In my astrologer’s [...]]]> This morning, as we do roughly every Monday or Tuesday, a friend and I got on the phone to discuss one dream each that we’d had over the weekend. Though this morning our respective dreams were quite different, they both had the same apocalyptic feeling that seems to be pervading the whole world lately.

In my astrologer’s mind, it was the feeling of Pluto moving into Capricorn:

• In my dream, I was with a group of friends in an outdoor mall where only one store was open and operating.  We heard, and then saw, a huge, heavy military plane fly very low overhead. It looked like a stealth bomber. We watched as it slowly got lower and lower, skimming treetops and power lines, then finally crashed into the ground nearby.
• In my friend’s dream, she was with her teenage daughter on a hilltop in Los Angeles. The hill slowly gave way under their feet and came sliding down to the ground below. They were okay in the end, but the entire hill was just gone from underneath them.

Astrologers are fond of pointing out that, around the time Pluto was discovered in 1930, atomic bombs were developed and fascism and Nazism reared their heads — frightening metaphors for the kind of cataclysmic and totalitarian destruction that can be wrought by Plutonian power. Pluto breaks things down into their unseen parts, forces us to look at them and remixes them into new, unfamiliar and sometimes terrifying structures. Pluto is the life-death-rebirth cycle in all its imaginable forms.

A less truly frightening Plutonian metaphor of 1930 was the debut that year of the U.S. radio drama The Shadow – with actor Frank Readick, Jr. intoning the iconic introduction:

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh! The Shadow knows…”

In Jungian terms, the shadow is psychological material that gains its power from the very fact that it is repressed. It’s usually repressed because it’s something we don’t want to admit about ourselves. The more we repress it, the bigger and more powerful it grows, creating projection situations where we can see it only outside of ourselves.

For example, did you ever despise someone for, say, her arrogance, only to be forced to admit that you’ve got a certain self-righteousness about you as well? Or have you ever been the President of a superpower who systematically shut down the freedoms of its own population while embarking on an international campaign for freedom in other countries? The larger and stronger the shadow grows, the greater power it has over you — precisely because you haven’t dared to look at it, to admit it exists, to confront it head-on. And the more you ignore it, the bigger ass-kicking is required to make you pay attention to it.

In the horoscope, any planet can contain shadow material, not just Pluto. But Pluto’s dynamic tends to be the archetypal shadow dynamic — the force of change through exposure of hidden powers — and its expression is generally large-scale and often scary. Yes, Pluto exists in each of our individual horoscope charts, but unless it’s touching a more personal planet in our chart, its effects tend to be wider-spread, more impersonal: across a generation, across a culture.

So we get situations like market “corrections” or terrorist attacks that force us (or should force us) to look at ourselves: Are we, as a culture, a bit too self-righteousness, say, or greedy, or giddy about imposing “freedom” on others without examining our own freedom complex? Are we really as free as we brag about being? As generous? As right?

When Pluto pulls the veil off our eyes, for example when it changes zodiac signs and highlights a different area of life anew, it can feel frightening in the extreme. The last 13 years of Pluto in Sagittarius have been marked by ubiquitous consumption, accelerating depletion of natural resources and idealism-cum-tyranny — the latter starting, I would argue, with the Taliban’s 1996 march across Afghanistan and reaching its climax with the U.S. invasion and occupation of Iraq.

The weaknesses in the structures that have supported these trends are now emerging from the shadows. We are experiencing the breakdowns associated with dictating our ideals in foreign lands, getting drunk on oil fields and building castles on flimsy credit.

Pluto’s movement into Capricorn highlights the reality that the old code is slowly disintegrating. What might be more frightening than that — after all, many of us would like to see regime change here in the U.S. at least — is that we don’t yet know what will come to take its place. This not-knowing can whip up an atmosphere of crisis.

The word crisis comes from the Greek krinein, meaning “to separate.” Also derived from that root are the words criminal, decree, discern, discriminate, excrement and secret: All Plutonian words in that they imply shadowy, secret or hidden elements that need to be separated, sorted and reconnected in new ways — a process that almost always implies crisis of some kind. Separation of a relationship, a limb or an atom requires careful handling in order to reconnect it or remake it or recreate it productively instead of destructively. When separation and reconnection occur, there is always the possibility of something going horribly wrong.

Like powerful military jets crashing in a calm sky and sturdy green hillsides collapsing underfoot, it is hard to imagine such apparently solid structures as markets and governments and capitalism and democracy separating into component parts and being remade in a different form. It might even be frightening to think about this happening: What crisis would ensue if we were separated from our money? If familiar government agencies and commercial storefronts disintegrate and reassemble in some other form? If oil-based energy disappears completely?

But confronting the possibility of change, and admitting where we’ve gone wrong, and remaking those institutions in the spirit of integrity and solidity may bring us together in a way that only true crisis can. Frightening as it may seem to live in this in-between period, we may someday look back at this time and think, “How did we live through that?” and then, “I’m so glad we did!”

Comment below: Have you had dreams about cataclysmic destruction lately?

Photo credits: Stealth bomber, Rose shadow

He wasn’t rolling his eyes. He genuinely wanted to know.

I gulped down my coffee and said, reflexively, “Reflect. Not affect.”

Then I hobbled through an unpondered explanation of [...]]]> While visiting my hometown this weekend, an old friend asked me, on finding out I’m an astrologer, “Do you really believe that? That the planets and stars affect our behavior?”

He wasn’t rolling his eyes. He genuinely wanted to know.

I gulped down my coffee and said, reflexively, “Reflect. Not affect.”

Then I hobbled through an unpondered explanation of astrology that I knew from word one was inadequate. I left understanding only that I had a lot to think about.

So I spent my trip home scribbling madly on 20 sheets of college-ruled notebook paper, trying to iron out my relationship with the metaphors in the stars. What I came to was this:

What Astrology Is: Astrology convenes five critical components of the human experience — time, space, energy, matter and awareness — into a single metaphorical map that reflects the very nature of existence. The map shows where matter, in the form of each planet and sign, exists at a certain time and place. The astrologer’s job is to interpret the nature of energy emanating from the planets and signs in order to expand the client’s awareness.

What’s so remarkable is that the map — the horoscope chart — is different for each individual life, depending on the time and place of birth. What’s more, the symbols on the map shift as time and space shift, showing how energy and awareness change as people grow and experience life.

What I Believe: I don’t know whether the planets and stars actually affect or merely reflect events, feelings and behaviors here on earth. But I do know that, when a horoscope chart is read with intelligence, insight and integrity, it virtually always resonates with the chart “native” — that is, the person whose chart it is.

That doesn’t mean the chart tells the person which career to choose, partner to marry or days of the week to avoid ketchup. Astrology is actually on the side of free will, not against it. What this means is that a solid chart reading gives the native insight into his or her essential psychological makeup — allowing that person to make choices in a way that’s more informed and free than before.

There are two reasons this is so valuable. First, with greater awareness of how matter and energy move through the time and space of your life, you can better harness them to fulfill your will. For example, when you start to understand why your relationships always end in an argument over money, or why you can never seem to find a job that satisfies you, you can begin to make conscious changes that better align with your essential core — and discard the parts of your behavior that aren’t truly you.

But this is true for any discipline that increases self-awareness: journaling, therapy, whatever. So, second, the horoscope chart is especially valuable because it’s extremely efficient — and that’s because it’s particular to you and you alone. The symbols ringing the chart show where the planets were at the time you were born, from the place you were born. They each contain a particular energy that reflects, or perhaps even affects, the direction and drive of your inner life. That is something that therapy can take years to uncover.

Some people get the impression that the chart is static, and I want to address this misperception before I move onto the question of why. The chart is not static at all. It reflects the first imprint of the universe on the individual being — but then the universe and the individual keep on moving. Each of us carries with us that first impression, but neither it nor our surroundings nor our behavior remains unchanged. So although we might respond to the world, from an unconscious level, according to the impulses of our horoscope chart, growing self-awareness gives us the freedom to choose exactly how our basic drives are expressed.

For example, if Venus is strong in a person’s horoscope chart, she might, as a young woman, be very flirtatious and coquettish. But as she grows into self-awareness, she might use that energy differently — to create beauty around her, perhaps, or to render compromise in the midst of conflict. Or, if she has limited nurturing and does not mature much, she might always rely on her surface charms, becoming frustrated or unhappy when they fail.

Even if you don’t believe in astrology, the horoscope chart is an intriguing springboard for self-reflection. The planets, signs, houses and aspect lines collectively symbolize all human impulses, feelings, behaviors and experiences. Read well, the chart expresses eternal truths that help us drop deeper into ourselves and understand our lives better. And whether you believe the planets reflect, affect or do nothing at all, a map of human experience is a wonderful path to self-awareness.

Why I Believe It: I believe in astrology most of all because it’s worked for me — not just once, like a fluke, but over and over and over. And not just with random bits of information here and there, but with regard to the most profound challenges and central experiences of my life: Why did that happen? What compelled me to make that choice? What can I learn about myself from that event, or relationship, or change of course? My self-awareness has deepened immensely because of astrology.

I also believe in astrology because its existence can be traced back at least five thousand years and to every corner of the world. While this is not always a reason to recommend something (women have been subjugated and harmful folk remedies have also been widespread throughout human history, for example) it is a reason, at least, to be open to astrology’s legitimacy. When a way of thinking has been in existence for so long, it’s a good idea to understand why, before dismissing it wholesale: If it weren’t useful somehow, it would probably have died out long ago.

Finally, I believe in astrology because it is based on the natural world. It’s true we don’t know why or how it works, but its components — time, space, energy, matter, awareness — are not fabrications of our collective imagination.

Time and space constitute the canvas on which we paint our lives.

Matter and energy are our brushes and colors.

Awareness is the approach we take toward creating.

Without these things, and especially without awareness, we are impoverished and impulsive, powerless and reactive. Our free will is limited. We cannot create the lives we envision.

The horoscope chart is a profound and efficient tool for that awareness, for that vision, no matter your opinion on what the planets affect, reflect or anything else.

Image credits: Universum, painter

Of course, I have other tools, too, like feelings, family, friends and faith. Astrology isn’t always the first place I go, especially in the midst of tragedy, but I often end up there, searching for clarity, groping toward meaning.

So when a [...]]]> I don’t use astrology to predict events. I use it to help make sense of life.

Of course, I have other tools, too, like feelings, family, friends and faith. Astrology isn’t always the first place I go, especially in the midst of tragedy, but I often end up there, searching for clarity, groping toward meaning.

So when a dear friend was killed this weekend in a horrible accident, my first reaction was gasping disbelief. Second came a deep and jagged grief. Third, a need to connect with other friends who loved her. Then, as the reality coursed through me, came numbness, and emptiness.

This morning, because I am who I am, I awoke yearning to understand the senselessness of her death through the perspective of my craft of astrology.

Why does it hurt so much that she’s gone?

Why can’t I grasp that she went the way she did?

What are we supposed to do, anyway, with grief?

I’m not pretentious enough to claim I found answers. But below are my thoughts, the small bits of meaning I glimpsed as I pondered the sudden, premature, tragic death of a beautiful, life-loving woman.

I wrote on Friday about the way astrology views the usual cycle of energy that guides an event, whether it’s the blossoming of a flower, the unfolding of a life or the movement of seasons. There is output, then enjoyment, then — usually; hopefully — slow shifts that dismantle the old order and prepare for the next cycle. I pointed out how important it is to take time when contemplating great changes to an old way of being, how rushing change could lead to crisis. I thought I was talking about politics, and money.

The suddenness of Heather’s death interrupts our sense of how time unfolds. Life is supposed to spin out evenly from its spool, one long flowing arc at a time. When it doesn’t, we say things like: “How can this be?” And: “I can’t believe it.” And: “It just doesn’t make sense.” A sudden, tragic end to a life doesn’t fit into the expected patterns of our mind, nor the gently sloping pathways of our hearts. Life is supposed to allow us some time to get used to change, to learn what we need ahead of time, to shift our gaze toward the next phase. It’s not meant to thrust us into loss all at once. At the very, very least, life is supposed to allow us a bit of time to say goodbye.

When death comes unanticipated, we don’t know what to do with ourselves: our hands, our voices, the alarm rising up in our chests. Our minds: What are we supposed to even think?

Often, then, not knowing what to do, we turn to the specifics of the departed person herself. This is the other way I can look to astrology to make sense of this loss. Because it occurred to me that, while astrology views each planet and sign as a symbol of an internal personal trait, other people in our lives also carry some traits for us — especially, perhaps, the ones we’re not able to manifest well ourselves. We need them to show us the way, the proper expression of laughter, or confidence, or drivenness.

I kept remembering, yesterday, how much Heather simply embraced life — how deeply she drank in the pleasures of the world all around her. She seemed always engaged, passionate about everything from coffee to music to movies to the people she loved. She laughed easily. She teased and admonished and was always good-natured. She seemed to let troubles roll off her back, shooing them away like flies.

Other traits might stand out more for other people, depending who they are and how they related with her. But whatever the specific experience, in relationship generally, each person brings something that the other needs in their life. Sometimes it’s the thing that drives us crazy; sometimes it’s the thing we most admire. Sometimes we don’t even notice the trait till they are gone. And when they are gone, we are left holding our hands out, waiting for more of what they brought: that passion, or that teasing, or that laughter. And when it doesn’t come — again, we don’t know what to do.

We have, then, to find her elsewhere — not to replace her, but to fill the emptiness her death leaves in our lives. Maybe, hopefully, we find her gifts in ourselves.

So my questions now are: What gifts did Heather give me that I could not accept when she was alive? What traits did I unconsciously ask her to hold that I could not yet make a part of myself? What do I need to become, now that she is no longer there to be it for me? I look at the list above and know immediately.

And so to celebrate Heather’s life, and to defy the tragedy of her death, I promise myself, and my family, and my friends, to cling less fiercely to worry — to let it go — so I can sink much more into each delectable moment life hands me, the way I saw her do.

Photo credit

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 [...]]]> 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