The Saturn Cycle Hidden in My 1994 Poem

As the days get closer to my 57th year on December 18, I have been reflecting on the long arc of my becoming, especially as Saturn prepares to close one chapter of my chart and open another. Starting back on November 26, before Saturn’s direct motion at the last degrees of Pisces, I found myself trying to remember what themes from 1993 to 1996 were rising for review.

Strangely, I couldn’t recall much.

So there I was, doing what any astrologically inclined, reflective human would do… except instead of scrolling through old photos on my phone, I had to literally dig into an old cardboard box buried in my closet. The analog archives. The pre-iCloud era. A true archaeological dig.

Inside that box were the fragments of a life I had almost forgotten, including my years at the College of DuPage… and the part where I slept in my car. It stunned me how that entire chapter had slipped out of memory, as if it belonged to someone else.

And then I found a poem I wrote in 1994. A poem that was published in the magazine I co-edited. A poem written by a girl who somehow already knew the terrain of my future.

Reading it again, 31 years later, felt like opening a doorway back into myself. And apparently some of you guys have some questions about the meaning of this poem. So I will try to answer some of them here.

Every stanza carried a truth I was too young to understand.

When she wrote of courage and fear, passion and hate, she was speaking the language of my Sagittarius fire before I even knew the shape of my own flame. When she said she was worthy of trust yet suspected, I can see now how deeply my Chiron in Pisces wound was already whispering through me.

She wrote of loneliness and fear with the intensity of a Life Path 9 soul… an old spirit in a young body, feeling everything all at once. She welcomed joy as easily as pain, as if she instinctively knew that both would become the teachers of my life.

She admitted to seeing everything but pretending to be blind, this is the earliest echo of the intuition I would spend decades trying to mute for the comfort of others and it has been so heavy to shrink in this way.

And the line about celebrating life while anxiously awaiting death… Well, it carries the exhaustion of a girl who was already too familiar with survival. A girl who carried stories she hadn’t lived yet but somehow remembered.

But the ending is what catches my breath even now.

She refused to feel guilty for who she was.

And I can believe it has taken me thirty one years to grow into that sentence.

This poem wasn’t just a piece of writing. It was a map. A breadcrumb trail left by a younger me who somehow trusted that one day I would return for her.

And now, at 57, I finally understand what she was trying to say.

Every orbit of my life has been its own initiation. A spiral of endings, awakenings, unravelings, and grace. This past year, especially, has been a quiet revolution of the soul. 2025 has dismantled illusions I once mistook for truth and revealed the luminous fabric beneath it all. And I don't think I am completely done yet.

I have learned that enlightenment is not a destination, it is a remembering. That peace does not come from control, but from surrendering to the pulse of what is. That healing is not the absence of pain, but the integration of it.

The alchemy that turns ache into awareness.

Fifty-seven feels like a mirror made of time. A reflection of what I have outgrown and a portal to what is still unfolding. In numerology, 57 reduces to twelve, then to three. Three is creation, expression, synthesis. It is the trinity of becoming: the past, the present, and the possible harmonizing into something whole.

This year, I have felt the threads of my existence weave tighter into the cosmic loom. Even what once felt like chaos revealed pattern, purpose, and poetry. Every unraveling revealed more light. Every silence carried a hidden truth. Every detour, a divine rerouting toward alignment.

And through it all, I realized something tender.

I have always lived in the paradox. In the nuance. In the empty space between things.

The place where joy and sorrow meet. The place where truth and tenderness touch. The place where becoming happens.

Now, three decades later, the voice that wrote that poem rises in me again. Not as a memory, but as a presence. The voice I now call Lyra Knox. The voice that writes. The voice that writes lyrics. The voice that refuses to shrink for anyone.

It feels like she has been waiting all this time for me to grow into the woman who could hold her. The woman who could hold both the wound and the wisdom. The woman who finally realized she was never walking through the fire…she was the flame.

So here, as I begin my slow approach to dock 57, I honor the spiral, the rise, the fall, the return. I honor the girl who left me a map. The woman who learned how to read it. And the luminous future self who continues to guide me home.

Here is to living from the marrow of awareness, where wisdom meets wonder and every breath becomes its own prayer.

Here is to the next orbit.

Still spiraling.

Still glowing.

Still becoming. ✨

Image: My poem “The Person Who I Am,” published in 1994.