Showing posts with label astrology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label astrology. Show all posts

Sunday, 11 April 2010

Don't Push It!

I got together with a group of astrologers this weekend to see whether we could predict the winning horse in the Grand National. It’s been done before and plenty has been written on the subject, but tell me this – have you ever come across a wealthy astrologer? Apart from Russell Grant or Patric Walker, I mean? (And I don’t imagine either of them owes very much of their respective fortunes to revenue from horseracing.)

None of us had been following form, or had any experience of horseracing – except perhaps for Susie, who had been looking at various astrological techniques for predicting winners – we were simply going to look at the chart for the race and see whether we could tease out the name of the winning horse from the symbolism.

Susie cast a chart for the start of the race (10:04:10, 4.15pm, Aintree, UK). For some reason, she chose to use the Campanus House system - a method of dividing the horoscope’s twelve houses into equal sections of 30 degrees devised by a 13th-century astrologer which is seldom now used – it’s fine if you happen to be born close to the equator, but considered less accurate for charts based north or south of the tropics. This method was apparently used successfully by the 20th-Century astrologer John Addey. With Addey’s method apparently (and I’ll come clean now and say that it’s very possible – er, well if I’m honest, extremely likely, then – I didn’t quite get everything; a lot of the theory was very technical with various colours and virtually everything you could possibly think of assigned to a certain house, sign or planet – Mercury/Pluto, for example, represents an imbecile, although I have no idea why, or why my eye happened to alight on that particular example in the book… Actually, I do – I know someone quite well with a natal Mercury/Pluto, but I wouldn’t exactly say he was an imbecile. Not always very good at remembering to put the bin out perhaps…)

It’s all to do with the 5th House cusp. Thus far, it seems to make sense: the 5th House rules gambling, games, competitions, etc. What you have to do is look at the 5th House cusp to see the next aspect it makes as the race develops.



In this instance, the 5th cusp progresses to meet up in conjunction with Pluto – but this is where things get tricky: if the race starts seven minutes late, the 5th cusp will have already passed Pluto and be applying to a sextile with the Moon (I’ve never been great at maths, so I tend to stick to major aspects, although I understand Addey was into harmonics and midpoints and whatnot, which I’ve never been able to get my head round. I’m of the view that, if the astrology wants to communicate a message, it will do it in a language you can understand without recourse to a calculator. Quincunxes, sesquiquadrates and semisquares might be all very well for someone who doesn’t immediately get the urge to bury her head in the sand at words like “quadratic equation”, but my charts need to speak to me in plain English).

Normally, when looking at a chart, the first thing you look at is the sign on the Ascendant (in this case Virgo) and its ruler (Mercury) – incidentally, because the Grand National is always run during the first two weeks of April, and always kicks off at the same time (4.15pm), the Ascendant will always be Virgo and the ruler will always be Mercury. Sadly, too, the Sun will always be in the 8th House – house of death – echoing the race’s grim history of death and injury to both riders and runners. I’m assured that this is now not such an issue; in more recent years following pressure from animal rights activists and the huge public outcry after graphic news coverage of the fall of the horse Dark Ivy in 1987 – a huge amount has been invested in on-course veterinary care: there’s more brush in the fences and the number of runners has been reduced to forty (which is still a heckuvalotof horses galloping full-tilt towards a five-foot fence). Eighty horses have ‘officially’ lost their lives during the history of the race – the actual total is almost certainly more. The largest number of horses to finish – out of 40 starters – is 23; the fewest is two. Yes, that's right: 2. I know.

* * * *

Anyway, back to the chart. The 5th House Pluto in Capricorn forms a Yod or ‘Finger of Fate’ – two Quincunxes (150 degrees) joined by a Sextile – with the Moon and Mars (coincidentally conjunct the Part of Fortune in the 11th) – an aspect pattern quite striking in itself without the business of the 5th House cusp. One of the runners was Black Apalachi – a reference to a now extinct Native American tribe; Both Pluto and Mars are associated with the colour black, and Pluto is extinction. Capricorn is also associated with mountains (although I’m really not sure whether the Apalachi tribe actually had anything to do with the Appalacian mountains – direct associations don’t always matter in astrology since symbols can relate to any number of things).

The second horse I picked was Don’t Push It. There are a number of suggestions in the chart that point to this: Obdurate Saturn in close opposition to unpredictable Uranus right across the horizon of the chart seem to be saying don’t push it… to one another; chart ruler Mercury digging its heels in to sticky Taurus (normally associated with speed, Mercury is slowing down towards its station when it goes retrograde next week); even the dark Pluto in the 5th holding pushy Mars in Leo in a sinister quincunx seems to be echoing don’t push it…

Of course there were others. A not-quite angular Moon in dreamy Pisces applying to a sextile of the Taurus Mercury hinted at Dream Alliance; The Package suggested Mercury the messenger, as well as mysterious Pluto in the 5th (although not sufficiently strongly for me, I have to say); Comply or Die – a strong favourite – could well have been compulsive Pluto and deathly Mars; Backstage – Pluto, with his helmet of invisibility in the theatrical 5th House; Nozic was in there, too – a right-wing economic philosopher who espoused the supremacy of market forces, who could easily have been Mars/Pluto. One of the astrologers liked Mr Pointment (sluggish Mercury in Taurus), but it turned out he wasn’t running (still somewhere on the road to Aintree, probably).

* * * *

In the event, the race started three minutes late – the 5th House cusp was closing in rapidly on Pluto as Black Apalachi established an early lead... As the race developed, they were all mentioned as contenders – Dream Alliance, Comply or Die, Nozic, Backstage – as well as Big Fella Thanks, who would have been Jupiter, which frankly – apart from being vaguely close to the Descendant – wasn’t doing much in the chart, but I guess you can’t expect to see everything in astrology.

As they neared the finish – and the all-important 5th-House cusp moved on through and past Pluto – Don’t Push It, whose name had been written all over the chart moved through the pack of dark horses carrying Tony McCoy to victory.

* * * *

Yes, it was all there in the stars, but even before we put our bets on, it did make me wonder, is this what astrology is for? To my mind, astrology is a gift from beyond, something spiritual, something that offers insight, a brief glimpse of the unknowable, and perhaps a way forward – it’s not about making money. As I saw the phrase Don’t Push It again and again in the chart, I wondered whether the astrology was really saying to us, “Yes, I’ll show you it can work for this, but this isn’t what astrology’s really about. Don’t push it…

* * * *

We’ve decided to donate our winnings to a charity for retired racehorses.


If you didn’t catch the race on Saturday or you want to see it again, here you go.

Thursday, 12 March 2009

The Full Moon and my fifteen minutes of fame...














“Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil”
John Milton (1608-1674)

I’m always slightly amazed when I come across astrologers who never seem to look up at the sky. And while I’m by no means the most dedicated of star-watchers, given a clear night and the right time of year, I can usually pick out Taurus (follow the three bright stars of Orion’s belt and you’ll find it halfway between that and the Pleiades), and the curving shape of Scorpio apparently spiking poor old Sagittarius on the bum, or Virgo with Spica – her brightly shining ear of wheat and the lucky star (which for some reason always makes me think of Margaret Thatcher – certainly not everyone's lucky star, that one). The most obvious thing in the sky at any time of year (unless, of course, it's cloudy) is, of course, the moon, which waxes milky full before gently waning to a thin sliver each month as it glides swiftly along the ecliptic, brightening or darkening the sky. The phase and sign of the moon is something traditional astrologers would constantly have been acutely aware of – it seems a shame that, to many astrologers nowadays it’s just another glyph, albeit perhaps a slightly more important one, on a horoscope chart. OK, let's just forget the precession of the equinoxes for a moment (which means Aries is really Pisces and Aquarius can sometimes even be Taurus. Really, it's not something you need to worry about unless you're into biodynamic gardening, and then you just need a different book...)

I’m lucky, admittedly, in that we have very little light pollution here, and our village nestles in a wide, shallow basin which offers an excellent vantage point for star viewing. Even so, the fabulous full moon in Virgo on Tuesday night was clearly visible all over the UK – in fact I got a text from a (non-astrology) friend right across the other side of the country in Tunbridge Wells at about 7pm saying just that: Fabulous moon! I was in the car when my mobile buzzed, trying to track down where I’d left H’s copy of The Guardian which I’d picked up at lunchtime from the shop en route to do about seventeen errands and had left it somewhere along the way (sadly, an all-too regular occurrence...) I parked up alongside the allotments, and there it was – the most beautiful, bright, bright moon hanging low and glowing softly over the sprouts and Bernard's now burgeoning asparagus bed. While I was gazing up at it, another villager passed by, commenting, “What an amazing moon!”.

I knew it must be in Virgo (the full moon is always directly opposite the sun, currently in Pisces), and later that evening I checked my ephemeris – 20 degrees of Virgo – almost slap bang on my Ascendent. Given the moon passes through every degree of the zodiac, every year, there’s always going to be a date somewhere around the 11th of March where it crosses the horizon of my own natal chart, but for the moon to be exactly full at this point is something which happens, on average (given a conservative one-degree orb), just once every 180 years. Not even a once-in-a-lifetime event for most people.

“Hmmm,” I thought. “I bet I get some publicity for the allotments book over the next couple of days…”

The symbolism isn’t remotely obscure or difficult: the bright full moon illuminates the point of the zodiac over which it passes; the moon in full is at its most powerful. Basically, if you’re trying to do something you don’t want anyone to find out about, don’t do it under a full moon – likewise, don’t attempt your next attention-grabbing publicity campaign (or indeed anything you’re going to need recognition for) under a new moon. The energy filters through the sign the moon is in - Virgo: Demeter, Ceres, earth goddess, allotments... It couldn't be more perfect. I always think one striking example of the exposing rays of the moon in full is that early paparazzi shot of Lady Diana Spencer snapped at the kindergarten where she was working with the light shining clean through what she obviously didn’t realise was a diaphanous skirt. That shot sums up for me the effects of the full moon (which, given the nature of pic and the fact that it was probably shot in mid-Spring, was almost certainly in Scorpio!)

In short, if I’d planned the launch of my allotments book to coincide with this March’s full moon, I couldn’t have picked a better moment (In point of fact the idea hadn’t occurred to me). Completely unexpectedly, the story was picked up not only by The Sun, but The Daily Telegraph, The Express, The Metro (although, be warned - I look as though I'm hanging on to the allotment sign for dear life in fear of being suddenly abducted by vegetable-crazed aliens) and I was asked to do down-the-line interviews with BBC Radio Sheffield, Radio Berkshire and Radio Five Live. I’ve also got Cotswold Life coming to shoot the Gardeners’ Question Time recording on Monday for their society pages (Society pages? Me?). I think it may be time to go out shopping for that diaphanous dress…

Sunday, 22 February 2009

Is this the dawning of the age of Aquarius? (or Herschel finds his mojo)

I have been getting back into astrology after a long time away. I think it might have something to do with Uranus passing over my descendent, although it could just be that I’m finding myself with more time on my hands (did I really just say that?) – the practice of astrology can be inordinately time-consuming once you get sucked in. Uranus is often the planet said to rule the practice of astrology – a maverick, eccentric, unpredictable star; the ruler of revolution, electricity and the unexpected. It’s the symbolism that attracts me about astrology – I love the glimpses of the ancient and the universal in the everyday; the creak of Pluto undermining the stability of the world financial system (Capricorn) or the discovery of electricity (Uranus) on one of Saturn’s moons just as the two planets meet one another in opposition across the heavens. Is it coincidence or synchronicity? Or just wishful thinking? Who’s to say? Not me, that’s for sure. I don’t want to be prescriptive with my astrology – for me, it’s simply a symbolic language; a metaphysical reflection – sometimes astonishing in its perspicacity – of what’s going on in the world.

There are different kinds of astrologers – some embrace chakra theory and various strands of Eastern mysticism or make links with native American mythology – each to his own; if it speaks to you, that’s all well and good. I’m all for people finding their own niche, but dreamy, West-Coast-type touchy-feely stuff, I’m afraid, is really not for me. Maybe it’s my repressed Virgoan side, but I find myself thinking it’s all a bit vague and Neptunian (Neptune being the ruler of Pisces and the polar opposite of Virgo). I’m frankly not nearly flexible enough – either literally or metaphorically – to get in touch with my chakras, and if I’m being brutally honest, I’m afraid I can’t help finding a lot of it rather flakey – heck, I don’t even accept the idea that Chiron is a proper planet - I wish I could manage to find a way to eradicate it from my astrology software. Traditional astrology is rather prosaic by contrast – there are set rules and strictures and everything relates back to first principles. The symbolism has a long tradition – it has been practiced for centuries by scholars, scientists and philosophers – it’s only really recently that the flakey people got on board, and I’m not even really sure some of them are on the same ship at all. There’s quite enough going on for me with traditional astrology; seven personal planets with three trans-Saturnians if you’re feeling a bit modern – you really don’t need any more. I certainly don’t want to confuse myself with things like Sabian symbols and Jungian theories of the collective unconscious – I’m easily enough confused as it is.

I love the way that astrology reflects our psychology, too. Everyone’s chart has all the planets in it, and the way we ‘do’ them is successful to a greater or lesser degree depending on how well they’re integrated and how easy we find it to connect with their energy – they’re all there, even the most mild-mannered bespectacled librarian will have their Mars (albeit, perhaps in Virgo or Capricorn) and even Pollyanna had a Saturn (although where she can have kept it, I can’t imagine – 12th house, possibly?). I, for example, don’t find Uranus at all easy to connect with – I let H do all the Uranian stuff in our house – the quirky, the humanitarian, the eccentric, while I take on all the practical Virgoan stuff – DIY, bill-paying, drawer tidying, etc. I take a slightly irrational pleasure in the fact that the glyph for Uranus is based on the letter H (for Herschel, the astronomer credited for originally discovering the planet back in 1781- not for my husband, though in another space-time continuum, perhaps it might have been), making it his, not mine, although I fully realise on some level I’m projecting my quirkiness on to him – it’s easier for me that way. But like anything, the more we repress it, the more restless and insistent it becomes, and there’s nothing quite like a repressed Uranus for erupting out and biting one on the bum (or perhaps not the bum, exactly – the mojo, perhaps? See the mythology further down the page).

* * *

Anyway, it was in just this kind of unexpected Uranian way that I stumbled upon details of a talk on the planet Uranus a couple of weeks ago, tied in with a visit to the Herschel Museum, conveniently in nearby Bath. It sounded really interesting, was conveniently on a Saturday afternoon which didn’t clash with anything else, and despite not having done anything astrological for the last four or five years, I thought I might as well go.

The discovery of Uranus back in 1781 – in the aptly named New King Street in Bath – coincided with a time of great change in the world; revolution was happening in the new world as well as at home in the form of the industrial revolution; civil unrest was brewing in France, huge scientific discoveries were being made which were to challenge the status quo and irrevocably alter our perception of the world, and the philosopher Immanuel Kant turned contemporary understanding on its head that very same year with his publication of The Critique of Pure Reason.

So far, so symbolic, with resonances of the ancient Greek myth which is all about rebellion, where the sky god Ouranus is pitted against (and ultimately castrated by) his own son, Cronus (the Roman god Saturn) possibly the ancient world's first teenager. Up until the discovery of Uranus, the ‘cosmos’ was thought to consist of the magic number of seven heavenly bodies – Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and the great material planet of boundaries, Saturn – encircled by the backdrop of the fixed stars of the zodiac. The discovery of Uranus as a planet, not a star or a comet as was first thought, turned this understanding on its head. The castration symbolism also has resonances in the association of Uranus with ideas of androgeny and ambiguous sexuality, which are also echoed in the story of the planet’s discovery – the astronomer William Herschel was working closely with his sister Caroline, also an accomplished astronomer, and it seems unclear whether it was actually William or Caroline who first spotted the planet.
Actually, I think it was probably both. (Bizarrely, when I google to see if I can find an online version of Caroline’s chart to save myself using my own software with the offending Chiron on it, I’m directed to a website called Astroqueer which claims her as a lesbian – she does look extremely masculine in her portrait and indeed, she may well be gay, with Venus and Mars in mutual reception in each other’s signs (Venus at 16 Aries; Mars at 13 Taurus) – so lots of ambiguous sexuality there – while Mercury, planet of communication, is keeping quiet about everything and letting her brother take all the glory, mute in an early degree of Pisces). And in another uncanny castration parallel, it is Herschel's own son, John Herschel, who ultimately demolishes the former's enormous 40-foot ground-breaking telescope when it is damaged by a gale some years later.

I find the Bath astrologers in the café where they are meeting without too much trouble – an unusually large proportion of hats, ‘interesting’ hairstyles and items of purple clothing help to give them away. I had a sudden feeling that this might turn out to be more of a Neptunian than a Uranian experience, but it transpires that most of the purple people are in fact artists, not astrologers at all, but somehow linked and at the same time not linked – boundaries are blurred in typical Neptunian fashion. As the astrologers break away to head off to the museum and do their astrology, the way out is temporarily blocked by one of the artists bidding what seemed to be an unduly fond farewell to one of the astrologers.

“But you seem to be saying goodbye in a way that suggests we may never see each other again,” complained the artist, plaintively hugging the astrologer close.
“But we probably never will see each other again,” reasoned the astrologer, breaking free. Whether the two had actually known one another before the meeting in the café was, in true Neptunian fashion, unclear, but the astrologers somehow managed to detach, Uranian style and head off to New King Street – a beautifully restored Georgian house in an unexpected corner of Bath. The theme of androgeny is echoed further, as I realise that Jodey, the astrologer billed to give the talk turns out to be, not a woman, as I'd initially assumed, but a man.

The museum is lovely in an understated, Farrow-and-Ball-type way, with reproduction Brussels weave carpets, meticulously restored and polished instruments and handsome pieces of Georgian furniture. I’m not sure the Herschels would have had it quite like that – as far as I could gather, when they lived there the house was full of half-finished home-made telescopes and books about astronomy. An introduction is given electronically by Patrick Moore, who is rather distractingly wearing a monacle attached to a piece of red string. I can’t help feeling my presence here is in some way fated, though – why this should be, I have no idea, but there are further bits of synchronicity when I realise that the Superintendent of the Royal Observatory in Herschel’s time – someone who would certainly have come into contact with Herschel – was later to become the rector at our village church, and one of the musical instruments in drawing room (Herschel was also a talented musician and teacher) was made by the firm of musical instrument makers owned by my own great-great grandfather. Perhaps these were just more coincidences.

Jodey, thankfully, turns out to be a traditional astrologer like me, and he knows and trained alongside some of astrologers I knew in London. He doesn’t have any truck with Chiron or Sabian Symbols either, I’m relieved to find out. He talks about the symbolism of the Uranus discovery chart in a way I can readily understand - it has some beautiful symbolism: Gaia, the Moon (yes, I know Gaia is the earth goddess, but please bear with me – the Moon is the universal mother symbol, and Gaia is in fact also the mother of her husband, Uranus) gives her son, Cronos (Saturn) the knife (Mars, disposed by the Scorpio Moon, conjuct Saturn) to castrate Uranus, who he confronts in the 8th house (house of death, sex and regeneration), directly opposite. Like the myth itself, it’s horribly violent, but its symbolism is somehow horribly perfect, too.

* * *

Which reminds me of a typically Uranian moment with my father in law at H’s fortieth birthday dinner – an eminent urologist, now retired, while not exactly involved in the business of castration I guess he was working in the same general area. We were in a very nice restaurant in London waiting to be served when the jazz band struck up with the famous Muddy Waters number, Got My Mojo Working.
“What’s a mojo, d’you suppose,” asked H’s mum, to no one in particular.
“I’m not sure,” replied FIL in his carrying consultant’s tone, much to the amusement of the table next to us. “I think it’s probably his penis.”

Bath, the city where Uranus was first discovered, is, of course, Aquae Sulis – the city of Aquarius, the water carrier.