The Denman Island Horoscopes
For the Twelve Local Archetypes
The Disillusioned Permaculturalist (March 21 – April 19)
You began with noble dreams of soil regeneration and community abundance. Now your hugelkultur mound is a home for raccoons and regret. This month, your compost will finally reach maturity, and so will you, emotionally. Jupiter advises you to stop starting new systems until the last one actually grows something edible.
The Radical Quilter (April 20 – May 20)
Your patchwork masterpiece speaks truth to power, but you’ve run out of indigo dye and patience. Saturn encourages you to “unstitch the patriarchy” with smaller, more manageable projects, like tea cozies embroidered with protest slogans. Expect applause at the next craft fair and a mild existential crisis about whether your bobbin is ethically sourced.
The Ferry Oracle (May 21 – June 20)
You predict ferry delays with eerie accuracy, yet no one believes you until they’re stuck in line behind a livestock trailer. A cosmic shift in tides means your premonitions will intensify, so use them wisely. You could monetize this gift, but that’s not the Denman way. Instead, trade forecasts for muffins.
The Rewilded Retiree (June 21 – July 22)
Your new philosophy “If it grows, I let it,” has resulted in a yard that’s both a biodiverse wonderland and a minor fire hazard. Mercury recommends trimming something, preferably before it devours your solar panels. Romance may bloom when a like-minded soul compliments your thistles.
The Off-Grid Visionary (July 23 – August 22)
Your homemade solar dehydrator works flawlessly, except when the sun goes behind a cloud. The stars say it’s time to rejoin society long enough to borrow a wrench and some empathy. Beware of grand pronouncements at potlucks; someone will take notes and quote you ironically in the next island zine.
The Overextended Volunteer (August 23 – September 22)
You’ve joined seven committees and chair three. Your aura resembles a sticky note. The planets beg you: delegate, delegate, delegate. Venus whispers that saying “no” is not a betrayal of community values, it’s just self-preservation. Your lucky number is however many hours of sleep you get this week.
The Skeptical Mystic (September 23 – October 22)
You don’t believe in astrology, but here you are. This month, a friend will invite you to a “sound bath,” and you’ll roll your eyes, yet somehow leave feeling oddly serene. You’ll soon publish a think-piece titled “Empirical Woo: A Journey.” It will win a local writing prize, judged by you.
The Foraging Philosopher (October 23 – November 21)
You think while you pick: the forest is your therapist, your pantry, and your TED Talk venue. A chance encounter with chanterelles will trigger a personal revelation, probably about capitalism. Beware: Mercury in retrograde might make your mushroom ID app malfunction. If uncertain, ask Barb, not the internet.
The Fermenting Enthusiast (November 22 – December 21)
Your kitchen smells like hope and vinegar. Expect a new friendship to bubble up when someone compliments your kraut at the Saturday Market. A few jars will explode, but consider it an offering to the microbial gods. Travel is favored, but only if it’s by bike and includes at least one unsanctioned sauerkraut exchange.
The Co-op Philosopher (December 22 – January 19)
You have strong opinions about governance structures and how the bulk bins should be labeled. The moon urges moderation: perhaps not every conversation needs to end in consensus-building. Love may blossom in aisle three over shared disdain for the point-of-sale system. Don’t fight it.
The Workshop Nomad (January 20 – February 18)
You’ve attended every retreat, training, and skillshare since 2017. This season, Pluto suggests a daring experiment: stay home. Your cottage misses you. If that’s impossible, at least host your next breathwork seminar in a place with heating. Enlightenment is easier when your toes aren’t numb.
The Eccentric Potter (February 19 – March 20)
Your mugs are legendary, uneven, profound, and spiritually charged. A mishap in the kiln will reveal a hidden talent for avant-garde sculpture. Sell it at the summer market under the label “Intentional Collapse.” Financial fortune follows, though mostly in the form of trade for goat cheese.
Cosmic Closing Thought:
If the ferry is late, the power’s out, and your neighbor’s chickens are in your compost, congratulations. The island is perfectly aligned.
