By Amanda Moreno

There are a few simple facts in astrology that I’ve never really understood, or that just don’t make sense to me in light of my experience. Maybe I just get tripped up through over-thinking, but the correspondence of the sign Cancer with the summer (northern) solstice is one of them. The sign that represents internal processes, latent emotions, subtlety and home seems so awkwardly positioned to initiate the season of light.

Photo by graywacke/A Landing a Day

Up here in the Pacific Northwest, the season of light definitely corresponds with a major increase in social activity as well. Not to say Cancerian energy isn’t outgoing, but so much social activity can be taxing to the Cancer-type.

As a Cancer Moon-type myself (by virtue of my natal Moon residing in the 4th house), I tend to get a bit cranky when the autumn storms are late in coming, as I’m more than ready by mid-September to retreat back into my cave for a spell — a six-to-nine month spell at that.

Cancer is a sign of psychic sensitivity, probably underscoring a need for retreat from others. Isabel Hickey says:

…Cancer responds to life through his feelings… As they are extremely psychic they find it difficult to separate what they feel from what they think. They are at the mercy of their moods, up one day and down the next. They are psychic sponges, absorbing any atmosphere around them without realizing it. If they are in the company of happy people they bloom; if depressed people are in their vicinity they droop and wilt and do not know why.

Now, my personal bias about the meaning — or shall I say feeling — of the sign and the season is probably colored by the fact that during Cancer season, the Sun is falling through the 12th house of my own chart. A planet moving through the 12th house often indicates some kind of dying-off process. My energy ebbs more than it flows; my longing for quiet time, alone or with kindreds with whom I share strong bonds, increases greatly.

This past weekend, I realized it was the first time in seven or eight years I was not on vacation or at least ‘staycation’ for the July Fourth holiday. In fact, I’ve taken extended time off over this period consistently — and have almost always left to go camping or to a cabin. Through some fault in planning, I missed the boat this year, and I’ve been feeling that call towards silence in some very loud ways.

Luckily, a friend and I were able to take a little last-minute camping trip to the Olympic Mountains, which offered a small dose of retreat that felt incredible.

Here’s the thing about this mountain range / national park. It’s one of those places that is very much untouched — due largely, I would imagine, to the fact that it is home to several rainforests which ensure that wintertime rain levels are in the hundreds of inches.

The silence in places like this is so complete, even with the sounds of water, wind and birds. Sitting on the banks of a river in the sun, I was able to let that stillness wash over me and bring my attention to my senses and let myself drop in — and away from screens and phones and everything else my busy, busy brain wants me to fixate on.

And then there are the trees. I am, in fact, a tree-hugging individual and have a very cherished relationship with trees. I love them. I love that you can lean against them and they won’t go anywhere. I love talking to them and listening to them and watching them and learning about them. I love looking up and being stunned by how tall they are. I love seeing how one fallen tree plays nurse to five others.

Trees in this forest can range up to 1,000 years old. Standing amidst them, tuning in, you can start to feel the strength of that slowness and sense the wisdom of beings that have existed, holding space, sticking it out, for such lengthy swaths of time. It brings a sense of awe and much-needed perspective.

There among the trees and the water and the slowness, I was able to unwind and decompress a bit. We wandered around. We built a fire. We attempted to fend off hordes of mosquitoes. And we ate freshly caught crab.

Coming back the next day, we drove through many miles of forest, the only car around. I couldn’t bear to listen to music, still needing more immersion in the silence. I let my mind wander to fantasylands where elves were watching us and mossy trees became creatures. We extended the road-trip portion a bit by driving to the coast to get a glimpse of the ocean.

Life in the city, in this world, is so busy. So cranked up. So constantly, consistently loud in so very many ways. Retreating — by myself, or with a few select others — is something I’m lucky to be able to do from time to time, although I’m aware that I need to do it far more. Slowing it down, shutting off the screens, giving myself permission to stop thinking about the little things and just be present, sitting on the side of a river listening to the water or observing the way the afternoon’s golden light plays with moss and fern as it trickles through the branches…

To me, Cancer in essence represents home and identity. Having written so much in the past months about identity crisis, I’m aware that although connecting with home and family are good medicines for my soul, reminding me of who I am and who I want to be, my constant identity questioning often needs a rest. I need the white noise of water and wind to run through my mind and soothe all the rigid places.

I need to go to places where I can just sink into the deepest parts of myself and exist for a while, just another creature living among the trees.

Attention anyone with a Cancer Sun, Moon or rising: Eric has recorded the audio portions of your birthday reading for the next 12 months — nicknamed The Cancer Illumination Kit. You can access them by ordering now; the video will be released after July 4. Not familiar with Eric’s audio or video readings? You can listen to last year’s reading here, as a gift.