I experienced a moment of shock today. I was reading the natal chart of a very pleasant lady, a beautiful creature with a Libra Ascendant, looking very pale and fragile. What was my surprise to discover that she had no.problems.at.all. Well, yeah, her husband doesn’t share her aesthetic criterion, which must be hard for a Venus-driven woman. But you know, there is hard and hard, as they say in Germany.
She is amazingly simple. Not stupid. Just plain. Natural. She has a life that’s trim and tidy. No major issues of self-doubt, self-destructing habits and guilt. And her natal chart does not show any major tragedies either.
I must admit I felt stupid consulting her. Where there is no problem there is no need for advice and solution. But now, I don’t know. Can things indeed be that simple? Can anyone be content to have a life with only one plot-line, only one layer? She had no spiritual touch to herself whatsoever. She had no deep-rooted, crippling fears. She felt no need to explore more than what our eyes can see. I must admit, in my head I tried hard not to accuse her of denial. But she radiates calm and friendliness, I couldn’t feel any accumulated anger, nothing.
Is spirituality a life-saving anchor for troubled souls? It never occurred to me. I’ve been reading books on spirituality and applying eastern teachings on detachment and self-exploration since I turned, what? Thirteen, I guess. They were like balm for my tortured soul. I probably wouldn’t have survived without. I learned to be versatile, flexible, aware. I strived to understand myself and others, I had many unpleasant insights in human nature and partly, mine. I know a lot. But I can’t say for sure I hurt less that thirteen years ago. Well, maybe. I feel I have developed, I am further ahead on that road of self-perfection than I was when it all started. I learned to appreciate the lessons, which hit me hardest. What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger. I go with that. Sometimes I can even help other with my experience and knowledge.
And yet, still. There is this woman, who knows nothing of all this. Who lives a blissful, happy and simple life. In her dreams, she is not tormented with her own imperfection, she has no fear of failure, she only thinks her son doesn’t read enough books. But he reads, unlike many other kids his age.
I don’t understand, really. My mind searches for a pattern. Something to distinguish right from wrong. Something to tell me I have not spend all these years of searching for a higher meaning in vain. Spirituality is part of who I am. I need it to provide sense to almost everything I do or think or feel. But then there are people who do perfectly without. Are they missing out on something? Aren’t they?
I felt this urge to push her over the edge. To tell her she’s being in denial, hiding from her true self and stuff. I wanted to catch a glimpse of fear or uncertainty or sorrow. I wished she would experience some sort of a revelation. I wanted her to admit to a deep inner pain. Something, anything that would make her seem less smooth and homogenous. That would make her understandable to me.
I didn’t push her of course. I know the rules. I know myself. I am aware. I am ashamed of what I felt stirring up inside of me. And I try to accept that’s what she is – plain and simple and content. No need for higher understanding. No need for therapy and healing. Just – what you see is what you get.
But this is hard on me. I waver, I doubt, I wonder… I don’t know.
