For the record, I don’t have a beard in waking life.

I awoke in the full mood of fall and went about the tasks of the morning [...]]]> Last night I dreamt I shaved off my beard — a stylized goatee that came to a perfect point at the bottom, the sides curving around my jaws like little arms.

For the record, I don’t have a beard in waking life.

I awoke in the full mood of fall and went about the tasks of the morning without thinking much about it. But when the boys were gone, NPR was turned off and the dishes had settled in their stacks, the dream came back quietly.

In essence, I think, it was about shedding what had grown: saying goodbye to the old, getting ready for the new. It was an appropriate, if funny, dream for the change of season.

Even though it’s not officially fall yet, the summer cycle is definitely closing: Ask anyone who has school-age children, or arthritis. Last week on our midwest visit, there was talk of sweaters, hayrides and apple presses. Even here in southern California, the air is a little crisper and the traffic much thicker than last week. And Starbucks has mercifully brought back its pumpkin spice latté.

This is the time of year when, in my quieter moments, I tend to remember the ancient myth of Persephone, who picked a flower and was whisked away into the underworld by Hades (Pluto) himself. Persephone’s mother, the earth goddess Demeter, mourned the loss of her child and withheld the harvest from the people until Zeus (Jupiter) brokered a deal: Persephone would stay in the underworld with Hades for one-third of each year and reunite with her mother during the remaining eight months. The separation, disappearance, change in cycles was necessary for the growth of both mother and daughter.

There are more complexities to the story, but its core truth lies in these simple details; and we see that truth reflected, also, in the horoscope chart. Bruno and Louise Huber identified a way to interpret the chart as a “life clock” — starting with birth at the ascendant and spending six years in each house. At a certain point in each house, people tend to turn inward. They feel their active energy thwarted or stilled. They are forced to take stock and turn the season of their life toward the next more active, more outwardly-effective cycle.

This internal period can often be felt as a crisis point — the point where, like Demeter, no matter how hard you try, you simply cannot get what you want. Waiting is necessary, and that can be frustrating. It can even feel like death — like being dragged into the underworld against your will, like being taken away from everything light and abundant and familiar.

But the Demeter story, and the Hubers’ work, and astrology in general remind us, each in their own ways, that life happens in cycles, and thus the underworld period is essential. Shortcuts and bypasses are decidedly not advised.

See: The flower germinates; it blossoms; it dies. The school year begins; it proceeds; it ends. Babies are born; the family coheres; the children grow up and move away. Before the third phase of each cycle, we must catch our breaths, because in truth that third phase is just the preparation for the next cycle: As it dies, the flower must seed the next crop. As the school year ends, the student must make ready for the next. As they grow up and move away, our children prepare to give birth themselves.

I know a lot of people who say they feel nostalgic every year as fall begins. Maybe some of the nostalgia is a longing for eternal summer, but there’s something deeper going on there, too, I think: a wistfulness for the cycle that was, perhaps; an uncomfortable acknowledgment that time always urges us forward; a wish for the familiar footprints we’ve already put down. We know that place behind us. Why can’t we just stay there, or jump forward to the next activity? Why must we power down a bit now?

And yet we know the fall, too. Its familiarity, it smells and its slower tempo are ancient and comforting. Its darker days cloister us indoors, where we are forced to face the internal. We survive the cold, and the dark, and the frightening because we must — and because our fiber is thicker and heartier than we give ourselves credit for in the bright sweat of summer.

Yet it’s often as surprising to remember our own strength, and our own tenacity, and our own depth, as it is to dream of a woman shaving off her pointed goatee to prepare for what’s next.

Go to Meditations for the End of Summer

Photo credits: Bearded lady, life cycles, autumn

She knew, I guess, that such a lesson was due me, my own Virgo Moon highly charged [...]]]> When our child was born — three years ago today — with Virgo Sun, Virgo Moon and Virgo rising, my astrology mentor raised her eyebrows, looked at me pointedly and said, “Now you’ll get a deep, deeeeeeep lesson in Virgo!”

She knew, I guess, that such a lesson was due me, my own Virgo Moon highly charged in the powerful embrace of Pluto and Uranus.

The Dragon, born at home on the cusp of sunrise, came out of my body with his eyes closed. No tears, no screaming, no wild “Where am I?” glances around the room. He passed his Apgar tests with flying colors but remained quiet and kept his eyes closed for hours, as if he were focusing hard on a task. His new surroundings, the sudden dryness of air, the finally unmuffled voices: None of these things seemed to distract him or even spark his interest.

We finally realized that he was, indeed, deeply immersed in a struggle to breathe.

How like this triple-Virgo, to focus first, and deeply, on the proper execution of the body before turning his attention to the more dramatic developments unfolding around him. As our midwife and her apprentice swirled around with life-saving equipment and decision-making; as my two dear friends brought food and talked me through what was happening; as my husband, Alan, and I tried to make sense of the sudden turn of events, the Dragon just kept his eyes closed and breathed, and breathed. Focused.

We saw his eyes once, briefly, in the ambulance, and then not again for another three days — once the worst of his infection had passed and he started weaning from the painkillers.

He came back home just shy of two weeks old.

At first, we were so immersed in parenting an infant, and sneaking sleep whenever we could, that we didn’t much notice the astrological psychology of our baby: It just wasn’t, obviously, the priority. I barely even looked at his chart for the first year of his life.

Then, when he was 14 months old, I wrote this entry on our family blog:

When I put [the Dragon] in the bath last night, he noticed a shampoo bottle in a place it doesn’t normally sit. He pointed at it and yelled, “Aaa!” then looked at me and pointed to the shelf where it usually goes.

“Yes,” I said, smiling, “you’re right. It usually goes up there.” I continued to wash his hair and squirt the rubber duckie at him.

He dodged the rubber duckie, looking a little cross. “Aaa!” he said again, pointing to the shampoo bottle and then to the shelf where it usually belongs.

“Yes,” I agreed. “You’re so smart! It usually does go up there.” I started rinsing the soap out of his hair.

“AAA-AA!” he shouted, pointing to the bottle, then to the shelf. He was really kind of perturbed now.

“Okay,” I said, and moved the shampoo bottle to its normal resting place. “That better?”

He picked up a ball and started splashing, happy again. The rest of the evening was a breeze.

He could use a few words by then, but a month or so later they were coming fast. He knew “Mama,” “Daddy,” “ball,” “doggie” and dozens of other nouns by the New Year. Then one day in early spring, he took the broom from me and started pushing it proudly across the kitchen. As he did, he showed off the use of his first verb:

“I helping!” he said excitedly, looking back to make sure we were watching.

Aaaah, Virgo, I thought.

A few months later, as we returned from a big grocery store trip, Alan and I were busy ferrying bags from the car to the kitchen. We got all the bags in during the time it took our son to carry one loaf of bread inside. When the child returned for more, only to find out there were none to be had, he burst into tears and stood facing the corner of the room.

My heart sank. He was very ashamed about something — but what? I crouched down to him and tried to find out, but he was crying too hard to get the words out. I turned him toward me and held him until the sobbing subsided. Then he said simply, “I didn’t help.”

A couple months later, the same message: He screamed when I strapped him into the grocery cart — not, I finally found out, because he wanted to roam free but, as he put it, “Because then I’m not helping.”

And even later: “Can I help make pancakes?” “Can I help fold clothes?” “Can I help plant carrots?”

And proudly, and often: “I helped! I helped!” Gleefully, even.

It sank in slowly, this lesson in Virgo. The Dragon not only values helping but actually identifies as a helper, deeply. It’s what he feels he has to bring to the world. When he’s doing it, he feels so completely in his element that he glows.

And yet, of course, the downside of Virgo is there in spades, too. The Dragon regularly corrects people’s word usage and pronunciation. He is very hard on himself when he does something “wrong,” by his definition or ours. His bedroom must be in such precise order that it often takes more than an hour to settle him into sleep. (But his definition of “precise order” changes on a daily basis, so we can never guess what’s right from day to day!) Certain clothes are verboten (but, again, we never know which ones) because they’re the wrong color, or the wrong picture, or too tickley today. He is a very picky eater. He must have clean hands.

And then there are the trés Virgo quirks. He cannot abide “breaks” between lines in drawing or writing; every corner and connection must be closed. He seems to have a Rain Man kind of photographic mind. He insists that the driver not start the car before everyone is inside with doors closed. He collects small rocks. He loves feeding fish.

I’m convinced that, without knowing the Dragon’s chart, I would miss the connections between these things. They might simply be funny stories to share, traits to wonder at, irritants to quell. But knowing his chart, I believe, helps me tolerate and celebrate even the things I would normally find annoying (except for the sleep challenges. I don’t think I’ll ever like that).

Mothering the Dragon has made me a fuller person, presented me with my own Virgo-ness in a way that helps me cope with it better, grow into it, embrace it. From that very first look at his silent, focused face, until this morning when we laughed together at how the birthday candles melted into his pancakes, we have all grown deeper into ourselves because of this child.

And so. Happy Birthday to all of us.