More in honor of Neptune in Pisces: The Healing Labyrinth

•February 29, 2012 • 7 Comments

One of many mandalas created for The Mandala Project

It might be because Neptune, in my natal chart, is in strong sextile both to Saturn in Capricorn, and to my Venus-Pluto conjunction in Virgo, but I tend to see Neptune as a positive influence.

Obviously, there is the possibility for negative expression with any planetary placement, and I’d be the first person to tell you, with Saturn in Capricorn on the Ascendent ruling my chart, not to see the world through rose-colored glasses.

However, when it comes to Neptune, I truly do think of it as having the potential for healing energy. Now that Neptune is transiting through Pisces, I am on a mission to find sources that will explain my beliefs about why Neptune can be accessed as a healing, rather than a destructive, energy. My focus will be on finding resources to show you the positive side of Neptune, and constructive ways of working with its fluidity and creativity.

The mandala represents wholeness

A group of people who support this idea are The Labyrinth Society. They promote a perspective discussed in Melissa Gayle West’s book Exploring the Labyrinth: A Guide For Healing and Spiritual Growth. In her book, she says that

“[T]he labyrinth is one of the oldest contemplative and transformational tools known to humankind, used for centuries for prayer, ritual, initiation, and personal and spiritual growth” (p. 4-5).

The Labyrinth Society is in the process of developing its mandala labyrinth project. Also known as The Peace Mandala Labyrinth Project, this will be an educational program and a collective art piece displaying the unifying message of the mandala. Individual mandalas created by participants will be connected with one another to create a walking labyrinth—a collaborative art piece that will be a personal and shared experience.

Healing energy

The labyrinth is ‘unicursal,’ which means that it is a ‘closed or curved surface that can be drawn in a single movement.’ West points out that its unicursal quality means it has only one way in, one way out. It is not a maze.

I think this is a powerful metaphor for what Neptunian energy, used consciously, can offer us. Neptune is too often accused of being ‘about’ self-deception, maze-like in its ability to confuse and delude. In fact, I think Neptunian energy is more labyrinth-like than maze-like—or, it can be when you strip away all the negatives that have been associated with it in the past ten years or so.

West says

“once you set your foot upon its path, the labyrinth gently and faultlessly leads you to the center of both the labyrinth and yourself, no matter how many twists and turns you negotiate in the process” (p. 5).

This is an apt metaphor for the way the Neptune experience can be for us, if we eliminate the typical fears associated with losing control. Control, in the chart, is very much associated with Saturn and Pluto, and I would argue that the only way you can effectively work with the unknowns of the Neptunian experience is both to give up control about outcome, and, paradoxically, maintain control over yourself at the same time. A difficult path to tread, perhaps, but the experience of walking a labyrinth will bring you closer to what this feels like.

Concept behind the labyrinth project

As West says about this experience, “Since the destination is assured, there are no obstacles to overcome, no muddles to figure out, no dead ends to retrace.” Think about what that means: your destination is assured.

That is the promise with Neptune: the inner knowing, based on spiritual wisdom borne of peace and security, that you are on the right path, because if you weren’t, you would know it, you would sense it. Trust your inner knowing, your Higher Self. Release anxiety, release control, release the need to have total control over the outcome, and you will access the energy at the center of your own personal labyrinth.

Ace of Pentacles: The Sacred Geometry of Chance

•February 28, 2012 • 3 Comments

The Mysticism of the Pentacle

This Ace is an excellent place to sum up so much of the esoteric wisdom of the Tarot.

At one level, the history of this suit is intricately tied with the purely mundane, but meditated upon for its esoteric lore, Pentacles represent the essence of the magic of manifestation, the principle of creative visualisation in a tarot card.

This Ace compels us to ask how we can best manifest our desires, at the same time it is a summation of all the Aces.

With the Ace of Wands, we have the message of energetic inspiration; with the Ace of Cups, the message of raw creativity; with the Ace of Swords, the message of conscious awareness. In this final Ace, we see the lesson of manifestation, which comes from incorporating each skill we’ve gained along the way.

The invention of playing cards themselves have been attributed to the Chinese, who created a money game using some of the world’s first paper playing cards. It’s entirely reasonable to imagine that the Chinese would have brought this game with them as they traded and traversed along the Silk Road, cross-pollinating ideas and values with the Mamlûks, amongst many other tribes.

Emerging with riches from the depths

This cross-pollination began centuries before the creation of the Italian game Tarocchi; therefore, it’s entirely possible we inherited the idea of the suit of coins from the Chinese, who, even today, hand out little red packets stuffed with money to encourage prosperity in the New Year.

However, money and material prosperity is only a surface manifestation of the energy of this suit. The esoteric roots of pentacles lie in their connection with magic, but when this connection is ignored by calling this suit “coins,” the deeper meaning of the pentacle is lost.

A deck emphasizing the pentacle's shape, but not necessarily its esoteric meaning

If you ever wonder why your deck emphasizes a pentagram shape, it’s because of the association between magic and the sacred geometry of the pentacle. Pentacles have a tradition steeped in magic, and because of this, learning how to see the mystical in mundane reality is the challenge of this suit. 

The magician used the pentacle as a protective amulet, or as part of an invocation ceremony or rite. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, a spiritual and mystical order practicing these kinds of magical rites, inspired member A. E. Waite’s co-creation of the Rider-Waite Tarot deck.

Although most tarot readings begin with the belief that the cards can be used to gain insight into the past, current and possible future everyday situations of the querent, esoteric tarot begins with the querent asking what he can do to transform himself. 

According to Webster’s dictionary, magic is the art of purportedly manipulating aspects of reality either by supernatural means or through knowledge of occult laws unknown to Classical Mechanics, but the real magic everyone is capable of, when they try, is to comprehend the mystical in the mundane:

Calling it a coin perpetuates the idea that we're stuck in material reality, that this is all there is

A mystic tends to look at ordinary things as manifestations of a miraculous and infinite source of wisdom. From the mundane-seeming plethora of garbage and trash, to the high mystery of photo-synthesis, anything can be translated into or ignite a mystical experience.

A scientist, thinking she sees clearly the evidence of the eyes and empirical study, will announce that photo-synthesis is how plants grow and obtain a majority of their nourishment. The plants do this by exchanging sunlight into energy and then into chlorophyll. The analysis ends there.

A mystic, on the other hand, will use this as a starting point to reflect on the significance, both inner and outer, of such an obvious and mysterious miracle. Is there any relationship or analogy that can be drawn from this fact?

For example, if we compare ourselves to the plant, and the sunlight to the Creator’s life-giving essence, then perhaps might we also have the ability to transform that energy into something more than what we are given, into something more than what we think we are. Perhaps what we see is not necessarily what we get; that perhaps there is the possibility within us of transforming inner energy into something else.

In the following video, Sting sings a song that always makes me think of what tarot is about for me, and perhaps when you listen to it, and read the lyrics, you’ll understand what I mean. The cards he’s referring to are not tarot; they are the traditional playing cards once used for divination, but some of their meanings remain, even thought the suit names have changed.

The suit of diamonds are synonymous with the Coins in Tarot, but my own feelings about Tarot are like those of the man in this song, who sings “I know that diamonds mean money for this art/But that’s not the shape of my heart…”  

 


Pentacles are of the earth and represent magic in all its forms, including that of the change of seasons

I deal the cards as a meditation. Are you ready, when you lay down the Ace of Pentacles, to take a chance on what is to come?

If so, you understand this Ace’s fundamental nature, because you are the creator of your reality, and you hold the power of your future in your hands. 

And that is magic.

In Honor of Neptune, ‘The Mystic’

•February 20, 2012 • 2 Comments

Gustav Holst, (unlike so many since Liz Greene wrote her rather grim assessment of what is possibly our most beautiful planet, Neptune), thought of the blue-green orb as ‘The Mystic.’

Imbuing Neptune, wrapped in its gauze of gossamer blue-green, with the magical energy of pure fantasy and mystery, his symphony honored the mystical, which this planet represents.

The Planets‘ seven-part orchestral suite was written from the perspective of the influence of the planets on our psyche, and Neptune, from Holst’s perspective, contained nothing negative to haunt or taunt us.

Composing the suite as he did between 1914 and 1916, Holst lived in an era with a kinder, gentler view of Neptune than the rather harsh ideas we have formed about it these days.

The idea of the work was suggested to Holst by Clifford Bax, who introduced him to astrology when the two were part of a small group of English artists holidaying in Majorca in the spring of 1913; Holst became quite a devotee of the subject, and liked to cast his friends’ horoscopes for fun.

Holst also used Alan Leo‘s book What is a Horoscope? as a springboard for his own ideas, as well as for the subtitles (i.e., “The Bringer of…”) for the movements.

Neptunian escapism for some during the Art Nouveau period, but for others, Neptune is a muse. During Neptune transiting Pisces, these dichotomies must be integrated.

Granted, he composed in an era on the brink of the First World War—the war to end all wars—a concept foreign to us now. He wrote the suite before the world lost its innocence, one could say; before we understood or even began to address PTSD, alcoholism, drug addictions, or any of the thousand-and-one other ailments we would nowadays attribute to a negative Neptunian influence.

But this post is to remind you, with Neptune now transiting through its own sign of Pisces, involved, on February 21, 2012, in an evocative conjunction with Chiron, both at approximately 4˚, while at the same time intertwined with a New Moon in Pisces at 2-3˚, that Neptune can wear another face.

The face Holst would have had you see was  influenced by the  charming fantasy-inspired Art Nouveau period, rather than by a world weary of war, seeking oblivion in escapism. I suspect Holst was undoubtedly more than a bit of an idealist, you see, with possibly a strong Neptunian contact in his own chart. 

Here you can watch ‘The Mystic’ suite performed and listen to the haunting chorale music Holst was and is famous for:  

Astrology Jewelry You’re Going To Want!

•February 19, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Each gemstone has a meaning

In my imagination, which is a glorious place to be, since my inner world exists in some previous lifetime in which I was an Indian Maharaja surrounded by piles of  fabulous gems, I design and wear my own natal chart as an amulet around my neck, translated in gold and gems.

In real life, it would be ridiculously heavy, but since it exists only in my imagination, it’s lighter than Thoth’s feather, and my soul is pure, too.  

On this exquisite piece there is a large gold horoscope embedded with a glowing pearl for my moon, and a sunstone for my sun…. a sapphire for my Venus, a ruby for Mars, a garnet for Jupiter, an emerald for Neptune… you get the idea. It comes with its own gold chain, and I probably wear it with something in dark green velvet, since this is my imagination and I can wear whatever I want.

In the real world, rather than the world of my creation, there’s a jewelry designer who manufactures an approximation of my glorious design, and you need to know about this company. On Wandering Star Astrology Jewelry and Zodiac Gifts, the designers create their signature Horoscope Necklace, which is custom-made to order using your date, time and place of birth so that all the Planets, Houses and Zodiac Constellations are positioned exactly as they were the moment you were born. 

Even if it isn’t anywhere near as grand as the glorious encrusted jewelry I have created in my imagination, I think it’s a very cool idea!

Each piece is mathematically accurate – you can do astrology readings right off the jewelry!

Here’s what their website says about the astrology that lies behind the jewelry:

Why are they “astrological?”

Every bead has meaning! The Planets are semi-precious gemstones that look like the planets both in color and proportional size.

The Sterling Silver beads mark the Houses, the pie slices astrologers use to understand different areas of life.

The 12k Gold-Filled beads mark all 12 Zodiac signs.

Each colored bead is an exact number of degrees, adding up to 360.

Each piece is mathematically accurate – you can do astrology readings right off the jewelry! Plus, they harness your power so you can use them for personal growth.

You can contact the designer, Alicia C Katz, at Wandering Star Astrology Jewelry.

The Ace of Swords: The Dual-Edged Blade of Clarity and Aggression

•February 4, 2012 • Leave a Comment

This woodcut perfectly illustrates the nature of the suit of Swords. To create the woodblock, areas to show 'white' are cut away with a knife or chisel, leaving the characters or image to show in 'black' at the original surface level. Similarly, Swords reflect black and white thinking, accomplished with scalpel-like precision.

There’s no way around it: this Ace is the first in a suit symbolising all that is violent, aggressive and filled with strife.

Although on the surface, it’s easy to confuse wands with swords, since they each depict scenes of action and aggression, in fact, as you can see from most Tarot decks, the suit of Swords does not simply depict the scenes of honest and open competition and challenge against a competitor we associate with wands (or batons).

Instead, scenes depicted in many decks show the underlying truth of the suit of Swords, which is that the types of challenges involved have turned dark, vengeful, and intensely painful. Most cards in this suit depict an individual coping alone with their problem against a darkened or cloud-filled sky. The implication is that one is very much alone with one’s troubles, appropriate for a suit that has become associated esoterically with the element of Air.

Unlike Wands or Batons, then, this suit is not about the emotionally healthy competition to be found in games and sports, or the down-and-dirty psychological games encountered on the playing field of life. These are competitions that can be won or lost, and are about relationships with others, rather than our relationship to ourself.

Click here for a free online tarot reading!

The suit of Wands promises that though there is a struggle to be endured against an enemy—through a challenge to one’s ego, or competition for a job or romantic interest—that the underlying issue is always about conquest and attainment as enacted between self and others.

The implication with Wands is that the world is a large, complicated place, and that fire energy gets us through these personal, mundane battles—no matter how challenging and difficult they might seem in the moment.

If we are up in the turrets fighting off the castle’s opponent in the Suit of Wands, however, in the Suit of Swords we’ve been locked in the dungeon, left to our own devices, fighting our inner demons. The esoteric distinction between the suit of Wands and the Suit of Swords, therefore, depends on the scene of battle. For Wands, it is on the field, against one’s opponent. In the suit of Swords, the battle is internalised; you are at war with yourself, in other words.

We have inherited the suit of Swords from Mamluks, an ancient warrior caste

The history of the suit of swords derives from playing card suits we inherited from the Mamluks, an ancient Islamic warrior caste who transmitted their cultural values to us via something as ordinary as a playing card.

Original suits in the 15th and 16th c. decks were swords, cups, coins, and polo sticks (a game we also inherited from them, and one that should give the best indication of the competitive sportsmanlike quality of the suit of Wands).

In a reading, there is no card in this suit that has an inherently positive meaning, except perhaps the upright Ace, two, and possibly the four. Upright, this card indicates a Eureka! moment of clarity, when everything becomes clear and obvious. I use it in a simple yes/no reading to indicate ‘yes,’ in distinction with the Five of Swords, which is ‘no.’ The Ace upright represents the moment the sun comes out from behind the clouds of doubt, confusion and inner darkness.

Instead of Swords, Voyager uses the metaphor of crystals to describe the mental qualities of Air. I use this card, "Brilliance," the Ace of Crystals, in simple yes/no readings.

In a reading with the Moon, a card that can indicate not seeing one’s path clearly, the upright Ace can indicate that you’ve found your way at last. You get it. You’re awake, your mind is functioning clearly. You see the truth, and can no longer be duped, lied to, or mislead by your own fantasies, incorrect beliefs, or denial.

In Marcia Masino’s Easy Tarot Guide, she says that the Aces, as the most powerful card in a suit, carry the ‘root force’ of the suit’s astrological element. When upright, mental and aggressive power emanates from this card. When inverted, however, the mental power, force, and aggression is used against the self. You become your own worst enemy, imagining worst-case scenarios, but more importantly, putting yourself under stress. Where the upright Ace indicates that the force you’re applying is appropriate, the inverted Ace tells you you’re causing the problems you’re now facing. Cut yourself some slack.

While not a tarot card, this image of Sauron's all-seeing eye evokes negative warlike associations. Sauron's power and aggression represent misused Ace of Swords energy

The force, aggression, and most of all, intellectual energy of the suit of Swords is difficult to contain, and, turned inwards, against ourselves, represents self-destruction and anguish. If you see the inverted Ace of Swords in your reading, consider that you are being too hard on yourself, that you’re torturing yourself needlessly.

The Essence of the Ace of Cups: Inception of Creativity and Spirituality

•January 14, 2012 • Leave a Comment

The oldest surviving tarot cards are from fifteen fragmented decks painted in the mid-15th century for the Visconti-Sforza family, the rulers of Milan. This deck is too early for the lower arcana to reflect occultism or esoteric thought.

Nowadays, we usually expect the Ace of Cups to follow the Ace of Wands, but why? Let’s rummage around in the portmanteau of history to find out, shall we?

Tarot cards were not always associated with occult symbology, the minor arcana in particular. When we put the suits of the lower arcana into some kind of order, we’re not talking, initially, about the importance of the four classical elements and their relationship to occult wisdom.

In addition to occult associations, we’ve inherited the order in which the suits are arranged from card games, some of which were concerned more with social hierarchy, mores and values, than with esoteric lore:

The origins of the tarot deck are thought to be Italian, with the oldest surviving examples dating from the mid 15th century in Milan, and using the traditional Latin suits of Swords, Cups, Coins and Staves (representing the four main classes of feudal society; military, clergy, mercantile trade, and agriculture).

Card games based around virtue and vice, or social concerns, have been produced from time to time through the centuries, and Tarot, with its emphasis on spiritual and moral ideology, has overtones of what’s left of Medieval Morality plays, as well as images that would have held the interest of those who played the games later Tarot cards were based on.

Although there is a natural fascination with discovering Tarot’s origins, usually what we’re interested in is whether Tarot originated in Egypt or some other occult, mystical place. The answers are, as usual with the sharing of ideas, complicated.

It seems fairly clear from tracing trade routes and knowing who imported what from whom, where and when, that Tarot as the game of Tarocchi was most likely developed from the complex trade alliances made between the Venetians and the Mamluks, powerful Islamic rulers who counted, amongst their possessions, cities like Cairo, Mecca, and Medina.

Prior to the occult and esoteric knowledge included in every current pack of Tarot cards, there was the rise of the playing card, which required something as prosaic as paper to flourish. One reason I think it’s entirely possible the theories that Tarot’s occult wisdom came from Egypt is that the use of paper spread from its apparent origins in China, through trade routes to Islam (which would have included the powerful sultanate of the Mamluks, centered in Cairo); and through Islam, on to Europe.

Mamluk cards, dating from the 11th-12th centuries, are a prototype of the European playing card and therefore one of the first steps leading to the development of the tarot pack, as we know it today

Tracing the roots of Tarot is interesting, for a few different reasons, but the primary reason is that, as with the oral tradition of language, much wisdom that swirls about in popular awareness could not be preserved and passed on to subsequent generations until there was an affordable medium with which to do so.

Paper has long made a better medium for the spread of ideas than its precursors of vellum, papyrus, or silk, all of which are relatively expensive and difficult to procure. With the advent of paper, however, it would become possible to cheaply replicate ideas and symbols, and the “creative fantasy,” of archetypal imagery, to paraphrase C. G. Jung, began to “freely manifest.”

Tarot as we know it today, with its suits and occult imagery, represents a blending of many different ideas that developed over time. There is no one likely source for all the imagery you see on the cards nowadays (which is why one cannot credit the idea that the Tarot was a gift from the god Thoth, as some would like to believe). Instead, as Tarot spread throughout Europe, it was inspired by ideas already in use, and modified by each culture.

When we speak of the Ace of Cups, we are referring not only to the beginning of a strong new emotional connection to something or someone. We are also speaking of the flow of feeling that underlies all creative endeavors. When you see the Ace of Cups in a reading, therefore, what is required of you is opening your creative spirit to all that which inspires the heart. The Ace of Cups is about learning to appreciate that which affects us intangibly through our emotions: poetry, music, art, literature, and emotional—in particular, romantic—expressions of love.

Associations between cups, water, emotion and love are not obvious, but one image that sums up the suit of cups’ material, spiritual, and practical meaning, is the chalice. The oldest Ace of Cups card still extant, from the Cary-Yale Visconti deck (ca. 1440 AD), depicts a chalice hand-painted in elegant silver and gold leaf.

An appropriately creative activity for the Ace of Cups, early cards were hand-painted

The chalice was associated with the clergy, spiritualism, and the Holy Grail, the story of which sums up much of humanity’s challenge when dealing with emotions:

The Grail plays a different role everywhere it appears, but in most versions of the legend the hero must prove himself worthy to be in its presence. In the early tales, Percival’s immaturity prevents him from fulfilling his destiny when he first encounters the Grail, and he must grow spiritually and mentally before he can locate it again. In later tellings the Grail is a symbol of God’s grace, available to all but only fully realised by those who prepare themselves spiritually, like the saintly Galahad.

In subsequent years, when Tarot cards were revisioned as instruments of occult wisdom by the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, the order of the suits reflected the philosophy of the Greeks, by way of the Stoics, Platonists, and other Socratic and Pre-Socratic sources. The Hermeticists explained the natural hierarchical order of the elements this way:

The locust and all flies flee fire; the eagle and the hawk and all high-flying birds flee water; fish, air and earth; the snake avoids the open air. Whereas snakes and all creeping things love earth; all swimming things–love–water; winged things, air, of which they are the citizens; while those that fly still higher–love–the fire and have the habitat near it. Not that some of the animals as well do not love fire; for instance salamanders, for they even have their homes in it. It is because one or another of the elements doth form their bodies’ outer envelope.

Through the Greek philosophers, the physical body becomes the container for the four humours, the Ancient Greek attempt at classifying and understanding emotions. The element of water becomes esoterically associated with emotions, and hey presto! the mystical alchemy of linked meanings brings us to today’s version of the Ace of Cups, which, if I were creating a new Tarot, would be renamed the Ace of Valentines, since most Cups readings seem to deal with love, romance, passion, and relationships.

Voyager Tarot's metaphor of the open flower as container for pure rainwater. The message is, "open your heart, feel everything, love and let yourself be loved."

Yet the Ace of Cups is not solely about love; it is about all the emotions, and the ability to express emotion; to open the heart to feelings of all kinds. When this Ace appears in a reading, it implies an upsurge of emotion, a tidal wave, if you will, intended to carry you to the next thing you fall in love with. Sometimes that’s a person, but other times this Ace, upright, will represent a new way of living life, of approaching life with greater passion and fullness of being.

Perhaps most importantly, you are being offered an opportunity to care about something as you have never cared before, but that can be love for an idea or belief; not all love is about love for another, but if someone is offering you their heart, you’ll see it with this card. 

The Ace is usually represented by a cup; a cup’s purpose is to contain, and the esoteric implication is that this particular cup contains spirit. Throughout history, actual literal cups were associated with drinking; drinking to one’s health, at a party, as a celebration. This Ace represents that experience of emotional celebration.

I do think there is almost nothing sadder than seeing a reversed Ace of Cups, for it indicates the cup of plenty run dry—the person in question cannot give, has nothing to spare, has lost his or her way, is barren of hope, feeling, empathy.

To the extent that this Ace represents an opportunity for greater emotional maturity on the spiritual path, receiving the upright cup being offered is a gesture of good faith from someone, somewhere, so do not allow this gift of emotion to pass you by. 

The Fire of A New Beginning: Invention, Inspiration, and the Ace of Wands

•January 4, 2012 • 5 Comments

Ace of Wands as a butterfly mandala from which emerges a rainbow of fire and all the colors of a Spring dawn

Where does a thought begin? We enter this new year by asking: how do we make something manifest; how do we make our thoughts take shape and become real? An appropriate question for the new year—a year we shall be keeping a close eye on, since it threatens to end long before we’re done with it, or so some New Age calendar-reading sages would have us think.

Peter Gabriel, inspired by Anne Sexton‘s self-revelatory poetry so honest it cuts to the bone, wrote the song “Mercy Street” in response to the images and feelings her words evoked in him. 

The following lyric helps remind me how ephemeral human-made objects are; they were once just a dream in somebody’s head, no more than a thought, easy to forget or ignore unless we find a way to transform thought into reality, unless we have the will to make real that which we visualise. 

Looking down on empty streets, all she can see

are the dreams all made solid
are the dreams all made real

All of the buildings, all of those cars
were once just a dream
in somebody’s head …

Mercy Street, inspired by Anne Sexton’s  poem, 45 Mercy Street 

The disembodied hand of God in the Marseilles Tarot, offering you that new thought or opportunity

Wishes are the fuel of imagination. Locating the source for this ‘fuel’ has plagued philosophers and poets for millennia, however. Even today, we invoke the Muses if we hope to create, invent, or discover something new. Of course, some of us turn to other instruments of intuitive wisdom, like tarot cards, for inspiration, and where better to begin than with the Ace of Wands?

In the Ace of Wands, we see themes of inception and boldness, genesis and the initial moment of creation symbolized. Traditional imagery of a wand, baton, or stave surrounded by flames, melds alchemical motifs with astrological symbolism and the four classical elements.

In Western astrology the sequence is always Fire, Earth, Air, and Water, according to the elemental rules of the four classical triplicities

Once the Zodiac was sorted into 12 astrological signs, it was further divided up according to the Ancient Greek classical elements, and it doesn’t require much imagination to understand why the fire signs were designated as such, particularly since the predominant fire sign begins with Leo, it being the constellation traditionally aligned with the hottest, driest time of year.

Therefore, the element of fire becomes associated with hot and dry humours; the summer months; a choleric temperament; the masculine; and the eastern point of the compass.

Tarot relies heavily on the classical elements to define each suit of the minor Arcana. I understand the desire to revise history, and to come up with postmodern interpretations of that which has been taken for granted as “so” for a very long time, but there are deep-structure reasons for aligning wands with the element of fire. 

Each sign is connected via its element to other signs within the triplicity. Tarot makes use of astrological lore for much of its symbology

You mess with this ordering system, as I’ve seen some Tarot practitioners try to do, by associating Wands with the element of Air, and you’re messing with the order of the universe, which can only lead to confusion, so cut it out. Wands are associated with the element of Fire for a reason and not simply because some old fogey said so!   

Beginning with the Ancient Greeks (such as Heraclitus) fire was thought to be the preeminent element from which all others depended. Alchemists—scientists of yore—observed fire’s expansion upon exposure to air, but watched while it was extinguished in a bell jar, or when doused with water or earth. 

Fiery symbolism underlies most of the metaphors to do with invention, inspiration, and creation, for these acts are seen as dynamic and active, but somewhat difficult to control. An upright Ace of Wands in a tarot spread tells you the moment you’ve been waiting for is now. Do not hesitate! Begin whatever it is you’re thinking about. Be prepared for an unexpected opportunity to arrive, an offer of some kind, the beginning of a new enterprise. We must take the offer of inspiration being handed us, and do something concrete with it if we do not wish to lose this opportunity. 

A reversed Ace of Wands delays a positive outcome, but it usually doesn’t deny it entirely, for this Ace brings with it the power of inevitability. All Aces in the minor Arcana are cards of promise, representing a new beginning of some kind. The Ace of fire, however, is thought to be the single most powerful ‘pip’ of all, so to see it upright in a spread is not insignificant. 

In many decks, this Ace is depicted as a colorful maypole, the ancient phallic symbol representing potency and rebirth (which often brings with it a new sexual relationship, since elemental fire represents passion, physical and emotional). Other decks draw on the connection between wands, batons, or torches, since wood is associated, obviously, with fire. 

Deviant Tarot plays with the metaphors of newness, Spring, and birth implicit in the Ace of Wands

Fire is also associated with raw energy, health, newness, vigor, and lust. The fire metaphor is called upon to goad us into action, to help turn the dreams in our heads into reality. Someone or something might inspire us, as happened for Peter Gabriel through the poignancy of Anne Sexton’s poetry.

When you see this Ace, pay attention to who or what is trying to wake you up, get your attention, make you see things anew with a fresh perspective. We have repeatedly called this type of paying attention ‘listening to our Muse,’ but whatever you call it, the vibrating, pulsing energy of invention lies in the simple ‘magic’ of being aware of what’s going on in the endless flow of information around you. 

When Shakespeare’s chorus in Henry V cried out  

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention

he was shaking a metaphorical fist at the heavens, long thought to be the source of the divine spark of inspiration poets agonize over. To be inspired originally meant being infused with the breath of God. Mere mortals could not become inspired without the direct intervention of God, or, for the Ancient Greeks, one of the gods or nine Muses.

That we reference these ancient mythopoeic concepts even today illustrates their enormous emotive power over our collective imagination. Try as we might, we’ve never excised the belief that if we perform all the magic rituals, the divine spark will then light up the heavens, as it must have for Shakespeare.

Or so we’d love to believe, since relying on someone or something relieves us of some of the work and responsibility creation requires. 

This time it's a magic wand emanating from one's typewriter, granting your wishes that your writing sound clever and avoid all clichés

To begin a new project, that first crucial thought has to have been dreamed, visualised, created. Inspiration seems to come from nowhere, but we think that only because we don’t recognize the internal process by which we are piecing information together subconsciously all the time, both awake and asleep.

Our minds churn, turning fragments and mosaic glimmers into a cohesion, bursting into consciousness. You cry out, “Eureka! I have a new thought!” If you’re a writer, it doesn’t get much better than this.

Perspicaciously, Katelan V. Foisy, the artist who painted the typewriter Ace of Wands seen above interprets this card’s meaning like this, because she understands that we don’t work alone when we’re inspired, even though it might seem that way. We’re always responding to something someone said or did: 

… [L]obelia spicata seen in the Ace of Wands consists of a central taproot, from which occasional basal offshoots are produced. The offshoots then germinate, although self-compatible, a flower is unable to offer pollen to itself and it must be pollinated by insects. This shows the querant that no matter how great an idea or partnership is, it must have help from the outside to truly blossom. 

Not a tarot card, but an Ace of Wands-type image that perfectly illustrates the fire of creation


The greatest mystery of all for astrologers: how to argue with a skeptic

•November 16, 2011 • 4 Comments

How does it all connect?

Astrologers have long been faced with trying to explain to skeptics how and why astrology works. I don’t mind the questions; I mind the closed-mindedness of Empiricists who cannot perceive as true anything that is not verifiable via the five senses—but that’s a rant for another day.

Fortunately, someone who understands the principles of argumentation can speak for me, so that this won’t become an unnecessary diatribe in which I splutter and lose whatever credibility I still have, tattered though it might be.

In a rebuttal to the skeptic’s usual method of argumentation, on his website Theory of Astrology, author and theoretician Ken McRitchie addresses not only the assertions that are most often leveled against astrology; but also, the structure and foundational premises of the arguments themselves.

He has found that most of the arguments used against astrology rely on logical fallacies that go ignored because the nature of the rhetoric employed is so inflammatory or misguided that, instead of creating discourse, all that is accomplished is further dissension and misunderstanding.

The following represents one of the many fallacies that undergird negative assumptions about astrology, at the same time that it foregrounds the reason Plato didn’t like rhetoricians very much. He deplored the rhetor‘s ability to twist words around so as to make the weaker argument the stronger. This twisted rhetoric, amounting to legerdemain, was a pet peeve of his, as it is to anyone who believes in keeping an open mind and not manipulating people.

Burden of proof fallacy — The assertions that astrology should be explained by a conventional causal mechanism (such as gravity or magnetic forces), or that astrology should use the time of conception instead of the time of birth, are attempts to argue that view A (conventional mechanism and time of conception) is to be preferred to view B (testable, falsifiable operations drawn from astrology texts).

The logical fallacy in this case is that the burden of proof laid on view A is raised to an impossibly heavy level, and furthermore would not prove view B either. Preference for view A further leads to the false attribution that astrology makes extraordinary claims, and that no evidence of view B is sufficient because extraordinary evidence is required to prove view A. This argument makes a faulty inference of proof and is another error of logical structure.

Why are these rational errors made? No doubt the theories and applications that scientists are familiar with do not explain how astrology works. Yet no theory can be used to either support or deny what astrology actually claims in its texts. This requires evidence. To rely upon theory before evidence is, epistemologically speaking, to put the cart before the horse.

Before astrology can be explained, or explained away, it is necessary to understand and evaluate its claims. All researchers, whether they agree or disagree with the claims of astrology, need to immerse themselves deeply into the empirical observations made by astrology.

Without evidence, all arguments go down a slippery slope of rational errors. [In the year 2000], [a]strologer Rob Hand assert[ed], “We should not be trying to explain astrology by means of science as it is, but there is no problem with trying to explain astrology by a science that has not yet come to be.”

I think this is the fundamental problem for astrologers: astrology cannot be defined by the current narrow parameters of science as it exists today, and I see nothing wrong with that, because science allows for hypothetical realities and possibilities to be true even if they are not currently verifiable.

The fact that ‘how astrology works’ cannot be proven or disproven according to current scientific rules does not change my premise, which is that one should keep an open mind until perhaps one day, science catches up with the perception that astrology has some validity, of a sort that cannot currently be verified. That there are instruments incapable of measuring an energy or force does not mean the energy or force does not exist. It means we need to create more sensitive instruments, and that might never happen.

But what if it did? I know that I am not the first to have thought the currently impossible was remotely possible—some day. 

How it all connects for astrologers: through symbols, images, the zodiacal belt, and imagination


When death stretches out his bony hand…

•November 11, 2011 • Leave a Comment

These women don't look as scared as they should be

One of the things I appreciate most about my computer is the ability to listen to old-time radio shows that would otherwise be very difficult to find nowadays.

In my day”, she creaked, all her joints being crickety and old, “we still listened to radio shows for entertainment.”

I listened to The Green Hornet, and The Shadow; Gunsmoke and Bat Masterson (his theme song still runs through my mind from time to time). In fact, I listened to anything I could, because I loved stories, and I was an avid reader, but radio stories were unique, in that they allowed me to close my eyes and imagine the scene as though it were happening in front of me.

However, my favorites were mysteries. Stories about the weird, the witchy, the unknown, and the uncanny, were my preferred fare of an evening. I am pleased to tell you that many (but not all) of these stories still exist; my favorite, The Witching Hour, has mostly been lost to the ravages of time. Below, I’ve included the links to some of the best sources available online for murder mysteries and scary stories, performed in the inimitable style only the drama of the 1930s and ’40s American radio serial could create.

I'm frightened! What's that in your hand?!

I mean, seriously, listen to the following tracks from Murder at Midnight, Tales of Terror and Retribution, and you’ll be surprised at how creepy they are! When the announcer intones, in a voice of doom “Midnight, the witching hour, when our fears are strongest,” you’re reminded of how frightening being alone in the dark, listening to the immediacy of the voices weaving their dark tales, can be. Overly dramatic though these stories might sound to our more sophisticated ears, they’re still a lot of (creepy) fun.

There was Suspense, billed as “radio’s outstanding theatre of thrills,” its radio dramas compounded of

mystery and suspicion and dangerous adventure. In this series are tales calculated to intrigue you, to stir your nerves, to offer you a precarious situation and then withhold the solution… until the last possible moment.

Much of the tradition of scaring the wits out of you and creeping you out belongs to the time when we used to tell ghost stories around the fireplace, flames flickering against the darkness. But there is another tradition the horror radio show is reminiscent of, and that is the type of story told at the Grand Guignol in Paris; macabre and bloody stories which seem to have been resurrected most recently in gory slasher movies.

Radio Drama’s Adolescence

In 1934, the anthology series Lights Out debuted and exploited many of radio’s unique qualities to massive success. The program was penned by Wyllis Cooper and aired at midnight. Cooper employed stream of conscious monologues, multiple first-person narrators and internal monologues which were at odds with the characters’ spoken dialog.

Lights Out veered into Grand Guignol horror:

It’s most often remembered, however, for its gruesome and explicit sound effects which attempted to suggest joints being ripped from sockets, skin being eviscerated, heads being decapitated and other depictions of violence that would still be pushing the envelope, even on modern cable television programs.

Lights Out … was characterized by grisly stories spiked with dark, tongue-in-cheek humor, a sort of radio Grand Guignol. A character might be buried or eaten or skinned alive, vaporized in a ladle of white-hot steel, absorbed by a giant slurping amoeba, have his arm torn off by a robot, or forced to endure torture, beating or decapitation—always with the appropriate blood-curdling acting and sound effects.

Radio had the advantage for the listener, it seems to me, to be able to imagine the gory details without having to actually witness them. But it’s entirely possible that it’s much scarier to have an image lingering in your mind, long after the lights have been put out, and you’re alone with your thoughts…

Here is a selection of some of the best shows still available from the days of gore:

I Love a Mystery  Lights Out Murder at Midnight  Suspense Inner Sanctum

The staple of the Grand Guignol repertoire was the horror play, which inevitably featured eye-gouging, throat-slashing, acid-throwing, or some other equally grisly climax. Its name is often used as a general term for graphic, amoral horror entertainment, a genre popular from Elizabethan and Jacobean theatre (for instance Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus and Webster's The White Devil) to today's splatter films.


Into the liminal darkness…

•November 2, 2011 • 2 Comments

Doorway into November's darkened room...

To begin a month which, in the northern hemisphere, grows dark early, forcing us to hold meagre candles against the creeping half-light, I think a poem appreciating mystery (my theme for November) is appropriate.

I would like to thank The Violet Hour (an evocatively liminal-sounding title for a blog) for bringing this poem to my attention… 

STORIES

The stories we live in, my stories and yours,
knit from the wool of our ancestors,
spun on family helixes,
hold our worlds together – for a span.
Garments of swaddle and comfort,
patterns set in warp and weft,
bequeathed by “her” story and “his”
name, tribe, role and fate.

Graciously they wear thin, these stories;
shiny with overuse, one strand tears, and another,
until the fabric falters
under the weight and stock of incarnation.
Stories that once held worlds together
rip and split so that we can fall –
shredded and unraveled –
into mystery.

Here there is nothing;
nothing, but to wait
in the expanse of silence.
Wait until new fibers accrue
and the cosmic force returns
to thrust a greening axis
into the center
and possibility is reborn.

I slip between worlds...

I used to prefer the old stories
with familiar beginnings and ends,
comforted by convention;
the liminal darkness, the unknowing averted.
But now, at last, I am curious
or exhausted,
or perhaps have simply lost my place.

I slip between worlds,
into the darkness,
into the spacious silence,
to wait for the opening line
of a story that has never been told,
a story that begins with a smooth round
circle of breath –
the story that truly begins with
“Once….”

Joyce Pace Byrd,
Poems From The Labyrinth

 
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