What I Learned From a Month of Praying the Orphic Hymn to Mars

The planet Mars is not my friend. I know theoretically why Mars is important, and we have a decent working relationship when I’m in a crisis that needs an aggressive approach, but most of the time Mars shows up in my life as, frankly, stupid shit: Conflicts in my communities that are really unnecessary, injuries at spectacularly bad times, and the need to protect my boundaries from people who are more thoughtless than evil—which means they feel justifiably pissed off when I tell them to knock it off.

Recently, I had the opportunity to take Austin Coppock’s class on planetary remediation. Planetary remediation is like physical therapy for difficult planets. The idea is that by bringing trouble planets’ influence into your life in an intentional way, you can learn how to work with that energy more positively (or you can bribe the planet into being more friendly, depending on what you believe about astrology and fate).

I didn’t have Mars in mind when I decided to take this class. (I was more interested in learning how to work with my Venus in Aries.) But I’ve been working with Mars the most since I finished the class. Partly, that’s because Austin suggested a ritual that sounded really easy for me to implement: For a month, on the planetary day of Mars (Tuesday) at the planetary hour of Mars (roughly 2:30 my time these days), pray the Orphic Hymn to Mars.

“All I had to do was read a paragraph aloud once a week four times, and that would improve my relationship with Mars?” I thought. Sold!

I wasn’t familiar with the Orphic Hymns before I took Austin’s class, but I really liked the hymn he shared with us. It was basically a very formal request that Mars busy himself with bringing love, parties, and abundance into my life, instead of causing problems.

I decided that I would do a short ritual that included the Orphic Hymn to Mars during the hour of Mars on Tuesdays.

For the first two weeks, this practice was easy. And nothing happened. I considered giving it up, but I’d made a commitment, so I decided to stick it out.

Then, I noticed that I was starting to become reluctant to do rituals outdoors. It was springtime in Oregon, the time of year when most people like to spend every possible moment outdoors stocking up on vitamin D. This, combined with quarantine, meant that my neighbors, who are usually at work or school during the day, were suddenly much more likely to be outside during the times when I would normally do rituals.

My neighbors are mostly nice people, but they believe that fences don’t really have anything to do with privacy and what goes on in other people’s yards is everyone’s business. I also live far enough away from the urban heart of Portland that my neighbors are red truck driving, Conservative talk-radio listening, just-folks Christians. I already had a bad reputation for being a liberal, Prius-driving, transplant who drove into town with parking stickers from Berkeley, California, and stays home on Sunday morning, puts sigils on the front door, and has men in the house when my husband(?) isn’t home. It wasn’t hard to imagine how they would respond if they were outside when I started spinning in circles in the back yard, making occult gestures, and talking to the spirits of the air.

I started to find reasons to put all of my rituals off.

Then Tuesday rolled around. I stuck my head outside, and I heard one of my neighbors outside talking loudly on the phone on the other side of the fence a few yards from my ritual space. I had a choice: I could I keep my promise and do this ritual for an audience, or I could break a promise I’d made to Mars.

I’ve read The Odyssey, so I know what happens to people who break their promises to the gods. I don’t know what I believe about the relationship between the gods and the planets named for them, but I wasn’t going to risk it. I marched outside and very quietly and timidly cast a circle and called peace to the four directions. I took out my phone, opened the app with the hymn in it, and listened. My neighbor wasn’t talking anymore.

I looked at the hymn: “…bloody wars fierce and untamed…mortal destroying King, defiled with gore…thee human blood, swords, and spears delight…”

Why had I decided to do this?

I braved a glance at the fence. My neighbor was right there. She would hear me no matter what I did. I decided that my best option was to pretend that I knew exactly what I was doing and had full confidence in myself.

I called on all my old, rusty theater skills, took a deep diaphragmatic breath and bellowed the hymn.

“MAGNANIMOUS, UNCONQUERED, BOISTEROUS MARS!”

A moment later, I heard my neighbor’s door slam. Not a sound was heard from that neighbor’s yard for the rest of the afternoon.

I finished the hymn and unwound the circle.

As I stood there, trying to will my legs to stop shaking, I thought of what Austin said about what remediation does. The first step to solving problems with a planet is awareness, he said. When you start working with a planet, the issues that you have with a planet will bubble to the surface so that you can see and address them consciously.

Remembering this, I changed my mind about ending the ritual where I had planned and cast the circle again. I called to the spirits I work with and talked to them aloud, extemporaneously about why I was doing these rituals and what I hoped to get out of them.

When I started talking, I thought my issues with Mars were simple. To me, Mars was a nuisance that only showed up in my life to bring discomfort and pain.

While I described my issues with Mars, I thought about the ways I struggle to enforce boundaries, my fear of taking up space, my reluctance to compete with others for space even when they’re pushing into space that is rightfully mine, space that I need to be safe or autonomous.

I thought of nightmares I’ve been having since the pandemic started in which I am stuck in a room full of people who keep hugging me and refuse to wear masks.

The world is having a big collective conversation about personal space right now. How much do we need? How much space between people is enough? What do you do when others don’t practice social distancing around you the way you think they should? What do you do when the people around you demand more space than you think they need?

What do you do when there simply isn’t enough space for everyone? What do you do when your very existence makes people uncomfortable…or angry?

I realized that my issues with Mars are exactly aligned with this world-wide conflict over personal space, and I’m learning that playing it safe and avoiding situations where your needs are going to make people uncomfortable isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to fight for your right to exist.

I wouldn’t say that Mars and I are reconciled, but I don’t see the red planet as a cruel, sword-wielding, maniac anymore. I realize now that I have lessons to learn from the god of war. I have work to do when it comes to enforcing boundaries and dealing with conflict. Insisting on my right to practice my religion in peace in my own backyard was a first step, but I am almost certain that this frank exchange of views with Mars isn’t over yet.

If you need help working with your relationship with Mars, I would love to help you in an astrology consultation.

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