My first instinct with this one was Saturn: the organization, the predictability, the safety of the grid-like pattern. But then I thought: No, Uranus: energy, electricity. Or Mercury: thousands of little connections [...]]]> Most of the time, when I look at the picture of the week, I see right away the astrological archetype with which the image aligns.

My first instinct with this one was Saturn: the organization, the predictability, the safety of the grid-like pattern. But then I thought: No, Uranus: energy, electricity. Or Mercury: thousands of little connections all bringing energy to an undefined, in-between space.

All of these archetypes are true to the image in their own way but they don’t really get to the core of it for me. What is most striking about this photo, in my view, is the stark, bright, white light against the utter blackness: the striking oppositeness come together. Secondarily (or perhaps primarily, depending on the viewer), the grid pattern kind of couches or embraces a cross, which in the Christian tradition is the symbol of light penetrating dark.

But what is light penetrating dark in terms of astrology? I don’t think I can choose a single planet or sign to reflect that idea, for light and dark are such basic archetypal energies that undergird and run through all of life, through all the energies we carry within us: Venus, Jupiter, Mercury, Sagittarius, Cancer — each of these and every other astrological energy carries its own brand of light and dark into embodiment, into the life of the person who carries that energy.

For instance, Venus is the goddess of love and beauty and, as such, represents merging relationship, sensuality, art and luscious enjoyment of life. But she can also be desperate and demanding, vain and superficial. These are two sides of the same coin, the light and the shadow of a single archetypal energy that lives in all of us.

There are others: Mercury’s quick wit, light laughter and adaptability is shadowed by detachment, fickleness and nit-picky-ness; Jupiter’s wisdom, perspective and generosity may be darkened by arrogance, excess and sloth.

When we accept, embody or live out only one side of an archetype, denying the other side’s potential within us, we run into trouble. This is the condition first identified by Sigmund Freud as projection and cast into mythic terms by Carl Jung as shadow.

Western astrologers have long identified shadow with the seventh house (the house of relationship), suggesting that we draw people to us who have the qualities we are not yet ready to accept in ourselves and integrate into our consciousness.

But we can experience shadow in any house of the horoscope, for example if we have a strong seventh house and little in its opposite house, the first, we may identify more completely with others than with ourselves, making the self into shadow material: fear of being alone, denial of one’s own worth, self-effacement or self-abnegation or self-mutilation, to go to the extreme. If our ninth house is dominant over the third, we may find ourselves in an ivory tower, alienated from community, and thus critical of people who have strong local connections and networks. And so forth.

This is all shadow material. Light penetrates shadow through the channel of consciousness, of becoming aware of where your shadows lie, where they’re sourced, how they’re triggered, how they grow.

Consciousness, in turn, is cultivated by self-reflection, self-honesty and ventures into the darkness, to discover and retrieve and reclaim what is there. It can be done, to some extent, on one’s own, but is more often effective with a faithful guide, a Virgil to one’s Dante or a Gandalf to one’s Frodo. Such guides can bring the wisdom, insight, faith, humbleness and even humor we need to believe in our own survival through the dark shadows of our own psyche. They can help us find our own light.

Image: Drake Guan

In ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome, the frog [...]]]> Ask a friend to name an animal commonly depicted in literature, myth and culture, and the answer isn’t likely to be “frog.” But from the ancient Egyptian goddess Heket to The Frog Prince to Michigan J. Frog, the croaking amphibians have populated the cultural imagination for thousands of years.

In ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome, the frog was associated with fertility, probably in part because the animals appeared in droves following the annual flooding of the Nile, whose silt deposits fertilized the Egyptian soil. In Asia, frogs are harbingers of fortune and luck, as they are in Scotland: “Households often keep stone frogs in their gardens and they are often given as house warming presents.” (Source) And in the Celtic Druidic tradition:

[The frog] unites the elements of water and earth, bringing joy, delight and healing in its singing and hopping … The frog possesses an extremely sensitive skin, considered magical by shamans. A companion of the rain spirits, the frog can help you develop sensitivity to others, to healing and to sound through your skin and your whole body and aura. (Source)

This symbolic sensitivity actually shows up on a scientific level as frogs are a documented sentinel, or indicator, species. In recent years, deformities in frogs have been noted as an early indicator of chemical farm pollution impacting local ecosystems. (Source) As well, in nature, frogs occupy the space between water and land, much as Heket represents the final stages of childbirth, when the baby emerges from the amniotic fluid to come live on the drier earth.

The composition of the photo above (wittingly? unwittingly?) reveals this sensitive in-the-margins space that frogs occupy both in the scientific research and in the cultural imagination: The stone sculpture of the frog sits at the shoreline between foliage and bark, and its skin is painted both red and blue, as if it could flux back and forth between two innate ways of being. (In Huber astrology, different colors represent different energies: red squares and oppositions are active; blue sextiles and trines are restful.)

The astrological archetype that first jumps to mind when I think about these characteristics of the frog is Mercury: it is light, flexible, sensitive, magical; it traverses the margins between defined worlds. But Mercury is a bit “drier” than a frog, airier and more detached than water and earth would suggest. So I want to say the frog, perhaps, is Mercury in a water sign (Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces) or, under the right conditions, in an earth sign (Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn). Or perhaps it is Mercury coupled with Virgo or the Moon or maybe even Jupiter: a planet that brings it a waterier, earthier sensibility, that deepens its sensitivity in an intuitive and sensual way.

There is one more element in the photo above that deserves comment: the paint is peeling. The frog is obviously old and may be neglected or forgotten (or, on the other hand, intentionally left to the weather). Whatever the case, there is a whisper of Saturn here, of the slow decay that comes with time. In our culture, we tend to turn away from such things.

But the photo instead shows how, over time, the bravely sensitive — and patient — person exposes what is underneath, makes raw and available what is inside, perhaps to help others, perhaps to move closer authenticity, perhaps to become more fertile with the deepening of each passing year.

Photo: lisa_eglinton

If you dump a cup of bleach into a tide pool or command a sudden storm to a shaky cliffside, nothing in those environments is the same afterwards. If fragile flora are so lucky as to survive, if [...]]]> I’ve been turning this idea over in my mind like a rock in the tide for some time now.

If you dump a cup of bleach into a tide pool or command a sudden storm to a shaky cliffside, nothing in those environments is the same afterwards. If fragile flora are so lucky as to survive, if animals are not sickened or injured or displaced, they then adapt to their new surroundings in order to survive.

So, too, in astrology: Everything is related, even unaspected planets or completely separate aspect structures or the charts of two people who don’t even know each other. The Wikipedia definition of an ecosystem goes like this:

An ecosystem is a natural unit consisting of all plants, animals and micro-organisms (biotic factors) in an area functioning together with all of the non-living physical (abiotic) factors of the environment. An ecosystem is a completely independent unit of interdependent organisms which share the same habitat. (Source)

The Wikipedia article goes on to say:

Eugene Odum, a founder of ecology, stated: “Any unit that includes all of the organisms in a given area interacting with the physical environment so that a flow of energy leads to clearly defined trophic structure, biotic diversity and material cycles (i.e., exchange of materials between living and nonliving parts) within the system is an ecosystem.” (Source)

It is easy to make the case for all planets interacting with each other and none being immune to the influence of another. For example, Deborah, a strongly Saturnine person who adheres strictly to rules, plans out her day and looks before she leaps is seized, one morning, by the spontaneous urge to quit her job, dye her hair purple and run away for a weekend — or for a year.

What has happened in her environment — what bleach has gotten into her water? (Likely something like transiting Uranus is aspecting her Saturn, perhaps with Mars thrown into the picture as well.) If she follows through on those urges, how will her life and personality change? How will the “trophic structure” — i.e., that heretofore stable, symbiotic system that feeds and sustains Deborah’s life — need to shift to accommodate the new, impetuous element that the environment of her personality has not experienced before?

On a subtler level, David has spent years in therapy working to replace his knee-jerk need for others’ reassurance (a weak Moon, perhaps) with a more self-assured, self-aware  independence (a strong Sun). How will this shift affect the other parts of his internal environment: Saturn’s need for security, Mars’s urge to explore and express, Venus’s desire to relate? How will the edges of that internal environment — that is, David’s relationships with other people — be affected? How will his shifting relationships impact his own internal ecosystem?

There is much more to say on this topic, for the idea of an ecosystem itself is complex. But for now, I leave you these questions to ponder: How does the flow of energy in my own chart create a “trophic structure” within me? In other words, how does my aspect structure feed each of my planets, creating a clearly defined personality system? Are any of my planets starving? Are any of them gorging? What shifts might bring more balance to my internal ecosystem? What unintended impacts might those shifts also bring?

Photo: joguldi

But my eye is drawn this time to the colors, which put me in mind of the Huber school, which uses color [...]]]> It would be so easy to write about Venus with this photo: the beauty, the light, the symmetry, the suggested fragrance, the gorgeous growth created through the symbiosis of earth and sun, water and stem.

But my eye is drawn this time to the colors, which put me in mind of the Huber school, which uses color to great effect in its rendering and reading of horoscope charts.

The most obvious color here is the winged violet, but the dark lush of green and pinprick shocks of orange both compete with, and complete, the purple. In this way, all four aspect colors — orange and green, red and blue (i.e., purple) — are present in this close-up photo of flowers in a field.

Orange, green, red and blue represent the four different ways that energy can flow between two things: in the case of astrology, between two planets — that is, between two archetypes.

The field of green grass is the fertile ground of openness where perception occurs. In Huber astrology, the quincunx (150 degrees) and the semi-sextile (30 degrees) are rendered in green, signaling the fecundity of the open mind, of learning, of perceiving, of making decisions through information gleaned from many different corridors.

From this field of grass — receiver and channeler of water and nutrients — comes the impulse for growth. This impulse is sourced in a single seed and symbolized by red in the Huber scheme, red of initiative and activity and pushing-up through the cold winter ground to find the new spring. The essence of red lines (the 180-degree opposition and the 90-degree square) is action, restlessness, forging a path, creating new things. There is often some tension here, some work that must be done or an obstacle to overcome. The red lines are rarely easy, but they are always energized.

At the end of the red phase comes blue: the trine (120 degrees) and the sextile (60 degrees). Here the enjoyment phase starts, cooling the sweat of action, putting a lemonade in our hand and showing us to the chaise lounge, to sit back, to enjoy our work. The green has sourced the flower, the red has pushed it upward into our sights and now the blue allows us to rest. If there is yet work to be done, it is only the work of perfection, of fussing and cleaning and maybe a lazy pulling of a weed here and there. But mostly it is the energy of appreciation, a Look what I’ve done!

And then there is orange (the conjunction: 0 degrees). Orange is the tightest, most intense color, the kind of energy you get when you braid two things together so tightly that it’s hard to tell them apart. It is here, in the flower’s pistil, that the energy of receptivity, creativity and restfulness come together, where its generative ovaries and receptive stamen meet to perpetuate the life of its species. The riotous intensity is emblematic of this clashing mergence, a clashing so bright it hurts — yet it is totally natural, totally at one with the nature of the flower itself.

And so, in the end, there is something of the Venusian even in this rainbow of colors. It is the Venusian manner of bringing elements together into the perfect balance that’s needed to create and to enjoy and to continue unfolding the luscious beauty of purple flowers in open green fields through the unconscious, impulsive union of the orange.

Photo: cornish celt

1. [...]]]> Astrologer Extraordinaire Joyce Hopewell challenged her blog-reading astrologers to come up with eight random things about themselves through the lens of a single aspect structure in their birth chart. So, because I can’t get it out of my head, I choose my irritation triangle, that red-green-green dog biting my chart in two along the MC-IC line.

1. The structure itself – the irritation triangle — is an intensely restless figure that, strung up across the 3rd-9th house axis, has me thinking constantly. I’m a super-mental person who is always gathering and processing data (Mercury), putting it into a useful, organized structure or form (Saturn) that’s infused (I hope) with wild insight (Uranus). In fact, this blog was created as a place for me to put my passing thoughts (Mercury) on the depths of astrological ideas (Uranus) into lasting form (Saturn).

2. Saturn in Taurus, however, can also make me come off as quite serious and deliberate (or, ahem, slow), though I do have a sense of humor that emerges elsewhere — no, really, I do! Anyway, I was very relieved to read The Introvert Advantage, which pointed out that, in introverts, the pathway that thoughts travel to reach comprehension is actually physically longer than it is in extraverts. In the 9th house (which is about long-distance travel and deep thinking), this makes perfect sense to me. And it makes me happy.

3. Speaking of deep thinking, yes, the 9th house Saturn definitely scores big on that one. But Sun-Mercury in Scorpio at the IC is no slouch, either. I have that pair constantly plumbing the depths for information that I can chew on, turn over, revel in, have fun with and ultimately put to good use. My favorite dispatch for Sun-Mercury is the collective unconscious, the realm of the archetypes — living, breathing, ancient models for human behavior and interactions. So favorite, in fact, that I went and got a Master’s degree in the stuff from Pacifica Graduate Institute.

4. Mercury also loves collecting stories – and at the bottom of the birth chart, the more collective and unconscious, the better. So I’ve launched a venture which should go public this fall that will help people tell stories about transformative events in their family lives. Mercury-Sun in Scorpio straddling the IC! More to come…

5. And speaking of stories, my dad is a master storyteller (Sun-Mercury). He didn’t fight in a war, he never spied on the Soviets (remember that whole thing?!), he hasn’t (yet) achieved fame as a rock star (except in my childhood eyes). But grab a glass of wine (uh — that’s my Venus-Jupiter conjunction in Libra talking) and get comfortable (again with the Venus-Jupiter!), because once you get him going, his storytelling could keep you captivated for hours.

6. But don’t let me sit too long, because that red line straight up the chart is my spine — and it hurts. It connects my playful, instinctive self (Sun conjunct Mercury) with my demanding Saturn overlord. For years, a tug-of-war between these two has wreaked psychosomatic havoc on my back. The only thing that seems to help is emptying my mind through yoga and meditation. Kundalini yoga is my passion; the creative lifeforce of Kundalini energy is often symbolized by a snake (one symbol of Scorpio) curled at the base of the spine (IC), waiting to be awakened. I have a curled snake tattooed on my sacrum.

7. It’s best for my thoughts that I don’t sit long, though, whether in meditation or vegetation. My thoughts seem to converge, cohere and clarify best when I’m walking … and walking … and walking. I’ve always loved hiking, and the image of Mercury in the shadow of the 4th house — climbing to the summit of the mountain of the depths — really resonates with me. Literal vigorous walking brings me closer to that summit. When I don’t walk regularly, my thoughts go flabby. Yuck.

8. Uranus. Surprise! Orange you glad I didn’t say Saturn again? With semisextile and quincunx antennae, and a lunar conjunction to boot, this little green man is the feeler-into-er of the irritation trio. While Mercury’s spewing out data and Saturn’s trying to categorize it, organize it and make something of it, Uranus — if it can get a word in edgewise — helps me focus on the intuitive center of all that info. I used to try and logic everything out. I made some serious missteps that way that I’d rather not discuss, thanks anyway. Now, if I can hear through the babble of the thick red line, my gut usually tells me everything I need to know.

9. Bonus #9. It took me forever to get this post completed and up because of the perfectionism, anxiety and change-my-mind-iness of that irritating triangle!

What are some random things you’ve learned about yourself through astrology? My irritation triangle wants to know!