instead of hiding, I’ve started taking notes. The last lunar eclipse, my FWB fell asleep mid-sentence while trying to seduce me with a playlist of obscure Icelandic techno. The last solar eclipse, my Italian architect sent me a sketch of my boobs with an eclipse for nipples. (10/10, very artistic.)

Eclipses are less about collapse and more about exposure. Stuff comes out — secrets, emotions, text messages you’ll regret by morning. It’s cosmic truth serum. And honestly? I’d rather laugh at it than fear it.

So this is how I do eclipses now:


– I keep sage and chocolate within arm’s reach.
– I let my cycle run wild — because if the sky’s bleeding shadows, I might as well bleed too.
– I don’t manifest. I narrate. Or write. Every eclipse becomes diary fodder: sweaty, sexy, embarrassing, magical. Mine.

Eclipse dates for 2025

a.k.a. plot twists you might want to diarize

March 14 — Lunar Eclipse in Virgo (5°)
Theme: Cosmic report card night.
Everyone suddenly becomes your mom: “Did you eat enough greens? Why haven’t you done your taxes? Who even is that guy in your bed?”
Survival tip: Drink water. Ignore unsolicited advice. Delete the spreadsheet.

March 29 — Solar Eclipse in Aries (9°)
Theme: Shotgun start.
This eclipse barges into your DMs like “HEY YOU UP? LET’S START A REVOLUTION.” Expect impulsive texts, bad haircuts, and decisions that feel like training montages.
Survival tip: Hide your credit card. Also your clippers.

September 7 — Lunar Eclipse in Pisces (15°)
Theme: Crying in the club.
Nobody knows why they’re crying, but suddenly everyone is. Your ex texts “just thinking of you,” and you almost believe them. The playlist is Lana Del Rey + whale sounds.
Survival tip: Pack tissues, not tarot. Unless you want to read soggy cards.

September 21 — Solar Eclipse in Virgo (28°)
Theme: Cosmic Marie Kondo on steroids.
The universe rips open your closet, your inbox, your relationship. If it doesn’t spark joy, it’s gone. Expect breakups, unfollows, and broken blenders.
Survival tip: Don’t panic — what’s left will actually fit. In every sense.

Bottom line

Eclipse season isn’t the apocalypse.

It’s a messy rave the sky throws twice a year and we’re all on the guest list. Yes, things break, people ghost, truths spill.
But also: best gossip, weirdest sex, legendary stories.

So if you see me during eclipse season, I’ll be the one laughing at the sky — phone in one hand, glass of wine in the other — muttering:

“Fine, Universe. Show me what you’ve got this time.”

Yess, if you want to feed my new baby (Magia Botanica) because I’m not the motherly type:

https://magiabotanica.art/
IG: @magiabotanica
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