Monáe's Musings | Fabulous and Fortunate Podcast

Fully digesting that I was a Sagittarius rising was one of those times where I had an “A-ha” moment. I have known I am a Sagittarius rising for about two years now. But I have just recently become more versed in my knowledge of astrology and its further meanings and implications. A Taurus sun with a Sagittarius rising. I have always known I have the need to search the great beyond. Curiosity driving the way for me to climb and climb. I knew that I always pushed forward and reached new strides because of some unexplainable source in my core. And I have realized it all comes down to passion and creativity. Passionate about my life and going about creative means to impact. Sagittarius is mutable and always evolving. Looking for the deeper meaning of everything and placing discovery at the forefront. Constantly pushing the walls and smelling the lavender along the way, with expansion being its goal as it is ruled by Jupiter, the planet of abundance and expansion.

It is said that wherever Jupiter touches in your chart is where expansion is destined to occur. My Jupiter in Taurus resides in the 5th house of astrology, which rules creativity and good fortune. Deep down in my soul I have known that there is something further to examine in my roots, as I am aware that creativity never dies. It just keeps making an impact. Creating a bloodline is a divine act of creativity. Leading me to imagine that I’ve been handed the baton and the bandwidth to press onward and create all that I can while I am given this lifetime. 

Ancestral fire is the fire that never dies. The fire that works its way into genetic bloodlines and sits, stirs, and waits for another grand emergence. The fire that crackles lowly, always ready to spark my creative nature. A fire that seasons my words and gives a crisp to my prose. With the faith and determination of those who came before me. Those who walk with me, in spirit and in my life. Women who came before me who were not afforded the same opportunities as I. Women like my great-grandmother. 

Born in Selma, Alabama on January 14, 1923, Lovie was a woman of wonder. She worked in the local school cafeteria all her life – walking to and from work every day. I have heard stories about my maternal great-grandmother more times than I can count. Everyone talks about how sweet she was and how she was one of the best cooks around. She worked in a school cafeteria for most of her life and had 11 children. Lovie. Even her name sounds like sweetness. Anytime I hear about her, unconsciously, I always perk my ears up. Maybe its soul-to-soul recognition. Maybe something in me recognizes her as a spirit.

One of the most poignant stories about her was her involvement in activism. Lovie marched in the Voting Rights movement in Selma in 1965 and she testified before the federal government because they tried to disenfranchise her (take away her right to vote), falsely claiming she failed the voting test. I can just imagine her, brilliant and forthright in her claim to the right to cast a ballot. She stood up for herself and for others – a laudable feat. 

Along with her love of cooking, she loved to garden, sew, and most intriguingly – write. Doing each with passion, creating something outside of herself that could be even the smallest inclination of a woman who had so much drive and fervor inside. Retreating to the arts and activism to fulfill the creative gifts inside of her as she fulfilled the duty of wife, mother, and grandmother, her creativity shone brightly. Knowing that she wrote is what I am the most enamored with, though I may be bias in that regard.

I have always loved the stories of summers filled with the peaches and apricots she used to grow in her backyard, her piano playing for the church, her impeccable seamstress skills, and the pecan trees she grew in front of the porch. Yet most importantly – her infamous bread rolls. These rolls make anyone who speaks about them today have a gleam of bliss penetrate their eyes. People’s faces light up when they talk about those rolls. In a literal magical and childlike type of way. It has always fascinated me. I have no doubt that Lovie was a woman who cooked with soul. With passion. A true chef. She also sewed with passion and excellence. Putting all of her into an act of love for her family and others, making curtains and all types of aprons. More times than I can ever begin to count I have been told that she prayed for her children and grandchildren every single day. A heavy praying woman, as the saying goes, in every sense of the meaning. 

On August 20, 1994, Lovie passed away from breast cancer, having spent the last months of her life in a weakened state. It was on my grandad’s birthday and my mom said that it was one of the saddest days of her childhood. I can only imagine how sweet of a woman she was, and how hard everyone took her departure. But in the wake of her passing, Lovie’s prayers reverberated through the bloodline. Covering her future generations with a love and protection culminated with the Divine itself. She was truly a bad mama jama. 

I can only begin to imagine what she wrote in her journals in her spare time. Unfortunately, they have long since been tossed, I will never know what was at the end of Lovie’s pen. What dreams laid there and what dreams never made it off the pages. It’s heavy to think about, one’s life writings forever gone. But I do know that speech writing was her forte, being known for her way with words. It doesn’t surprise me, as I am sure that a woman who testified before the federal government has a word or two to say. 

If I could, I would have a conversation or ten with her. I would ask her for her dreams. Did she share my love of tea? Ask her what her other passions were, those she could exercise as well as the ones she couldn’t. I would have asked her what made her sad. What made her glad? Who was she when she was a young woman? Before mother, wife, and grandmother permanently attached themselves to her personhood. What legacy did she hope to leave behind? What dreams did she have for her grandchildren and those who come after. I would also thank her for her breath and her journey. A journey of life which led the way for me to be born. I wonder what she would have thought of me. Would we have laughed together? Would she have liked my writing? Do we have similar writing styles? So many questions, all of which I believe will be answered in divine timing. 

There’s a fire that I recognize in many women around me. A determination to see things through. A will to change and to continually evolve even as the world around them seems to move in a pace less suited for evolution. Nonconforming. Peculiarly similar to a Sagittarius rising. To rise means to move from a lower position to a higher one. Continually evolving and moving with passion and determination. And I have gathered what gives me even more ammunition for what I do every day: doing things that those who came before me are rooting for me to do. That is ancestor veneration to me. Seeing where I came from, honoring my roots, and seeking ways to make an impact with the passed down hearth. Continue those seeds of hope that were long ago planted before my existence was even thought of.

I can’t help but to have passion inside of me. It was planted into me before I even took my first breath in this world. Passion is ingrained, escaping itself into my projects and everything I focus on. I live passionately. I breathe with passion. I am a passionate woman and when I look back, I have done everything with a creativity that envelops whatever my hand touches. Putting my all in and doing things in a way that I can look back years from now and be proud of. Doing things with a tinge of excellence. With an unexplainable force inside of me that goes the distance and pushes the walls with no mind. My will at times even enveloping my heart in its strength – carrying it gently and tenderly. Perhaps it is the force of the women whose blood runs through my veins. My roots. The culmination of seeds sown then and now. A seed planted long ago that continues to grow and cultivate within and of itself. 

The agriculture. The arts. The passion. The literature writing. The spirituality. It’s too much alignment for me to even try to think otherwise. And when I truly reflect, the arts have a very distinct place in my family – everyone being artistically gifted in some way. Maybe these were her gifts to us. A legacy of creativity and spirituality. Fascinatingly, my younger sister has a beauty mark in the center of her forehead, just like my great-grandmother did. I do not think it is a coincidence. Tangible proof as any of Lovie leaving her mark. 

At the end of it all, how can I ever quit when it is in me to never give up? I will always evolve and come out on the other side, maybe blazed, but never broken. I owe it to myself, my great-grandmother, and the rest of my departed ancestors to live each day with passion and full-blown creativity. I see my creativity when I cook. I see it in the way that I take care of myself. How I speak life into myself every day. And I have come to realize that my outside world is a direct reflection of the creativity of my inner world. Passion is what drives creativity and creativity drives action. Creativity begins as a thought. Which translates into words, which then translates into tangible action. It’s fascinating how I see this play out every day that I choose to pay attention. At the undertone of my life on this earth, there is creativity and the need to express. Expressing the intent and passion that Lovie left in those pages. Giving my all and doing things in a way that reflects my DNA, my life, my soul, my roots. My Sagittarius rising will accept nothing less than expansion and abundance. Although Lovie’s letters forever stayed in Selma, it doesn’t mean her legacy and dreams must as well. 

~

As the astrology goes, and more than anything, my Sagittarius rises

Through the blistering winds and other fateful demises

Ultimately, in this continued quest, I will see my roots in their glory to the very end

Forever honoring and wondering what was at the end of Lovie’s pen.