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 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.
Click to continue reading “Picture of the Week: Light and Shadow”
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.
Click to continue reading “Picture of the Week: Light and Shadow”
 Because Cancer, the sign, symbolically embodies the mother-child relationship, this month I have re-read the Grimm Brothers’ story Rapunzel, which I used in workshop to explore the opposite sign, Capricorn, six months ago. This time, I was seeking to understand how the idea of attachment, used in the context of early childhood development, related to the Cancer archetype.
In Capricorn, we turned to Rapunzel to study ideas surrounding the traditional father-child relationship: independence, authority, self-possession, individuation. Now, in Cancer, I wondered if the balance point, the mother-child relationship, would make an appearance as well. As a starting point, I looked at Rapunzel’s mother figures, the birth mother and the Wicked Witch, and quickly realized that each of them embodies one of the four widely documented attachment styles.
Rapunzel’s birth mother — or, I would say, her birth parents together — symbolize an avoidant style inasmuch as they allow Rapunzel to be taken immediately upon birth, exposed to the harshness of the world and expected to mature quickly enough to manage it on her own. (Please understand that I’m not suggesting this of real-life birth parents who release their children for adoption but am using Rapunzel rather as a metaphorical look at attachment.) Rapunzel cannot form any kind of attachment with her birth parents, to the point where they might as well be strangers to her. No emotional investment exists from her perspective, though her parents may feel differently.
 On the other hand, the Wicked Witch forms an ambivalent attachment with Rapunzel, attempting to arrest her maturation process by locking her in a tower. The Witch appears in the tower only often enough to provide for Rapunzel’s physical needs and to ensure the girl is dependent on the older woman’s authority and resources. Rapunzel gets just enough from the Witch to want more: more warmth, more connection, more consistency. But what she develops instead is clinginess and insecurity — a near-neurotic need for reassurance and a terrible fear that any connection at all will vanish.
Attachment theory came out of studies by Englishman John Bowlby that found that infants and toddlers need responsiveness and sensitivity from close adults in their lives. Such interactions help children develop a sense of security, or “secure base,” from which they will then dare to move ever-further away from the parent in order to explore and build independence. A secure base is first embodied in the responsive, sensitive adult who provides empathy, compassion, self-management and consistency for the child. Over time, the secure base and its constituent parts are assimilated into the child’s self-image, influencing perceptions and expectations of all future relationships.
In other words, the development of safety and security, in the tradition of Cancer sensitivity and intuition, are critical to children’s eventual ability to risk independence and self-authority in the Capricorn way. Secure attachment in Cancer is necessary to authentic independence in Capricorn. When the Cancer archetype is seriously imbalanced in either direction — by way of an under- or over-emphasis on attachment — then independence becomes either the only available choice or too frightening even to contemplate.
But, you ask, didn’t Rapunzel manage to escape the tower and build a new life for herself despite her childhood? Yes. That’s because she had a third attachment figure that balanced the archetype nicely: the Handsome Prince.
I love this part of my musings because it re-visions traditional feminist interpretations of the Handsome Prince role in fairy tales. In a huge departure from the criticism that the Handsome Prince suggests a woman always needs a man to save her, I want to suggest that — at least in Rapunzel – the Handsome Prince provides Rapunzel with a very necessary secure attachment.
The Prince visits Rapunzel consistently, presumably providing warmth and responsiveness, which are key ingredients in secure attachment. He also treats Rapunzel appropriately for her age and her experience, neither infantilizing her nor heisting her away immediately, which would likely be too frightening for someone of her history. But perhaps most important, the Prince also helps Rapunzel transition from childhood to adulthood. He slowly but consistently provides her with the means to build a ladder to her own independence (one strand of silk thread each night) instead of simply carrying her off to be “his,” which would be just echoing the Wicked Witch’s role. Not only that, he also helps Rapunzel weave the ladder, demonstrating both that he will be there for her — a secure base — and that he simultaneously believes in her ability to create her own independence.
The Prince embodies the perfectly balanced Cancer archetype, the care-giving figure who is secure enough both to act as a secure base and to encourage independence in its own right time.
The Prince is such a strong and secure attachment figure, in fact, that when the Wicked Witch discovers Rapunzel is pregnant and exiles her into the desert, the young woman is able to survive and raise her twin children alone, without the aid of the Prince. We know she has succeeded in internalizing the Prince’s example when she is able to receive him back into her life after years of separation.
This is the legacy of a secure attachment: the capacity for authentic independence alongside the ability to be a secure base to one’s own children (or to others who need one). And to be able to do so, if one chooses, from within the embrace of a mutually loving, respectful and joyful adult relationship.
 Carl Jung said that analogy- making is the central organizing principle of the psyche.
In other words, we continually and spontane- ously create images to make sense of our lives.
To wit:
“I feel like my head’s going to explode!”
“She thinks she’s my mother.”
“There’s a wall between us.”
We perceive that many of the things we go through (if not all of them) are like something else. Images of those something elses come out when we speak, when we feel, when we dream, when we make art, when we imagine — so that we can see and know ourselves better. It is often quite difficult, and sometimes even impossible, to look directly at ourselves. But to look at something that is like ourselves, well, that is a great deal easier, and often more productive.
The horoscope chart is the only metaphor in the world that reflects your — and only your – psyche with the degree of complexity, nuance and completeness needed to accurately unravel your continually evolving life experiences.
Astrology is a complex system for organizing the analogy-making that we do all the time. Your horoscope chart is populated with the major metaphors, called archetypes, that your psyche naturally uses to describe its experiences. Those archetypes exist in an ordered format that, engaged correctly, can help focus and streamline your self-understanding. And because your chart is unique in all the world, the archetypes are arranged there in the nuanced and unique way that reflects you — and only you.
Your chart, then, is the mythic structure of your individual psyche, told in metaphorical language. And because it is metaphorical, the chart enables you to grasp your own story in a way that is often obstructed by more naked confrontation of the self. Your chart helps you understand yourself and the situations you face through the fertile medium of metaphor.
Depth astrology is a practice of engaging life’s major metaphors, or archetypes, in the precise way that you experience them in your individual psyche. Depth astrology readings guide you through the process of making sense of your own story through the images that best describe your experience.
And then, by understanding your own story, you can begin to write it to your own specifications.
Remember the case of Nature v. Nurture? And how the brilliant psychoneuro- biologists finally resolved it with a burning, complex, insightful answer (“Uh, it’s both, people.”)?
Well, the even-more-esoteric among us have been taking sides for years in a similar debate: Opposites Attract v. Likes Attract. Which is it?
Uh. It’s both.
Because, like Nature and Nurture, if you look deeply enough, Opposites and Likes are so intertwined that, ultimately, they find the seeds of themselves in the other.
Huh?
Look: The astrological chart is comprised of opposites. Because it’s a circle, every point is exactly 180 degrees away from exactly one other point in the chart. Yet at the same time, every point is really the same as its opposite because both are equidistant from the Self — from the center of the circle. No point can exist on the circle without the tension wrought by its polar opposite.
So any given planet, sign or house in the chart is — often unwillingly, often resentfully — beholden for its very existence to the energy of whatever opposes it. The opposite is what anchors it in place, what makes it part of the whole, what ties it to the core, to the Self.
If we ignore the energy pulling on the other end of the rope, it gets stronger and yanks the rope away and runs wild around our lives while we’re standing there without a rope.
Or, conversely, if we pull too hard, get too attached to a particular way of being, the opposing force loses steam and lets go. And we fall on our asses. And if we still insist on holding tight, instead of getting up to offer a sportsman’s handshake, the opposite comes up from behind and kicks us while we’re down.
This opposite stuff is what Carl Jung termed the shadow — the very stuff we’d rather ignore, rather deny in ourselves. If we’re perfectly happy swimming in our Sagittarius soup, why on earth would we try to engage its opposite, Gemini?
Because if we don’t, the world will do it for us. Deny your shadow and the world sends it forth in spades.
And because if we deny that energy, we’re not really living up to the potential of what comes naturally. The blow-me-away insights of Sagittarius mean little unless they’re grounded in the everyday understanding of Gemini. Internal Scorpionic instinct is well-buttressed by the external Taurean senses. Capricorn does better standing on the shoulders of giants than climbing on the backs of the little guys — both possible ways of using the Cancer energy that stands opposite Capricorn.
I’ve been reminded of this lately as I’ve been planning a workshop on Libra. (E-mail me at enantiodromia1@verizon.net for more info about the workshop this September in the Los Angeles Foothills.) At its core, Libra is about balance — in aesthetics, in relationships, in society, in ideas. As I looked for images of balance to share with my students, I saw a lot of healthy meals, scales of justice and perfectly symmetrical flowers. These were nice. They communicate Libra energy well enough.
But the images with the most energy were the ones of gymnasts on balance beams and daredevils on tightropes — the images that incorporated Libra’s opposite, bold and daring Aries, into the mix. Not that it’s easy to eat healthy or achieve justice or grow a perfect flower. But the energy in those images was pretty one-sided. Flat. There was Like, but there was no obvious Opposite to give the true flavor of what was there. I wanted to see the chocolate ice cream alongside the salad, the attorneys’ arguments that led to the just judgment, the seedling’s bold decision to press through the soil and open its face into wild sunlight.
I wanted to see Libra’s true nature — the smooth cool that is energized by raucous Aries, the saint that welcomes the rebel, the astoundingly bold and balanced walk across the nauseatingly-high tightrope. The tension that brings deep meaning to the balance that Libra so delights in.
Jung identified the tension of opposites as a core affliction of the human spirit — one that produces shadow material in each of us, unless we accept and integrate the opposites. If we pretend that Libran balance doesn’t matter, that the only important thing is the crazy guts needed to run across the rope, we fall deep into the chasm below. But if we pretend that we’re entirely balance and peace and light, the Aries daredevil will chase us into Hell and back till we take a deep breath and step out onto that tightrope.
And balance there.
 Astrological charts can be looked at in a number of ways: concentric circles, connected lines, the relationship of colors… Each way of looking tells the story of your personality from a different perspective. And usually, similar stories and themes emerge from different perspectives — deepening your self-understanding.
One way of looking is through the set up opposites. One set of opposites is the houses: those pie-pieces demarcated by short lines on the outermost perimeter of the circle. Some are marked with a number, others with abbreviations: AC (=1st house), DC (=7th house), MC (=10th house) and IC (=4th house).
House oppositions are important because they illuminate some tensions in the personality — and, moreover, what to do about it.
If a red line bisects the chart, running between two planets that are 180 degrees from each other, that is an obvious tension. Think of it as a tug-of-war with — for example, in the chart above — Saturn high up in the chart (in the 9th house) tugging at one end of the rope and Mercury down in the 3rd house tugging at the other end. The 3rd house-9th house axis is, at its core, about thinking. And a core tension in this woman’s personality — which, looked at another way, is also a big strength — revolves around her thought process.
Planets in the 3rd house collect information from the environment, store it away for future use like a hamster filling its cheeks with kibble. The thinking here isn’t really original or creative, it’s more like a trawler just collecting data from knowledge that already exists out in the world. Ninth-house planets, on the other hand, have the ability to engage in deep, original thinking of the kind that — at its utmost — can set humanity on a whole new course. The tension here is one of toeing the line between traditional, accepted thought and edgy, revolutionary propositions. What’s a revolutionary to do to be accepted?
Jungian psychology looks at the tension of opposites as a critical part of psychological development, and at reconciling the opposites as a key achievement in individuation. (Jung was not necessarily talking astrology, but the concept is clearly illuminated in the horoscope.) Huber astrology proposes that the resolution of opposites occurs through the “third pole,” or the pair of houses directly perpendicular to the pair where tension resides.
 So the person with the chart above might consider developing the energy of the 6th house-12th house pair (what we call the 6/12 axis) as a remedy for tensions on the 3/9 axis. Energy in the 6/12 axis gathers around issues of existence: What will you do for survival — both physical (6th house) and mental/emotional (12th house)? Will you heed the call of the collective or march to your own drummer? If you march to your own drummer, how are your environs affected? If you bend to what others expect of you, what suffers in yourself? Can you drop off the hamster-wheel of thought for long enough to just be? What happens to your body when you give your mind a break?
Do you have any red lines bisecting your chart? Alternately (or in addition), do you have any houses where there are several planets but none in the opposite pie-slice? Where do you feel the tension in your personality — in relationships? Thought process? Possessiveness? Elsewhere? Where do your biggest frustrations lie? Can you see how they might also be a source of talent and strength?
Copyright (C) 2007 by Kathy Crabb
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What People Say “Truly gifted astrologers are a rarity. Kathy Crabb is one such person. She is a brilliant, original thinker, an intuitive and empathic counselor and a superb workshop facilitator.”
Pam Tyler, Dip. API (1981), Dip. FAS (1979),
AFA Teacher Cert. (1978); Astrologer since 1977;
Co-founder of Astrological Psychology Institute (UK);
Author of Mercury: Anatomy of a Planet
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