Let it out
The New Moon in Cardinal Air on the 21st October 2025 at 13:24 BST
Despondent, having received yet again the lowest mark in her class, Little Spirit fought back the tears of embarrassment and frustration that threatened to cascade down her face. She had tried ever so hard to write what she thought was a creative piece for the class. She had been trying for eighteen months to honour the confidence her former teacher had in her when he promoted her to the advanced class. But time and time again Little Spirit had propped up the class and endured those furtive patronising smiles and pitiful glances from her peers.
An epic battle waged inside as she clambered onto her bike to make the long road home. That Voice. From the moment those enormous red numbers, etched onto the end of her essay, assaulted her soul, she could hear him. In the past, she had valiantly ignored his jibes, his put downs, his painful home-truths, but this time his voice painfully echoed through her hollowed-out soul.
“You’re an embarrassment. A total loser. You can’t write. You don’t have the imagination. You don’t have the ability. Look at Pauline. Her writing is so eloquent and creative. But you! You! You, who sits in this elite class! You are not worthy. You are simply not good enough. Look at how desperately you are trying. And it takes you hours. It only takes Pauline half an hour. Natural talent that is. Face it. You are simply not good enough.”
She had tried to reason with The Voice in the past, but time and time again his ever present criticism had eroded what little confidence she had left and now, a shell of a soul, she felt utterly defeated. There was nothing left to do but to give in, she thought, as she absently pedalled. There was only one more essay to write and then summer beckoned. It couldn’t come quick enough. She was tired of trying. Tired of feeling humiliated. Tired of fighting The Voice. She felt broken. A giant tub of Ben and Jerry’s Double Chocolate beckoned.
And then she heard a new voice. At first it was hard to detect amidst the violent tempest. It felt like a warm and gentle breeze kissing her face after a harsh winter; a hint of safety; the promise of sanctuary; an oasis.
“You are trying too hard, my dear. You are too concerned about what people think and you have let the pressure of someone’s belief in you enslave you. You can write. Your imagination is what got you into that class in the first place. Remember the time when you didn’t care; when you were utterly unaware of what you were doing. You wrote what you wanted. You roamed free and explored wantonly. Open your heart. Allow me to flow through you. Don’t censor me. Trust me as I trust you.”
The brouhaha raged back and forth within her between her head and her heart as she slowly cycled home. Ignoring the fridge, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, too exhausted to care about the abstract title of the prose she was to write about. Lifting the pen in her hand, she opened her copybook. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. ‘Beauty’ she breathed in. ‘What is beauty?’
“Trust what you love. There is beauty in everything you love” said the quiet and gentle Voice.
Images fleetingly flickered across her mind’s eye, as if she were absently scrolling on a social media site, of all that she loved, all that she found beautiful.
“What are you passionate about? What do you love most?”
“Dancing”, she answered.
“Then that is what you must write about”
“But that is not sophisticated a topic enough for the class”
“Trust your heart and write from it”
Immediately she was drawn to an image of the preparation of a dancer before her performance. The care and attention of the small details required to ensure everything was ready for that moment the music started. The words flowed from her as she was consumed by personal experience of an act that she loved – the freedom, the calmness of her mind, the invigoration of her soul, the feeling of strength in her body.
Filled with a deep sense of peace, contentedness coursed through her veins as she finished the short story. She slept easy for the first time in weeks. The opinion of her teacher did not concern her as she handed in her exercise the next morning. She loved what she wrote. That is all that mattered. The days of pain and inner torment over, The Voice quietened, inertia overcome, she had finally mastered Resistance. She was free of his taunts and jibes. She was free…
“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.”
— Henry David Thoreau
The “song” Thoreau mourns is the creative impulse of Infinite Intelligence seeking outlet. It does not necessarily mean a melodic sound, but from my understanding he refers to that spontaneous force that wants to be expressed. Arriving, perhaps, as a line of verse, a gesture, a stance, a stitch in fabric, a movement across a stage, a decisive word in a conversation, the medium matters less than the motion: that pressure from within to move outward, to make contact with other minds and bodies, to incarnate the invisible.
To speak openly, known in the astrological language as Cardinal Air, is to let that pressure have its way. Cardinal signs initiate; Air signs communicate. Put together, Cardinal Air, also known as Libra, does not brood forever in the inner cloister; it moves. It launches the thought into the world before it has been masticated into safety. That is not carelessness; it is a modality of courage: the courageous wager that the act of voicing will complete and refine the impression through exchange.
When you say “to speak up and forth, without any semblance of inner process, is Libra,” you name this precise dynamic. Libra’s voice is a translator between private mystery and public reality, a bridge that trusts the river to carry what is offered. The song becomes clearer as it meets ears, eyes, touch; the note stabilises in the echo of another’s response. In other words, the public utterance is part of the processing. Saying is also becoming.
This is why the act of speaking in Libra’s key can feel raw and immediate: the heart hands itself to the world before it has been wrapped in explanation. There is a directness here that can terrify those schooled in interior refinement, because the movement risks mishearing, dismissal, or caricature. Yet the opposite risk – keeping the song folded inward until death – is far greater: the world will be poorer for the silence, and the soul will atrophy for want of expression.
Libra’s gift is therefore pragmatic and sacred at once. It is pragmatic because a spoken line, a performed movement, a public image produces consequence; it starts relationships and realities. It is sacred because that outward motion is how the personalised spark of gOd meets other personalised sparks and becomes revelation. To speak in this way is to stake a claim on existence: “Here I am. This is what I carry.”
The danger, and the teaching, is simple: not every first song needs to be broadcast unfiltered. Cardinal Air will move; wisdom discerns when that movement will open and when it will be used. The practice is to learn to trust the impulse enough to begin, and to receive the world’s response as part of the refining. For Little Spirit, her dance was the first line she dared to send out; the writing that followed was the echo that helped her recognise the original melody.
Little Spirit’s breakthrough arose in the moment she allowed what she loved to move into form. Her pen carried the rhythm of her dance, and through that rhythm her voice revealed itself. Libra is alive in such moments. As Cardinal Air it initiates through expression, releasing what is within so it may take its place in the world. It does not wait for perfection, for certainty, or for permission. It breathes forth, trusting that the act of voicing is itself a kind of becoming.
To speak, to write, to dance, these are movements of soul meeting world. Each gesture declares: I am here, and this is what I carry. The words need neither comparison nor validation because they arise from the same source that brought her into being. This is the essence of Libra: to openly and freely give creative expression to the breath of gOd that streams through you.
Libra’s gift is this forward motion, this courageous openness, this willingness to let the song be heard in all its trembling beauty. Through such expression, the Infinite finds another channel, and the world is enriched by the echo of a singular spirit daring to declare itself. So when you read Libra in this text, think of an initiated breath that meets the world: abrupt, generous, formative. Think of speaking up and forth: an action that completes itself in the public mirror, a creative economy in which giving voice is itself the work of becoming.
Completed on the 4th of October 2025 at 06:47 am BST
