The Chariot

A sense of calm settles on her today, and she walks slowly up the stairs, ascending into the place where all things are possible. She feels centred, balanced, like a drop of stillness within a vortex of energy, the static tip of a child’s whirring, spinning top, a world of motion so perfectly balanced that it seems frozen in eternity. It feels reassuring, this sense, perhaps it is confidence, but that seems to be the wrong word; composure is perhaps better, she likes that, it has a rhythmic and musical feel to it, composure.

Standing at the doorway, she waits, and then opens the door to pass confidently through the glorious colours of gold, blue and red that herald the arrival of The Chariot, and then she is caught, without protection, amid a thundering onslaught. The thousand hard hoofed ponies of a clan of Mongolian tribesmen gallop past her, reducing her to floundering helplessly in the dust as wave upon wave of the sturdy legged creatures pass within inches of her. They are so close that she can feel their hot snorting breath on her face and the roar of their hooves on the hard steppe deafens her. Terrified by the unexpected obstacle, the frantic horses roll their eyes in terror too, as they manage to avoid her hunched form which is by now huddled like a foetus on the short grass.

As the last of them gallop by, she sits up, looking after the herd, which has stopped in the valley below. She watches the riders, deftly con – trolling the herd, agile as swallows, as they turn their ponies this way and that with effortless grace, the horses moving as one like a flock of starlings at dusk, swerving and pirouetting across the vast, endless plains of Mongolia. The wilderness is staggering, literally, and she feels a sense of vertigo just looking at the emptiness, she is in awe, so much so that she cannot take it all in, it is just too much.

Eventually, she brings her focus closer to where she is standing, and sees, as if they had just miraculously appeared out of the earth itself, a small group of women and children in an encampment of round yurt like tents, grouped together on a level piece of ground in the otherwise sloping hillside. Walking hesitantly over to the group, unsure as to what she needs to ask them, she finds that by the time she reaches their fire, that she has lost her inhibitions. She devours the wide-open beauty of their moon round faces, the glittering depths of their Slavic eyes and the children stare back with wonder at this oddity that has wandered amongst them.

Skirting around the group, not wanting to disrupt their domestic harmony, she makes her way towards a woman who has caught her gaze, who sits slightly apart from the others, beyond the fire, in the open doorway to one of the tents. The matriarch wears an elaborate headdress, heavily decorated with engraved silver and coral beads, whilst her braided black hair is streaked gently with age and heavy amber plaques hang in her ears.

She approaches this goddess of the steppes, and sits quietly on the ground in front of her, folding her hands in her lap, waiting for something to happen. A small child brings her a bowl of tea and the woman begins to speak, explaining her position in the tribe, telling how she sits in the centre of their universe, that she has no place that she calls home, that her home is within her. At all times, she must be ready to leave, being called upon by the seasons, the tribes, the herds and the turning of the earth, ready at a moment’s notice; all her time is spent in preparation, becoming ready to move on once more and that her life is a moving meditation, a journey of discovery.

As she turns away from the beautiful bejewelled woman, she catches sight of another tent, set away further into the deepening darkness that is busy erasing the last short hours of daylight. Standing in the soft shadows beside a small flickering fire, is a man dressed in grey with a speckled hood of owl feathers. He looks at her with interest, and as if sensing a question, tells her that once she has chosen her road that she must continue with it, she must carry on, for losing momentum could invite disaster. She wonders what he means, and then she sees the image of The Chariot before her and recognises the perfect balance being achieved by the driver of a vehicle pulled by variant energies. The mind of the charioteer is focussed; he does not look to either side, seeing only his destination, whilst the creatures that carry him there listen to his every command.

He is balanced, a drop of stillness within a vortex of energy, the static tip of a child’s whirring, spinning top, a figure of stillness in a world of motion so perfectly poised that he seems frozen in eternity. She turns away from the grey man and walks off into the Mongolian dusk, for she sees a shining doorway, iridescent in the gloaming and walks into its jewelled beauty, passing once again into The Hallway of Beginnings.

The need to prepare and make ready arrives, indicating that a new road is opening up for you. The journey is, however, unlikely to be straightforward, or easy, and it will become important to remember the reasons why you started out in the first place. Keeping the momentum going relies on staying with the plan, which can be challenging as you will leave much behind you. Keeping faith with your goals is vital.

VII The Chariot
The Zodiacal Trump of Cancer
The Child of the Powers of the Waters – The Lord of the Triumph of Light.


Joanna Grant. D.F.Astrol.S

My name is Joanna Grant, I am an Astrologer, Tarot Reader and Writer, who lives on the beautiful Beara Peninsula in the South West of Ireland. I can often be found at home, deep in arcane research, or practicing some new form of divination whilst burning the dinner! My children probably wish that I was “normal” but may well remember my eccentricities fondly when they come to face the challenges of their own paths. My long knowledge of Astrology leads and informs my practice, in offering guidance, empowerment and healing, helping others to lead a more authentic and magical life. You can read more about me here.

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