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Leslie Rouser is a writer, artist, and consultant located in Chicago, IL. Her work and study have carried her around the world, bolstered by extensive training in translating 4 languages. As an astrologer, Leslie uses her interpretive skills to connect artistic movements, social currents, and the day-to-day issues confronting her community in a call to compassionate hearts. She believes that through listening and learning we can heal our planet and change the course of life on earth.

Recent Posts

Sep 29, 2017

This article is for everyone who’s been kicked out.

Dec 18, 2015

Every year, I try my damnedest to get excited for the holidays. I really do. I listen to holiday music for .5 seconds, consider buying the packaged eggnog at the local grocery, and panic about the gifts I haven't bought—usually to no avail. No matter how hard I try to enjoy them, the holidays still remain a painful reminder of the difficulties I face as a member of the LGBTQ community to reconcile my faith, my happiness, and the sense of alienation I've so often felt in my relationships with devoutly religious family members.

Nov 16, 2015

A few days ago, I got a letter from my archbishop.

I couldn't even wait to get up the stairs to my apartment. The envelope was torn long before I keyed myself into the door and I even scrambled to take a picture of the fact—wind-tossed hair, lacking makeup, it didn't matter to me. I had heard back.

In the days since I had sent our local leader my initial letter, I had worked not to worry about what he'd think.

Oct 14, 2015

A few summers back, I was surrounded by butterflies.

They were everywhere. On the windshield when we got into the car, hovering in front of the door to the house, filling the park every day I went—I entered a shimmering haze of them and they even began landing on me to rest.

I combed through books, new and old, to figure out what they meant.

One tradition says they're the souls of the dead.

Jul 20, 2015

In the spring of 2014, I found myself in the last place I’d ever expected—the dark, close-set box of an old confessional. The wood muffled all other sounds as the priest slid open a little screen before me.

I knelt down and said I couldn’t remember the last time I was there, and I began to weep.

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