Six of Cups

The Sun stands in Scorpio today, and even light learns to dive. Something old surfaces — a scent, a name, a song half-known — and the garden of your earlier years opens its low gate. Go in. Let the sweetness be real; it was real. There is a gift in this: tenderness returned to you from a self you had stopped thanking, and a softening in how you hold what came before. The cost is the undertow. Scorpio's sun does not let you visit without seeing the whole of it, root and rot together. Take the flower, then walk back out. Today's garden is not today's house.

The Sun walks the deep water of Scorpio today, and its light goes down rather than out — into cellars, into rooms you furnished long ago and never quite left. There is a sweetness here that asks nothing of you but repetition. The gift is memory's precision: you know exactly where each thing was kept, and something in that knowing steadies the hour. The cost is the doorway. What you tend in the old garden cannot be tended in this one, and today's soil is asking. Take one flower from the past if you must, then let the season have your hands.