How the Eclipse of March 29th, 2025 Closes the Book on a 2-Year-Long Story

Act I: The Setup

March 29th, 2025 brings with it a solar eclipse at 9 degrees of Aries. On its own, it may not seem especially noteworthy—certainly not compared to some of the more theatrical eclipses we’ve seen over the past few years. It doesn’t immediately announce itself as a headline event.

And yet, it is still an eclipse. Which is to say: it still matters.

Why?

Because eclipses, whether partial or total, subdued or cataclysmic, offer something we all hunger for—even if we pretend otherwise.

Drama.

Act II: The Nature of Eclipses

Astronomically speaking, eclipses are the most visually dynamic phenomena the sky has to offer, save perhaps for a comet or meteor shower. But these, for all their grandeur, are itinerant performers—celestial curiosities that blaze across the sky, deliver a few punchy one-liners, and then vanish, stage left. They’re the traveling circus of astrological events: good for a quick thrill. There’s no arc, no continuity, no deepening of plot.

Eclipses are different.

Eclipses are stories.

They come in pairs, in seasons, in cycles. Each one is part of a long, slow arc—a celestial saga replete with foreshadowing, reversals, and climaxes. They aren’t one-off events; they thread themselves into larger arcs, weaving meaning across time. And they rarely make sense when viewed in isolation.

Interpreting an individual eclipse is like trying to parse the thematic significance of a single episode in a mid-season television series without the benefit of having watched the rest. Sure, you’ll catch a few dramatic beats. But the meaning? That lives in the arc. The character development. The callbacks. The emotional accumulation.

Subversion and Suspense

Part of why eclipses map so easily onto the language of story is because everything about them represents a subversion of our expectations.

We expect the sun to illuminate the day, to rise and set on schedule, anchoring not only our biorhythms but our very conception of time and order. But during a solar eclipse, a black shadow swallows the light. An eerie gloom descends, and in its wake the world takes on an unnatural hue. For a moment, the diurnal world forgets itself.

It’s not just dark—it’s wrong.

And just when the laws of nature seem irrevocably suspended, the lights return. But not quite as they were. Because once you’ve seen the center go dark, some small part of you never forgets that it can.

Lunar Eclipses: Horror Beneath the Familiar

Lunar eclipses are perhaps even more disturbing.

Night-dwelling creatures come to expect the Moon’s regular variability—her waxing and waning, her shifting glow. Her pale white presence is a balm when it graces the night, and her absence, a familiar cloak. But during a lunar eclipse, a crimson stain creeps across her surface, her silver glow curdles to ochre.

For hours she lingers, a bloated corpse suspended in the night sky—a grotesque parody of our pale sentinel of the night. A hidden horror glimpsed beneath a familiar face, now rendered alien.

Enter the Nodes: Our Tickets to Chaos

Even the lunar nodes—the points where eclipses occur—move backward through the zodiac, defying the forward march of the planets. Invisible specters which haunt and possess a sign for just over a year and a half, threatening to overturn the order we work so hard to establish and maintain, the productive familiarity of our routines, and to upset our carefully laid plans.

This is why I can’t help but think of eclipses in strictly narrative terms. Because a story isn’t really a story until the pattern of normalcy and predictability is broken—until then it’s just a chronicle of events. But once the sequence of normalcy is broken, something magical happens: the once static and predictable characters are forced to develop, evolve, change—and we get to find out who they really are.

The Illusion of Control

Even when we think we want adventure and excitement, we don’t—at least, not really. We want the roller coaster version: the illusion of danger without the real risk of anything unexpected happening.

We want to have our mettle tested—but only as long as we know we’re going to come out on top. And who can blame us? There’s nothing more rational than wanting things to unfold along a smooth, predictable timeline, to only attempt things that have a high probability of success.

In fact, we have a word for people who take actions with a high probability of failure, who act in unpredictable ways that undermine their own stability, well-being, and apparent best interests.

We call them crazy.

Destabilizing On Purpose

Now let’s be real. Much ink has been spilled rebranding the North Node as “your soul’s purpose” and the South Node as “your past life mastery.” But stripped of spiritual polish—what we’re really talking about is the kind of crazy that pushes the plot forward.

The obsessive desires that fuel myopic quests, or the kind of dissociation, apathy, and detachment that makes us numb and blind to consequences.

If we didn’t have the nodes to distort our vision around certain parts of our lives—and eclipses to tear holes in the established order from time to time—we’d probably all be tuning in next Friday night to the premiere of Season 68 of Leave it to Beaver.

The nature of the nodes is to distort and obscure our perception and relationship with the part of life they touch—to obscure our access to objective reality.

What I’m saying is: being a little bit loco is built into the system. And that’s okay. We probably even kind of like it that way.

Act III: The Current Chapter

Which brings us back to March 29th.

This particular eclipse is best understood not as a standalone moment, but as a culmination—perhaps even a series finale—in a storyline that began around April 2023, when the first eclipses fell along the Aries–Libra axis.

So before we continue, I want you to think about the signs of Libra and Aries in your birth chart (or whichever chart you’re working with), and consider their role within that chart.

What houses do they fall on?
What planets, if any, are placed in those signs?

If you feel lost or don’t know how to interpret those things yet, don’t worry. Instead, just think about what houses Aries and Libra represent—and the lived reality of those areas of your life.

Is Aries your 4th house and Libra your 10th?
What’s the story been regarding your career/public image and your home/family situation since April 2023?
12th and 6th houses? What’s the story around your mental and physical health?

Whichever part of life this eclipse speaks to, I want you to think about it in terms of a story—with a beginning, middle, and end.

Who are the main characters? Who’s the protagonist? Who or what is playing the antagonist? What was the external or internal event that broke the status quo in those areas? What challenges have the characters faced?

Don’t worry—it doesn’t have to get nominated for an Emmy.

But I do want you to pause and consider where you are in that arc. Because this eclipse—the one unfolding on March 29th—represents the end of something. Not necessarily the climax, but the final episode. Even if you think you've already had your decisive confrontation with the antagonist, be prepared for at least one final twist.

Resolution rarely arrives on cue.

Plot, Not Prediction

Working with eclipses isn’t about prediction. Their very nature resists it. They warp the expected shape of things, bend light and logic, unsettle timelines. To try to forecast their specific outcomes is to engage in educated guesswork at best.

But what you can do—what’s perhaps even more valuable—is to track the arc of transformation.

Whether or not the protagonist gets the girl (or boy, or job, or closure), what matters most is the growth that’s taken place. The development. The lessons learned through challenge and disruption.

In other words:
What have you gained that the next set of eclipses can’t take away from you?
What lasting internal shift has this story made possible?
How have you changed?

Aries vs. Libra: A Creative Tension

Another reason eclipses lend themselves so naturally to the language of story is that they always invoke a fundamental tension—a conflict between diametrically opposing principles that, over time, transform each other. Even when the conflict is not decisively resolved, both sides are changed.

That, after all, is the essence of a compelling narrative.

The part of your life Aries touches fundamentally operates under Aries logic. To succeed there, you have to shoot first and ask questions later. You have to act on the impulse that arises from within, and overcome opposition from external forces.

Ideally, you come out on top—but even when you don’t, you come out more you than you were going in. Winning, in Aries, looks like self-definition. Others may light the spark, even fan the flames—but it’s your willingness to feed yourself to the fire that makes it yours.

The Libra part of your life, by contrast, operates on a fundamentally different principle: balance.

In Libra, brute force backfires. Willfulness, if unchecked, creates resistance. Here, progress depends on attentiveness to the other—on reading the room, so to speak. Harmony isn't achieved through dominance, but through calibration.

This is not the same as appeasement or people-pleasing. Letting the other take up too much space is just as destabilizing.

Libra requires mutuality. It demands finesse, tact, and the willingness to shape and be shaped through ongoing exchange. To win in Libra is to co-create a state of shared prosperity—a balance born of negotiation, not surrender.

Act IV: Claiming the Story

So much of what drives the events surrounding eclipses is, in all the ways that matter, the stuff of story.

Stories are often rooted in reality. Their role is to mirror reality in its idealized form—or the way we wish to perceive it. They’re governed by an internal logic that often feels more real than real life. But stories are not strictly beholden to objective reality. They’re composed of narratives: the meaning we attach to events, the emotions we feel when experiencing or retelling them.

They are not strictly “true.”
And yet, the stories we tell—both to others and to ourselves—have very real consequences, for better or worse.

They inspire us to reach beyond what is, to create something new… or destroy something old. To elevate our experience beyond what reality tells us is possible—for even just a small chance to create a new one.

The Nodes are not physical points, but mathematical abstractions—calculated from the nodal axis of the Moon. They represent in a literal sense, the polar extremes of the Moon: instinct, emotion, hunger, and memory, and the way they distort our perception to form the constituents of individuated consciousness—the dream of your personal reality.

To work with eclipses is to become a better narrator, rather than a better writer.

Within the lunar sphere lie forces that refuse conscious control—instinct, hunger, and emotion have a pull all their own, and have a way of drawing us into plots not of our own design.

These are not tales we script from intellect or will, but mythic patterns that reveal themselves only in hindsight, as if some deeper part of us knew the arc all along.

And perhaps that is the real invitation of eclipse season—

Not to impose a plot, but to bear witness as one unfolds.
Not to command the story, but to claim it. Shape it. And in time, to breathe meaning into it.

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I Didn't See That Coming: The Narrative Logic Behind Eclipses and How to Interpret Them