Routine Read, April 8 2025

The sky goes dark today—not with loss, but with alignment. A total solar eclipse arrives in Aries. The Moon occludes the Sun, day becomes shadowed, and the personal becomes mythic whether we seek it or not. Eclipses pull threads tight. They close stories we didn’t know were ending and open paths we hadn’t dared name. This one comes in Aries, sign of ignition, autonomy, the sacred “I am.” The eclipse is not an interruption—it’s a redefinition. Something wants to be reborn, not gently, but with urgency.

The Moon is new in Aries, and today’s eclipse is conjunct Chiron, the wounded healer. This combination slices deep. There may be a sharpness to today’s emotions, not just in pain but in recognition. The part of you that learned to survive through silence or aggression may ache now. This is not a wound that reopens—it’s one that becomes visible. The eclipse calls not for understanding, but witnessing. What you feel today might not be logical, but it will be real. You do not need to explain it to anyone.

From the tarot, the card drawn is Death, upright. Nothing could be more fitting. Not a literal death, not an ending to fear—but a shedding. A layer falls away. The eclipse and the card agree: there is no returning. Death is not cruel here. It is dignified. It carries the weight of what you’ve outlived and leaves you standing in what you are now. This is not a moment to rush. Let what needs to end end. No flinching. No fixing. Just the space that remains once something essential has left.

Numerologically, April 8, 2025 reduces to a 3 (4 + 8 + 2 + 0 + 2 + 5 = 21 → 2 + 1 = 3). Three is creation, communication, the first breath after duality. It brings rhythm and release. Amid the weight of eclipse and Death, this is a reminder: something playful will eventually rise from this. Not yet. But it waits. Three is the beat after silence. The story after the rupture. The child born after the storm.

From the Revised Common Lectionary: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1:5). This is not about victory—it’s about persistence. The light does not flee the dark. It lives inside it. The eclipse makes that literal. What’s covered returns. What’s obscured passes. This verse isn’t comfort—it’s invitation. Trust the dark, not as absence, but as initiation.

There is a dream: You are underwater in a well that has no bottom. A voice tells you: “Breathe here.” You do. It doesn’t feel like air, but it keeps you alive. Then the well becomes a hallway. You emerge soaked, lungs full of something you no longer doubt.

Today is not gentle. It is not meant to be. The Moon blocks the Sun. The self is recast in shadow. The wound becomes visible. And something ancient and unspoken begins to leave your body. Stay still if you can. Let it go. The world will return—but you won’t return the same.