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Horoscope readings aren’t really meant to arm you with excuses about your life’s failures learning opportunities. But they can provide insight about why, for example, you’re not yet the head of your company, President of the United States or, you know, gainfully employed.
One of the easiest ways to get a basic overview of this kind of problem is by looking at where the planets fall in your horoscope chart. For a really basic understanding, you don’t even have to know which planet is which, or what they mean. But if many of them are bunched down at the bottom of the horoscope, it’s probably harder for you, on average, to come out of your shell, promote yourself and maintain a consistent climb toward your goals. On the other hand, if you have lots of planets hanging out atop your horoscope chart, you likely have the opposite problem: runaway ambition, very little to ground you at the end of the day.
Click to continue reading “The Horoscope and the Job Hunt”
Horoscope readings aren’t really meant to arm you with excuses about your life’s failures learning opportunities. But they can provide insight about why, for example, you’re not yet the head of your company, President of the United States or, you know, gainfully employed.
One of the easiest ways to get a basic overview of this kind of problem is by looking at where the planets fall in your horoscope chart. For a really basic understanding, you don’t even have to know which planet is which, or what they mean. But if many of them are bunched down at the bottom of the horoscope, it’s probably harder for you, on average, to come out of your shell, promote yourself and maintain a consistent climb toward your goals. On the other hand, if you have lots of planets hanging out atop your horoscope chart, you likely have the opposite problem: runaway ambition, very little to ground you at the end of the day.
Click to continue reading “The Horoscope and the Job Hunt”
 In the last 24 hours, without even trying, I came across two news stories that caught me up in the Libra energy now swirling around the ether: ideas of love, beauty, partnership, seduction — and power.
Yes, power.
First, our local NPR station featured an interview with two Woodbury University professors: Architecture Department Chair Norman Millar and Architecture Professor Paulette Singley.
The topic, delectably risque, was Architecture and Seduction.
Now, let’s just be up-front about this: Libra, by no means, corners the market on seduction. There are plenty of other signs — Scorpio, for instance, or Leo — with their own unique brands of come-hither. But Libra is the quintessential sign of relationship and art, so it was intriguing to hear the two topics linked up in discussion, with nary a mention of astrology.
The discussion was a preview of a panel held last night at UCLA’s Hammer Museum, which is running an exhibition on John Lautner’s work, “Between Earth and Heaven,” through October 12th. The pair (of course!) exchanged opinions and insights about how a home could be laid out (pun intended) and accessorized to seduce a lover from front porch to kitchen to hallway to bedroom. It was agreed, for instance, that there was something very, very sexy about an open floor plan, about glass.
This struck me as very Libran: A whole environment designed not to bonk a potential bedmate over the head with garish flirtations but, instead, to evoke an atmosphere that slowly draws the lover into your embrace. Venus in Libra might be a little headier than, for example, sensual Venus in Taurus — perhaps engaging in a lively debate that stirs the passions — but it still knows how to evoke an atmosphere. After all, at its best, Libra, ruled by Venus, wants you to agree to follow her lead through the house. Where’s the fun, the challenge, in dragging you?
I drove home slowly, thoughts of a seductive house twirling about in my brain. I parked the car in the driveway, grabbed the mail from the box and slowly opened the door.
 There were model train tracks on the floor, a pile of clean diapers on the easy chair and breakfast dishes still strewn on the kitchen table. The lair of a temptress this was not.
I sighed and forgot about the story. I had an evening packed with power struggles with my preschooler. I went to sleep feeling unsettled and pessimistic. When and how would these power struggles ever end? Would we ever just have fun together again? Why can’t he just do what I say?
I didn’t sleep well.
When I logged onto my e-mail this morning, another unwittingly Libran message awaited me. The same message, really, just from a different perspective. It read, in part:
When parents model the “healthy selfishness” of partnership and don’t resist their children’s narcissism, the children eventually learn that it feels good to care for others.
Today, notice all the ways in which *giving* makes you feel good, and how others feel good when you allow them to give to you. Let the line between giving and receiving dissolve. That’s the magic of partnership! (Source)
Hmmmm, indeed.Perhaps I don’t need to seduce my husband as much as I need to charm my child.
Because between the lines of the Libra impulse to compromise, agree and charm is really a question of power. As one of yesterday’s radio panelists put it, a bachelor pad is a place designed to get someone to give up a certain amount of power, to bend that person to your will, to make them want to go to bed with you.
To make them want. There is power there, no matter how much sugar you pour on it.
We often tell our child that hitting us isn’t a good way to get what he wants. Ditto whining, yelling and stomping. So why would I think anger would work well going the other direction? Last night, and many nights before, I tried to force this child to bend to my will and go to sleep before he’s ready. But Louise Huber’s seed thought for Libra goes like this:
I choose the way which leads between two great lines of force. (Source)
What way leads between the two forces, instead of toppling everyone over to one or the other? How can we move beyond either-or into a space where all boats rise, where a  third alternative is viable and good? How can we acknowledge the powerful forces that snarl within each of us, but not enable them to dominate? How can we reframe our goal to be not power-over but power-with?
What would happen if we asked questions like this in public life as well as in our private lives?
Photo credits: bachelor pad, messy house, candidates
 Last night I dreamt I shaved off my beard — a stylized goatee that came to a perfect point at the bottom, the sides curving around my jaws like little arms.
For the record, I don’t have a beard in waking life.
I awoke in the full mood of fall and went about the tasks of the morning without thinking much about it. But when the boys were gone, NPR was turned off and the dishes had settled in their stacks, the dream came back quietly.
In essence, I think, it was about shedding what had grown: saying goodbye to the old, getting ready for the new. It was an appropriate, if funny, dream for the change of season.
Even though it’s not officially fall yet, the summer cycle is definitely closing: Ask anyone who has school-age children, or arthritis. Last week on our midwest visit, there was talk of sweaters, hayrides and apple presses. Even here in southern California, the air is a little crisper and the traffic much thicker than last week. And Starbucks has mercifully brought back its pumpkin spice latté.
This is the time of year when, in my quieter moments, I tend to remember the ancient myth of Persephone, who picked a flower and was whisked away into the underworld by Hades (Pluto) himself. Persephone’s mother, the earth goddess Demeter, mourned the loss of her child and withheld the harvest from the people until Zeus (Jupiter) brokered a deal: Persephone would stay in the underworld with Hades for one-third of each year and reunite with her mother during the remaining eight months. The separation, disappearance, change in cycles was necessary for the growth of both mother and daughter.
 There are more complexities to the story, but its core truth lies in these simple details; and we see that truth reflected, also, in the horoscope chart. Bruno and Louise Huber identified a way to interpret the chart as a “life clock” — starting with birth at the ascendant and spending six years in each house. At a certain point in each house, people tend to turn inward. They feel their active energy thwarted or stilled. They are forced to take stock and turn the season of their life toward the next more active, more outwardly-effective cycle.
This internal period can often be felt as a crisis point — the point where, like Demeter, no matter how hard you try, you simply cannot get what you want. Waiting is necessary, and that can be frustrating. It can even feel like death — like being dragged into the underworld against your will, like being taken away from everything light and abundant and familiar.
But the Demeter story, and the Hubers’ work, and astrology in general remind us, each in their own ways, that life happens in cycles, and thus the underworld period is essential. Shortcuts and bypasses are decidedly not advised.
See: The flower germinates; it blossoms; it dies. The school year begins; it proceeds; it ends. Babies are born; the family coheres; the children grow up and move away. Before the third phase of each cycle, we must catch our breaths, because in truth that third phase is just the preparation for the next cycle: As it dies, the flower must seed the next crop. As the school year ends, the student must make ready for the next. As they grow up and move away, our children prepare to give birth themselves.
 I know a lot of people who say they feel nostalgic every year as fall begins. Maybe some of the nostalgia is a longing for eternal summer, but there’s something deeper going on there, too, I think: a wistfulness for the cycle that was, perhaps; an uncomfortable acknowledgment that time always urges us forward; a wish for the familiar footprints we’ve already put down. We know that place behind us. Why can’t we just stay there, or jump forward to the next activity? Why must we power down a bit now?
And yet we know the fall, too. Its familiarity, it smells and its slower tempo are ancient and comforting. Its darker days cloister us indoors, where we are forced to face the internal. We survive the cold, and the dark, and the frightening because we must — and because our fiber is thicker and heartier than we give ourselves credit for in the bright sweat of summer.
Yet it’s often as surprising to remember our own strength, and our own tenacity, and our own depth, as it is to dream of a woman shaving off her pointed goatee to prepare for what’s next.
Go to Meditations for the End of Summer
Photo credits: Bearded lady, life cycles, autumn
 The Dragon always enjoys an airplane ride, but when we arrived at a hotel in the midwest last week — instead of Grandma and Grandpa’s house in the northwest, as he expected — he was a little thrown off.
“I miss my hoooome!” he wailed. “Why aren’t we going hoooome?”
I started with the pat answer: “Wherever you and Daddy and I are together,” I told the Dragon, “that’s home.”
He looked doubtful. You just can’t fool a three-year-old. He wanted his bedroom, his toys, his stuffed orca that we’d forgotten. He wanted the cat, and going to get the mail, and routine. Familiarity.
So we explained a little about taking trips and assured him that we’d go home eventually. As we did, I thought of the basic structure of the horoscope chart, with home, memory, ritual and habit at the bottom, faraway places and new perspectives at the top. I thought about the ninth house up on high, the place where long-distance travel is implicated, and about stretching your mind and pushing out of your comfort zone.
After reassuring him, we talked to the Dragon about the value of experiencing new things, finding out how other people live, seeing different houses and streets and landscapes. A place with fewer people, more space; a place with lots of trees but no mountains. What did he think about not having a mountain in our backyard for a few days?
“I don’t know,” he said sullenly.
How did he feel about seeing a city he’d never seen before?
“I want to see the lights,” he said, referring to a family ritual of driving up the mountain at night to look out on the city. He was troubled when we told him we couldn’t do that here.
How did he feel about meeting a cousin his age who he’d never met?
“I want to,” he said, with a little more perk.
Aah, I thought, there’s his Libran energy emerging.
“You know,” I told him, “This hotel room will be home to us for a few days. This is where we’ll come to sleep, and play a little, and read books and talk at the end of the day. Even though we’re not home, we can make a little home away from home, right here.”
His three-year-old imagination was captured by that phrase: “Home away from home.” He kept repeating it throughout the trip. “Why are we making a home away from home?” he’d say as we rode the elevator to the lobby or got lost trying to find the train. “Why are we making a home away from home?”
And so he turned my mind back to the bottom of the chart, to the realm of home.
 While on the trip, I read an article in Wondertime magazine about a family who traveled around the world for a year when their children were eight and 11 years old. I thought about that family, trekking through 28 countries, making little homes everywhere they went: the mountains of Peru, the deserts of Dubai. In the same issue, there was an article about Sukkot, the Jewish holiday in which celebrants build a temporary shelter to commemorate the structures in which their ancestors lived while wandering in the desert for 40 years.
It’s a natural human impulse to create a home — and to inspire a brief sense of it when far away. But how does that happen? And why?
The roots of the word “home” will not be surprising to anyone who has ever had one. Its stem, “tkei-,” meaning “to settle, to dwell, to be at home,” is related to words like “garden” and “situate” and has birthed several other words meaning, for example, “covering,” “village,” “haunt” and “to frequent.” It was these last two that really caught my attention. Of course we settle and dwell in a home; of course a home covers and shelters us; of course a garden and a village are close by.
But it seems to me that — despite pat statements about a home being love, or family, or where the heart is — what really makes a house feel like a home is that our frequency haunts it.
In physics and in life, “frequency” refers to the number of times something occurs within a given timeframe, for example the frequency with which we occupy a space: once per hour, once per day, once per year. In physics:
High-frequency electromagnetic waves have a short wavelength and high energy; low-frequency waves have a long wavelength and low energy. (Source)
 It is not just our history, our families and our possessions that mark a home as ours. It is that we make it a frequent, recurring habit to be there. High-frequency visits increase the energy of a place for us. And when we are on the same “wavelength” as a person, a thing or a space (for example, our home) we feel comfortable there — even if we don’t like everything that happens in the place.
When we return home from work, or school, or the neighbor’s house, or a long trip, we download the energies of the day into the space we call home. Simply by being there, we imprint our wavelength onto the place. Our energies haunt the structure, seed it with our feelings, blossom — with repetition — into a certain sensibility that lives there even when we don’t: warm, or anxious, or loving, or sad, depending on how we haunt it. When we infuse our home with our own energy, its wavelength fits us. We feel we belong.
It is interesting, too, that the bottom of the horoscope chart is associated with short trips — commuting to work and borrowing sugar from the neighbors, for example — whereas the longer wavelengths of our lives, up at the top of the chart, tend to be less frequent, slower-going, with a wider perspective. Perhaps this is a reflection of the fact that we tend to slow down during vacation: We are trying to see a new place, to take it all in, to feel out where our frequency fits into the vibe of the new space. That we don’t get there as often means its energy patterns aren’t so deeply imprinted on us. It takes time to navigate our way through a new city, or up a mountain, or along the beach we’ve never seen.
And perhaps that’s also why that slower frequency is so hard to hold onto when we get home. The familiar is so because we practice it until we can do it in our sleep, with our hands behind our backs. We don’t need to think so deliberately. We can make the repetitive motions of the day quickly and by rote.
 And yet — and yet. Even on vacation, we still need that homelike space at the end of the day, that space to return to again and again, larger than we were that morning but still comforted in the fact that familiar ground exists beneath our feet. Even in the midst of adventure, we need to feel somehow moored, to know that habit and familiarity still live within us, even as we allow the unfamiliar to engage us for a spell.
So after the pat answer, I finally found my bearings to say to the Dragon, “We’re making a home away from home because we all need a little familiar place when we’re far away from everything we know — a place we can curl up in like a blanket for the night.”
He seemed more satisfied with that answer.
Photo credits: Airplane, sukkah, light waves
 When our child was born — three years ago today — with Virgo Sun, Virgo Moon and Virgo rising, my astrology mentor raised her eyebrows, looked at me pointedly and said, “Now you’ll get a deep, deeeeeeep lesson in Virgo!”
She knew, I guess, that such a lesson was due me, my own Virgo Moon highly charged in the powerful embrace of Pluto and Uranus.
The Dragon, born at home on the cusp of sunrise, came out of my body with his eyes closed. No tears, no screaming, no wild “Where am I?” glances around the room. He passed his Apgar tests with flying colors but remained quiet and kept his eyes closed for hours, as if he were focusing hard on a task. His new surroundings, the sudden dryness of air, the finally unmuffled voices: None of these things seemed to distract him or even spark his interest.
We finally realized that he was, indeed, deeply immersed in a struggle to breathe.
How like this triple-Virgo, to focus first, and deeply, on the proper execution of the body before turning his attention to the more dramatic developments unfolding around him. As our midwife and her apprentice swirled around with life-saving equipment and decision-making; as my two dear friends brought food and talked me through what was happening; as my husband, Alan, and I tried to make sense of the sudden turn of events, the Dragon just kept his eyes closed and breathed, and breathed. Focused.
We saw his eyes once, briefly, in the ambulance, and then not again for another three days — once the worst of his infection had passed and he started weaning from the painkillers.
He came back home just shy of two weeks old.
At first, we were so immersed in parenting an infant, and sneaking sleep whenever we could, that we didn’t much notice the astrological psychology of our baby: It just wasn’t, obviously, the priority. I barely even looked at his chart for the first year of his life.
Then, when he was 14 months old, I wrote this entry on our family blog:
When I put [the Dragon] in the bath last night, he noticed a shampoo bottle in a place it doesn’t normally sit. He pointed at it and yelled, “Aaa!” then looked at me and pointed to the shelf where it usually goes.
“Yes,” I said, smiling, “you’re right. It usually goes up there.” I continued to wash his hair and squirt the rubber duckie at him.
He dodged the rubber duckie, looking a little cross. “Aaa!” he said again, pointing to the shampoo bottle and then to the shelf where it usually belongs.
“Yes,” I agreed. “You’re so smart! It usually does go up there.” I started rinsing the soap out of his hair.
“AAA-AA!” he shouted, pointing to the bottle, then to the shelf. He was really kind of perturbed now.
“Okay,” I said, and moved the shampoo bottle to its normal resting place. “That better?”
He picked up a ball and started splashing, happy again. The rest of the evening was a breeze.
He could use a few words by then, but a month or so later they were coming fast. He knew “Mama,” “Daddy,” “ball,” “doggie” and dozens of other nouns by the New Year. Then one day in early spring, he took the broom from me and started pushing it proudly across the kitchen. As he did, he showed off the use of his first verb:
“I helping!” he said excitedly, looking back to make sure we were watching.
Aaaah, Virgo, I thought.
A few months later, as we returned from a big grocery store trip, Alan and I were busy ferrying bags from the car to the kitchen. We got all the bags in during the time it took our son to carry one loaf of bread inside. When the child returned for more, only to find out there were none to be had, he burst into tears and stood facing the corner of the room.
My heart sank. He was very ashamed about something — but what? I crouched down to him and tried to find out, but he was crying too hard to get the words out. I turned him toward me and held him until the sobbing subsided. Then he said simply, “I didn’t help.”
A couple months later, the same message: He screamed when I strapped him into the grocery cart — not, I finally found out, because he wanted to roam free but, as he put it, “Because then I’m not helping.”
 And even later: “Can I help make pancakes?” “Can I help fold clothes?” “Can I help plant carrots?”
And proudly, and often: “I helped! I helped!” Gleefully, even.
It sank in slowly, this lesson in Virgo. The Dragon not only values helping but actually identifies as a helper, deeply. It’s what he feels he has to bring to the world. When he’s doing it, he feels so completely in his element that he glows.
And yet, of course, the downside of Virgo is there in spades, too. The Dragon regularly corrects people’s word usage and pronunciation. He is very hard on himself when he does something “wrong,” by his definition or ours. His bedroom must be in such precise order that it often takes more than an hour to settle him into sleep. (But his definition of “precise order” changes on a daily basis, so we can never guess what’s right from day to day!) Certain clothes are verboten (but, again, we never know which ones) because they’re the wrong color, or the wrong picture, or too tickley today. He is a very picky eater. He must have clean hands.
And then there are the trés Virgo quirks. He cannot abide “breaks” between lines in drawing or writing; every corner and connection must be closed. He seems to have a Rain Man kind of photographic mind. He insists that the driver not start the car before everyone is inside with doors closed. He collects small rocks. He loves feeding fish.
 I’m convinced that, without knowing the Dragon’s chart, I would miss the connections between these things. They might simply be funny stories to share, traits to wonder at, irritants to quell. But knowing his chart, I believe, helps me tolerate and celebrate even the things I would normally find annoying (except for the sleep challenges. I don’t think I’ll ever like that).
Mothering the Dragon has made me a fuller person, presented me with my own Virgo-ness in a way that helps me cope with it better, grow into it, embrace it. From that very first look at his silent, focused face, until this morning when we laughed together at how the birthday candles melted into his pancakes, we have all grown deeper into ourselves because of this child.
And so. Happy Birthday to all of us.
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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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