Up until my 40th week of pregnancy, I’d been wholly opposed to having an elective induction (that is, choosing a predetermined time and date to artificially induce labor). As an astrologer, it seemed a little too Promethean, a little too much like playing God. To try and wrangle the primal, mammalian life-giving impulse onto calendar time sounded to me like a folly in a Greek myth — and we all know what happens when mortals step out of line. But as the risks of keeping her inside me beyond 40 weeks grew with each passing day, I decided to schedule her birth. And so, with the fate of her natal chart in my hands, I wondered if I might unintentionally rob my daughter of her cosmic destiny, and thwart the plan the Universe had for her with my own fanciful ideas about when she should enter this world.
Constantin Hansen, Prometheus Creates Man From Clay, 1845
Not that I’ve ever looked at a birth chart and thought, “hmm, something seems off here — she should have a Scorpio moon, not a Libra moon.” As astrologers we accept a priori that birth charts are reflections of their owners: a mirror cannot be wrong just as a birth chart cannot be wrong. If you gaze at your reflection in a lake, it may reveal your good side or the things you don’t want to see, but it never lies.
Of course, when you try to schedule a birth, you are subject to many factors outside your control: the hospital’s availability and schedule, the pool of other doctors vying for the same time slot, and the length of time your labor actually takes, for starters. The elusive tricksters of this tale, Choice and Chance, were reminding me of their intertwined and slippery natures — I could choose, but from a limited set of options whose conditions were out of my control. It came down to either Wednesday with a Capricorn Moon (interesting), or Sunday with a Pisces moon (cute). But, knowing that late Wednesday and into Thursday would be a New Moon (very cute), I chose Wednesday. There is no such thing as a perfect chart, but from my vantage point, it seemed like the favorable one to have.
Map of the constellations, 1856
After months of imagining I’d be rushing to the hospital in the throes of labor pains, it was surreal to wake up and calmly head to the hospital for a very civilized 10:00 am induction, which, for the uninitiated, involves prompting the body to go into labor by simultaneously bringing on contractions (to push the baby down the birth canal) and dilating the cervix (making it wide enough for baby to make their entrance into the world). For the first 16 hours I was having contractions but my cervix remained stubbornly shut, even after a balloon attached to a catheter was inflated inside me (ouch, rude). I was beginning to think that I had gotten greedy with my astrological cherry picking. Perhaps this baby wasn’t ready to be born, and didn’t want to be a Capricorn moon, thank you very much.
Engraved magical gem with pregnant woman, 3rd c Roman
As my contractions intensified, an epidural was procured, along with another balloon, and the second time it worked — my cervix began dilating more and more on its own, without the need for Pitocin (the synthetic form of oxytocin normally given during inductions). With labor now fully underway, a midwife explained that she would need to break my water, and like the balloon trick, it shocked me in its medieval simplicity — a long, thin pokey stick would puncture my amniotic sack. It was quick and painless thanks to the epidural, but it also increased the chances of acquiring an infection (especially as I’m immunocompromised), because I now essentially had an open air womb, a house without a roof.
Kame’ot (Sephardic Jewish amulets for protection of newborns), pre-1930
I was being attended to by a caring Capricorn nurse who asked me if there was anything she should know about my birth preferences that we hadn’t already discussed. I told her that as an astrologer, I would love to have a highly exact birth time. She assured me, with no hint of an eye roll, that she would make sure to keep her eyes on the clock.
Capricorn illustration from Astrological Treatises by Abu Ma’shar, 1403
Soon after my water was broken, I entered active labor: the part where I became a human Transformer, as my cervix dilated from 6 cm to 10 cm (for reference, 10 cm = roughly 4 inches). During this time, which lasted maybe 12 hours, I floated in a kind of suspended state of consciousness, too uncomfortable to sleep but too exhausted to open my eyes.
After several hours, I began to register the activity picking up around me: a worried look on the nurse’s face as the baby’s heart rate spiked, a doctor shuffling around me to take a blood sample. They discussed the results in hushed tones, then the nurse offered a gentle warning that a button may be pushed and a team of doctors could rush in to intervene.
“Intervene how?” I asked. She explained that I developed something called Chorioamnionitis. “Chorio-what?”
She paused to look it up on her phone, revealing to me that this was not a daily occurrence. It was an infection in my womb that brought on a fever in me and put the baby at risk, potentially necessitating a c-section. A cocktail of IV antibiotics was swiftly administered, and although I was now fully dilated, I prepared for the possibility that I would need to be cut open anyway.
It was clear that I had no other option except to surrender, so I silently spoke to my baby: We are safe and in good hands. I trust my body to do this. I trust you to come at the perfect time. I recalled many of the objects made for protection of women in childbirth throughout time, which I had researched in the months prior. Engraved gems, carved statues, parchment scrolls, and inscribed bowls floated through my mind’s eye as I contemplated how many of my ancestors had to survive this very same ordeal for me to be here. I thought of how utterly improbable it is to exist at all, and I was filled with both gratitude and fear as I got closer to this threshold. For all my previous doubts about having too much control over the timing of her birth, when it came down to it, I was not the one driving the train.
Magic Wand inscribed with the goddess of childbirth Taweret and Bes, protector of the newly born / Middle Kingdom, Egypt
Byzantine tubular gold amulets for protection, from 7th c Greece
Incantation bowl from ancient Mesopotamia, originally buried in the earth for protection from demons and the evil eye
Votive offering of a uterus (for uterine protection) from ancient Rome
As the antibiotics brought my fever down, baby’s heart rate stabilized, and an emergency c section was narrowly avoided, it was time to push. By now, the epidural had worn off enough that I could feel each contraction, and I rode the waves of pain as Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love” thumped in the background. I bounced between intense resolve (I WILL DO THIS) and extreme doubt (but what if I can’t?) My mother, sister and husband reassured me that I definitely could, so I believed them. At one point an administrator came in with a survey questionnaire about my experience at the hospital thus far. My feet in stir-ups, a cold wash cloth on my forehead and mid-push, I asked her if we could please discuss this later? Everyone’s been great!
The Birth of Cupid by Master of Flora, 16th c Italy
I was very much in my body while also feeling like I was floating outside of it, hyper aware of the sensation of being inside time, thanks to the large clock on the wall facing me. The clock — symbol of Father Time and the organizing link between celestial movements and human activity — reminded me that with each passing minute there would be a slightly different configuration of the planets, each resulting in a different birth chart and therefore a different template for life, and that I would soon experience the emergence of her consciousness into the world.
Triumph of Time by Jacopo del Sellaio, 15th c Italy (detail)
Although the pushing phase was the most athletic event of my life, requiring every ounce of strength and clocking in at nearly three hours long, I felt a kind of calm knowing that she would emerge according to her own timing. To say “she was born” sounds far more passive than what labor and birth actually felt like: an active struggle for emergence which involved traveling to the land between life and death, a timeless realm that I visited to retrieve my baby. Like the tiny sliver of moon newly visible in the sky, suddenly there was a presence — and an entire new universe of love — where before there was apparent nothingness.
Remedios Varo, "Nacer de nuevo (Born Again)," 1960
“My baby! My baby!” I screamed with tears of relief and joy and exhaustion and she too screamed like hell, immediately locking eyes with me. In that moment, it didn’t feel like our first time meeting: it felt like a reunion.
Another nurse in the room called out the birth time: 12:25 pm. My Capricorn angel nurse, true to her promise and not missing a beat, corrected her: 12:24.
Here is how I know that the Gods do not make mistakes when it comes to the moment of birth: At 12:24 pm, the constellation which was rising up onto the horizon (also known as the rising sign) was Taurus at 11 degrees. Each sign has 30 degrees, and the rising sign degree changes every 3-5 minutes. For example, had she been born only one minute later at 12:25, she would have had her ascendant at 12 degrees Taurus.
Why is 11 degrees Taurus significant? That was the exact degree of a Sun-Mercury cazimi in Taurus that was forming at the moment I discovered I was pregnant. A cazimi — the term for when a planet passes through “the heart” (or the same degree of the zodiac) as the Sun, lasts less than a day. Sun-Mercury cazimis are associated with revelations, insights, breakthroughs, and receiving messages or news of importance. The probability of this cosmic signature echoing at two significant moments, 8 months apart — the discovery of my pregnancy, and the moment of her first breath — is beyond the scope of my mathematical prowess to calculate, but suffice to say that it is vanishingly small.
Robert Fludd, from Utriusque Cosmi, 1621
In retrospect, every Choice and every Chance — my decision to induce on Wednesday, the nurses I was randomly assigned, even the failed balloon procedure and the infection — all of it seemingly had a purpose. Indeed, we are all born at the right time, and experiencing the moment of birth illuminated this for me in a way that is not just conceptually known, but deeply felt. When the intention for our soul’s journey through life appears to be so clearly articulated in the moment of our birth, how could we not regard all of our decisions and detours as meaningful, simply because they are uniquely ours?
Wheel of Fortune tarot card as a floating orb, collage my own
Choice and Chance may be like argumentative lovers, forever entwined in a waltz with no way to reconcile their differences, but to keep the music playing they must keep dancing. It seems that if we want to stay connected to the sense that our lives have meaning, we should proceed as if Choice matters, even if we see the frayed edges of its hem which Chance threatens to unravel with one little tug. We should pay our respects to Chance, too, who steps in when we lose sight of how to get where we’re going, it’s diversions bringing us closer to who we are destined to become. If Choice and Chance are two sides of the coin of Fate, then Birth and Death are two sides of the coin called Life, because life is not the opposite of death: birth is, and Life encompasses all of it.
Memento mori ring, Flemish, mid-16th c
"To say “she was born” sounds far more passive than what labor and birth actually felt like: an active struggle for emergence which involved traveling to the land between life and death, a timeless realm that I visited to retrieve my baby. Like the tiny sliver of moon newly visible in the sky, suddenly there was a presence — and an entire new universe of love — where before there was apparent nothingness. " EXQUISITE + PIERCING. thank you so much for sharing this beauty + mystery ❤️🔥
I’m in awe and love with the story of your giving birth. I gave birth to twin boys 3 years ago. It was a scheduled c-section. I managed to delay it until week 38 and a half (38 w being their “limit” with multiples) and I was presented with the choice of picking up the day (moon) of their entry into the world. I chose piscis moon. They’re also Piscis sun and have a stellium in Piscis. Their rising was the play of Chance (Virgo) as they got me waiting for 5 hours because of Covid test errors…
Now, oftentimes, when my sons’ sensitivity is overwhelming to me (I’m a Virgo moon!), I blamed myself. My soul knows I cannot play God and that there are no mistakes in life but your text expresses this dilemma so gracefully. Thank you deeply. And congratulations on bringing your daughter safely and lovingly to the world.