Off the main road heading where you grow toward, a side trail branches near the old wound, and the gate to it hangs ajar. Chiron, the centaur whose limp became its teaching, makes a sextile to the north node, the lunar point of the direction you reach for. The opening is offered, never insisted on. Let the tender place inform the next step instead of barring it, and the way forward picks up a footing it was missing. The gate will not open by itself. It widens the day you stop treating the hurt as a wall and start reading it as a quiet signpost angled toward exactly where you are headed.