On September 21, 2025, the sky will momentarily darken in a solar eclipse in Virgo. And although it hasn’t happened yet, you may already be feeling it—in your body, in the silences, in the questions that have no answer.

We are standing in a powerful portal between two eclipses. We come from the energy of a lunar eclipse in Pisces, a great wave of dissolution that invited us to let go of control and trust in a deeper faith. And now, we prepare for the energy of a solar eclipse in Virgo.

A solar eclipse is always a supercharged New Moon—a moment to plant new seeds. But this is not just any new beginning. It doesn’t rise from solid ground, but from the deep waters of transformation stirred by Pisces. This Virgo eclipse isn’t the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s the first inner light we ignite to help us navigate a new, fertile darkness. It is the seed of something new, planted from a place of deep trust. It’s from this sacred and mysterious space between two forces that the countdown to the solar eclipse in Virgo begins.

This new eclipse arrives—solar, in Virgo. But it’s not the outer sun. It’s an inner star. A small lantern we light in the cave of our own being. Virgo here is not the perfectionist. It is the one who tends, who cares, who, in the midst of chaos, leans in and asks: “What small thing can I do right now to honor this life?”

The Previous Eclipse

If the last lunar eclipse invited us to let go, to trust the current… now we know where we’ve landed.

Not on the shore. Not in safe waters.

We have been carried. Transported. And now we breathe in the damp, rhythmic twilight of a place that is at once womb and prison, sanctuary and trap. We are inside the whale.

Close your eyes for a moment. Feel it. It’s not claustrophobic. It’s vast. It’s dark—but a darkness that cradles. You no longer hear the noise of the outside world: the demands, the deadlines, the expectations. Here, the only sound is the deep, submarine heartbeat of something much larger than you. The murmur of the collective unconscious. The breath of Moby Dick.

This whale is not the monster from the hunter’s tale. It is not a beast to be conquered. It is an archetype. A force of nature with an ancient intelligence our rational mind cannot decode. It has swallowed us not to devour, but to carry us across a sea we could never have crossed alone.

And now, here, in this total darkness, is where everything truly begins. Because the coming solar eclipse is not the light at the end of the tunnel. It is the match we strike inside the belly to look ourselves in the eye and ask: “And now what? How do we live here?”

This journey is not about escaping. It is about learning to inhabit.

Faith Is Remembering You Are Being Carried

Inside the whale, faith changes shape. It is no longer about believing in a clear plan written in the stars. It is something more visceral. It is the faith of the traveler who closes their eyes on the night train and, even without seeing the landscapes, trusts that the engineer knows the route.

That is Saturn in Pisces. It is the structure that acts as the whale’s inner skeleton: invisible, yet essential. It is carrying us. Its retrograde motion is not a mistake or a setback. It is a deeper immersion. A descent into warmer, darker waters where what needs to be dissolved—fear, control, rigidity—softens and falls away.

The paradox is this: to find solid ground now, you must trust what is fluid. You must learn to swim in the digestion of your old certainties. Reality is malleable. You felt it with the lunar eclipse: the things you thought were solid became porous. The dams you built with so much effort revealed themselves to be full of cracks.

That was not failure. It was initiation. It was the whale opening her mouth and taking in your entire known world in order to carry it somewhere else.

The Solar Eclipse: Lighting a Flame in the Depths

Meanwhile—beyond the walls of the whale—Saturn and Neptune oppose this light, creating the perfect storm. Saturn, the one who defines boundaries, is swimming in the boundless ocean of Pisces. Neptune, the one who dissolves, is in the fiery sign of individual action, Aries. It’s a paradox written in the sky.

How does that translate here, in your body, in your daily life? It feels like wanting to move forward and realizing the air has turned to water. Like trying to make a clear decision and finding only fog. Like knowing change is needed but feeling every door is locked with the same invisible key. The mind screams: “Do something! Make a plan! Take control!” But the belly of the whale whispers: “Rest. Trust. Wait.”

The solar eclipse in Virgo is the bridge between that scream and that whisper. It’s not about making the Master Plan. It’s about planting the tiniest seed of a new way of being.

So how do you plant in the dark? How do you cultivate when there’s no sun? You plant with your ears, with the tips of your fingers, with the trust that the black earth—even when you can’t see it—is fertile.

Tool One: Virgo’s Touch. In total darkness, the sense that sharpens is touch. Virgo invites us to feel our reality with bare hands, without the lens of expectation. Try this: each morning, before getting out of bed, place one hand on your heart and the other on your belly. Ask not, “What do I have to do today?” but instead, “What needs tending today?” Is it the body? A project starved of love? A lingering conversation that still stings? Virgo doesn’t ask for grand gestures. It asks for precise ones. Microscopic attention. Watering the plant that’s withering in the corner. Tidying the drawer that’s clogging the energy. Saying “I can’t today,” and meaning it. That’s planting. That’s lighting the lantern.

Tool Two: The Whale’s Song. You’re not alone in the darkness. You are inside a vast being moving with purpose. And her movement—slow, powerful—carries you. When panic strikes from not being in control, when the unknown feels dizzying, pause. Breathe deeply. Imagine that the heartbeat you feel in the silence—your own heart—is in sync with the great heartbeat of the whale. That your breath is her breath. Then ask yourself: “If I fully trusted I’m being carried, what action would rise not from fear, but from curiosity?” Maybe it’s sending that message, starting that course, letting go of that relationship that no longer resonates. Actions that may feel risky to the mind but are deeply recognized by the soul. That’s swimming with the whale, not against it.

Tool Three: The Paradox Seed. With Saturn and Neptune in opposition to the eclipse, we could read it as planting an impossible seed: one that is both solid and fluid. How do you do that? By writing a plan in pencil and keeping an eraser close. By committing to a direction while being willing to shift if the current asks you to. By dreaming big and planting your feet in the now. The seed might sound like this: “I’m committed to moving forward with this project, but I’ll allow myself to rest when my body asks, without guilt.” Or: “I’ll open my heart in this relationship, but I’ll set boundaries if I feel drained.” That’s weaving the divine and the human. That’s real magic.

Progress

True progress, here inside, is not measured in goals achieved or possessions gathered. Progress is measured in the ability to soften, to release, to trust. It’s the seed disintegrating in the dark earth, becoming something it could never imagine from its original form.

The technical aspects—Uranus in Gemini, Pluto in Aquarius—are the currents this intelligent whale follows. They are the migratory routes of the collective soul. Your tiny seed, your quiet act of care, is carried by those currents and pollinates distant realities you cannot see. Your decision to rest today contributes to a world where rest is no longer a luxury. Your bravery in saying “no” strengthens the collective weave of healthy boundaries. Never underestimate the power of your invisible planting.

The Solar Eclipse as a Sacred Moment

The solar eclipse in Virgo is that sacred, intimate moment when you strike the match and, in its brief glow, see your own hand planting the seed into the fertile soil of the unknown. The darkness returns—but nothing is the same. Because now you know darkness is not the enemy. It is the womb of what’s to come. The echo of the whale’s heartbeat is already a song your body is starting to memorize—a melody of trust woven into your bones.

Don’t wait for the distant shore. Don’t crave the blinding outer light. Because true arrival won’t be a dramatic flash. It will be a quiet realization, on an ordinary day, that your imaginary gills already know how to breathe underwater. That your heart beats in rhythm with the current. That you’ve learned to live within the ungraspable. The whale will not spit you back onto the same beach you left. She will deliver you—transformed—into a new ocean, a reborn world your old eyes could never have recognized.

And when that happens, you won’t look back, searching for the massive being that swallowed you. You’ll carry her rhythm in your chest, and her vast, fertile darkness as your most intimate sanctuary.

This eclipse in Virgo isn’t here to give you answers. It’s here to teach you how to breathe underwater. To trust without seeing. To find clarity not through the mind, but through touch. It is the invitation to a more intimate kind of order. A more organic one. A more honest one. One that is wholly, quietly yours.

The seed is planted. Now, rest in the womb of the mystery. Trust in the digestion of who you once were. And let the journey remake you, cell by cell, in the silent and glorious dark. Now… rest. Trust the dark. Trust the journey. The eclipse has already begun.