Should you watch eclipses? Should you fear them?
In 2024, the great North American eclipse crossed directly over my Moon.
For those who live with the sky, that isn’t a minor thing. The Moon carries instinct, memory, the body’s knowing — the part of us that remembers before language. When I realized the path of totality would pass straight through her place in my chart, I felt the familiar fork in the road eclipses bring.
Do I stay inside, curtains drawn, honouring the old warnings? Or do I step beneath it — and let the sky meet me fully?
I chose to step outside.
I’ve learned over time that astrology doesn’t truly live in theory. It lives in encounter.
I’ve travelled for solar returns, followed angles across continents, tested how place reshapes fate. So this eclipse felt like the next listening. I went to Niagara Falls, staying with a friend, sharing the days with another astrologer, preparing carefully.
The ancients were not wrong to caution us.
Eclipses are not decorative events. They interrupt. They dissolve familiar light. They invite something older to surface.
Preparation, I’ve found, is what turns fear into reverence.
On the day itself, the sky began to change quietly — not dramatically at first, but unmistakably. My Moon rules my fifth house: children, creativity, wonder. As the light thinned, my friend’s four-year-old son asked me to read his favourite book.
The Whale’s Song.
I felt the pause land in my body.
The eclipse was unfolding in Cetus — the Whale — in Aries. The story tells of a whale who sings magical songs in exchange for gifts. The adults dismiss it. The child does not. She leaves offerings anyway. And eventually, the whale sings.
It’s a story about devotion without proof. About trusting what hasn’t yet revealed itself.
As the sky darkened, he listened with total presence. No fear. No story-making. Just instinct and wonder, intact. In that moment, it became clear to me: this is eclipse wisdom. Not analysis — remembrance.
Eclipses braid Sun and Moon. Ego and instinct. Conscious light steps aside so the deeper voice can speak. This is why they’ve always been both feared and revered. Each one arrives differently. None are random.
Today, we know how to protect our eyes and bodies. But eclipses don’t only work on the physical plane. Emotional, energetic, and ritual preparation matter just as much.
On February 17, 2026, another eclipse arrives — this time in Aquarius, brushing my ascendant. It won’t bring full darkness where I stand. But totality, over the coming years, will travel across places long considered thresholds: Luxor, Mecca, Ibiza, Bilbao.
You can avoid eclipses. Or you can meet them — slowly, consciously, with the land beneath your feet.
Because when darkness comes prepared for, it doesn’t take from us. It returns us to something we already know.
Under the dark skies of Montsec, Spain, in August 2026, we’ll gather along the path of totality — not to spectacle-chase, but to witness. The eclipse. The Perseid meteors. A rare planetary gathering. The sky, teaching directly.
If you feel the pause in your chest as you read this — if something in you leans forward rather than away — then you already understand the question eclipses ask.