I’m running through a pumpkin patch. Seems as though that’s a vital memory for me. I’m running through pumpkin patches as a scrappy kid in the 1990’s. My shorts are colorful and my hair is close cropped to my forehead. I’m singing all the way as my arms drag behind me. I’m dragging my whole body through the wind. Feeling the breeze on my skin is always such a cleansing ritual. It’s a dance I do with my Libra Moon, letting her feel a rush of rejuvenating air. I’m running through caverns made of hay. The wildfire inside me blazes the path toward the light. A fire stellium never knows darkness. She is always at work stoking a flame. I come barreling out of the cavern, likely having skinned my tender skin on something. I avoid wearing shoes with laces because I don’t know how to tie bows so I’m always tripping over myself. I still prefer to wear slip ons. My sun shines in an earthy place that needs to feel grounded and supported. It also makes me the bull in the china shop. My parents say I almost took down an inflatable football stadium by opening an emergency exit door by mistake. But maybe that’s just one of my Dad’s tall tales. His tales reach ambitiously up to the clouds. Post up for a shot and sink it. Me, I just run through pumpkin patches and tumble over in the dirt. I climb up rock walls in the park and pretend I’m an American Gladiator. I’m in a silver bikini with teased blond hair. My muscles are on display. I can swing from metal rings and tackle any target. I am waves crashing madly against the sand. Thunder rolling from black clouds of pouring rain. The tempest ripping a hole in the roof. A fire burns from within. I place my hands on the rippling skin of the pumpkin. The colors of its skin beaming in the crisp autumn sunlight. My round fingers trace the nooks of the woody stem. I carry this mighty plant back to the car. The plant that’s also a canvas for a tiny artist. A little child that wants to be a French painter when they grow up.