The Ages of Man

“The Ages of Man” is a general time-lord system that first appears in Book Four of Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos[1]. The idea is very simple. The entirety of a life is divided according to the seven classical planets in Chaldean order starting with the Moon. Just as in zodiacal releasing, Venus, the Sun, Mars, and Jupiter are each allotted the same number of years as their minor periods. Mercury gets half its normal years, and the Moon only four (I don’t know why). Saturn receives the remainder of the life once Jupiter’s time is up.

Here are the periods in order: Moon 4, Mercury 10, Venus 8, Sun 19, Mars 15, Jupiter 12, and then Saturn until death…

The idea is that this planetary order signifies the archetypal periods of life, generally common to all of us on account of that most fundamental condition we all share in common: that we occupy a body within time. The order in which the planets are listed, the Chaldean order, is thus not only fitting, but telling. For the Moon is most significant of the body, and Saturn, coming at the end, is most significant of time. What transpires in between, organised around the centrality of the Sun, is what most signifies our individual distinctiveness. It is during these periods of Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, and Jupiter that those forms most specific to our individual life make their appearance. But even so, less we should consider our selection in the eyes of the world too highly, this period of individualisation is held fast on either side by unassailable guards in whose eyes we remain common, utterly generic, and unworthy of exception: we take birth in a body (the Moon) and experience life through it for only a limited time (Saturn).

Between birth and sometime around the completion of our fourth year, it’s all about mom, nourishment and emotional bonding. Moonlike, even our bodies lack the distinct sharpness of feature that will set us apart from others later on. No mother will admit it, but there’s something generic about babies. And the Moon signifies the generic, such as the amassing of crowds, in which the individual is rendered indistinct. Even the fact that an infant can so easily be referred to as “it” shows to what extent this period of life is ruled over by the Moon, lord of the generic and the non-individuated.

Then, as we embark upon our fifth year, Mercury takes over. We mimic those around us to develop our language and communication skills, exploring and sponging up our immediate environment. We learn the rudiments of logic and begin developing our dexterity and coordination. This is the period of childhood, and it lasts until around the end of our 14th year.

Then puberty hits, and Venus takes over for the period of our adolescence. These are the “smitten” years. Social acceptance, fashion, and attractiveness become very important. Love takes on new and bewildering dimension. Sex becomes interesting, as does the desire for social pleasures. It’s during this time that nearly everyone, whatever their lasting proclivities will turn out to be, becomes interested in music and art. This is also a time of refinement in which many of the activities and articulations begun during the mercurial period of childhood receive more exacting attention. Those who started to engage in sports under the auspices of Mercury, lord of contest, seek to refine their performance under the auspices of Venus. It’s the same with many other pursuits and with the body in general, which in this period loses the androgynous quality of the previous age and begins filling out according to gender; with their bodies changing, girls and boys both seek to refine their appearance, each in their own manner.

The Sun takes over sometime around our 22nd birthday and signifies our life until around our 41st birthday. This is the period in which we most naturally turn towards the world with intention to find our purpose, our place to shine. Here, the ambit begins. Under this period, we develop our higher intelligence, our ability to see things clearly, make critical distinctions, and select our way. We learn about choice. It’s also a time in which we seek honour and distinction, or at least dream of doing so. It might be grand or it might be modest, but stepping forth like heroes we enter into adulthood in this age of the Sun, naturally seeking our place of recognition.

When Mars takes up responsibility for the period roughly between our 41st and 56th birthdays, the need to accomplish something in life and leave one’s mark becomes more pressing. This is naturally a time of challenge, effort, and hardship, a time of work and application, for the world rarely offers up the rewards we seek without some real effort, and sometimes even a fight. Ambition invokes enmity, accomplishment adversity. We must separate the wheat from the chaff and sever ties with whatever holds us back. But it is also a time when all that has gone before now translates into skill. This is not an age of abandonment, but of persistence and mastery.

After Mars, it is Jupiter’s time, marking the beginning of retirement. These are the august years. Learning to accept our diminishing physical stature and leave material ambition behind, we become more mature and orient ourselves increasingly towards both the appreciation and dispensation of wisdom. Some rise to prominence during this period, perhaps as judges or statesmen of various rank. Many become grandparents, offering their stabilising influence to the younger generations. Whether formally or informally, our judgement is sought, for this is in fact the role of this age: stabilisation.

Then, around the time of our 68th birthday, Saturn assumes signification for the remainder of our life. We deepen in wisdom (one hopes) and deteriorate steadily towards death (this part is sure). We become less flexible and drier in body, and sometimes also in spirit. With the fancies and ostentations of personal conceit no longer viable, time itself becomes an overwhelming presence, rejecting all but the essential. There is no appeal to this time, no later lord to promise relief. It is harsh, insisting on finality as the age unto death. The bony finger points in one direction only.

 . . .

It occurs to me that a clearer way to understand these ages is to think of them in terms similar to the seven hermetic lots. According to Robert Schmidt, the key to understanding the lots is to think of Fortune and its derivative lots in terms of what befalls one, and of Spirit and its derivative lots in terms of what inspires one.[2] Both can signify various kinds of action, but in the case of the fortune lots those actions will be taken in response to the circumstances befalling one, while in the case of the spirit lots those actions will be self-motivated and thus generating of circumstance. The Lot of Eros, for example, shows how we’re motivated internally through desire, and the Lot of Victory similarly through hope. The Lot of Necessity, however, shows how our actions are motivated by the changing play of external constraints to which we must adapt, and the Lot of Courage by the adversities we encounter—be they personal or impersonal. The Lot of Nemesis doesn’t link itself to action as readily, for it is heavier and limits action more bluntly than Necessity. Necessity leaves room for negotiation. It presents a changing maze. But Nemesis dampens action; it inhibits the impulse.[3]

Looking back, then, through the ages:

With the Moon naturally signifying the body and the nourishment of growth, what befalls us in the first age is birth, our body itself, and the nature and quality of its care. For the incarnating spirit this is the first and most fundamental moment of circumstantial encounter. What can an infant do to effect the shape of its reality? Very little. Its life is primarily determined by the circumstances in which it finds itself as a helpless body afloat in the care of others—fortune.

The second age is also dominated by fortune, the circumstantial, but modulated by Mercury. Starting with our fifth year, formation befalls us. We begin attending school. Our lives become scheduled. Language becomes a major focus. We learn to socialise. Certainly it is a time of learning, a mercurial activity, but this is an action stimulated in response to circumstance. It’s not like we choose what we learn. We are spoken to and expected to answer. We are put in school and expected to learn what is taught. We are subjected to various schedules and other activities to which we must adapt and develop appropriate response. And in the social milieu, we are subjected to the various personalities of our peers with whom we must learn to grapple, compete, and cooperate. This is the mercurial nature of fortune befalling us in this age. The quality of circumstantial constraint necessitates the development of Mercury’s attributes as the protagonistic spirit develops itself in adaptation.

The third age is the first to be dominated by individual spirit—the protagonist—though here it is modulated by Venus. It’s not that the press of circumstance suddenly recedes, nor that the presence of desire has remained until now unfelt. Having gone through the preceding stages, having by fortune’s grace now received a certain quality of body and expressive formation, spirit has sufficient faculty to afford itself a more proactive rather than merely reactive posture. For the first time, the question “what do I like?” rises to the fore as a fatefully relevant, actionable concern. While the decisions and actions flowing from it are not likely to be as momentous as those that will be taken in the next age, that of the Sun, still they have consequential bearing on the life, becoming factors of fate in a more pronounced way than in the previous two ages in which circumstance was the more defining factor. This is the age of eros.

The fourth age, beginning at 22 years old, is that of spirit itself, overseen by the Sun. Here, the protagonistic principle is most pronounced. Having in the age of eros explored the nature of its own likes and attractive desires, the protagonistic spirt now arrives upon the stage of action in its phase of young adult and assumes “the lead”. If in the previous age it was the question “what do I like?” that held the moment, the momentous question in this age is “what will I do?” And from the answers that are selected, tried and entertained, a particular path will be described through the delta of one’s fateful current. This age of spirit is an age of essay, of trial, attempt and endeavour.

The fifth age sees the press of circumstance return to the fore. The selection period is done. Beginning at 41 years of age, the path that was embarked upon during the age of spirit must now be seen through in this age demanding courage. There is no turning back. It must be won and defended. No hero’s journey is complete without the encounter of real adversity. In this sense, we might combine the previous age of spirit with this age of fortune modulated by Mars and think of them together as describing the ambit of but a single heroic epoch; one spanning 34 years, between our 22nd and 56th birthdays. In this second, Mars-ruled section of that epoch, the allotment of fortune attending our selections in the Sun-ruled period of spirit befalls us as adversity.

The sixth age is again a spirit age, but this time modulated by Jupiter. It is the age of victory. Were it not for the prospect of this age and its ability to engender hope, the endeavours set out upon in the age of spirit would never have been attempted, nor the difficulties in the age of courage seen through. Without the good expectation of victory, nothing daring is ever ventured. In this way, victory extends its affect back in time in the form of faith and optimism to earlier periods in the life. Arriving at this age, having ventured and persevered, one enjoys the fruit of their success—however bountiful or modest it may be—for they have “made it” around the ambit. It marks a time of wisdom and venerated opinion in which the protagonistic spirit seeks out respectful association, office, and the avenues of regard. The motivation for this is not simply vain, but generous and proud, desiring to participate in the stable trust and reputation of society.

The next age is the final age. It extends from the 68th birthday unto death—whenever that may be. Like the first, it is a fortune age, an age defined primarily by circumstance. But unlike the first, in which the circumstances of birth, body and nourishment occupy centre stage, this age of fortune is modulated by Saturn and presents us with the mirror opposite. Increasingly, by the steady press of time, the inescapable circumstances of bodily decay, impotence and death are what befall us. It is the age of limit. For some the circumstances of this age present themselves without delay, while for others the inevitable appears postponed–there may even be talk of escape… It matters not. In this age of nemesis, the account is balanced. You were born? You will die.

 . . .

Perhaps the easiest and most immediate way to characterise these seven ages is to typify them as personages. Of course, in order to do this in a recognisable fashion we have to imagine ourselves in a previous time, less complicated by the massive social projects that have so characterised the past century and rendered the traditional shape of our lives into an incomprehensible blur. If we imagine ourselves in the time of Shakespeare, for example, when trade guilds flourished and the halls of higher learning were relatively small affairs reserved for but a few, when most followed in the footsteps of their parents, perhaps in a trade, perhaps as farmers, some going into the military and others to the priesthood, then the following characterisations will seem more natural. The first age is that of the Baby, followed quickly by that of the Student, then comes the age of the Lover, then the Hero, the General, the Statesman, and finally the Senior. These are the seven stages of life as they would have been known to the inhabitants of the traditional world. Not just in Shakespeare’s time, but in the time of the ancient Greeks as well. It’s only very recently that we’ve taken the electrified eggbeater of idealism to society and whipped into a foaming frenzy.

There is an interesting symmetry, it seems to me, connecting the ages occurring on either side of the Sun. It isn’t a symmetry of sameness, but of complementary relevance. Those in the age of Mars are particularly well suited, for example, to mentor those in the age of Venus. They are still engaged in their vocations, still applying their labour to the matters of the world. They are masters of their craft. (We might note that all three lots of techneh have Mars as the defining planet, connecting Mars to technical mastery.)[4] Who better than a master of craft to take on as apprentice an adolescent fumbling through their age of refinement?

The same symmetry occurs between the age of Mercury and the age of Jupiter. Just as with Venus and Mars, their domiciles are opposite and naturally complementary. A child is a sponge for knowledge, and an elder a fountain of wisdom. Childhood is inherently an unstable and unsettled time, filled with constant change, question, exploration and discovery. Just as it is natural that masters in their craft should engage young people who are seeking to refine their abilities, it is natural that children should find a source of stabilising guidance in those who have already run their ambit and settled upon a verdict. This is what grandparents provide their grandchildren. Imagine what is missing when the grandparents, or other such elder authority figures, are not present. The parents, usually in the Sun period, are in the middle of their “hero’s journey” and unable to provide this quality of resolved stability.

This symmetry plays out a bit differently between Saturn and the Moon, and it isn’t nearly as clear who is “helping” who. Compared to the rest, those in these two ages are closer to that mysterious doorway through which we enter and leave. It’s what they have in common far more than anything occurring more deeply within the temporary movie-like bubble of life. From opposite ends, they bookend life. Saturn is rigid and dry, the Moon moist and constantly changing. Saturn signifies the definition of limit, the Moon undefined potential. But both are cool and passive; the infant requires help for everything, and increasingly the senior too. Like the others, these two make a complementary pair. It’s as though they share an unspoken substance, a certain sameness of being despite their differences. Both are in radically liminal state. Like players on the bench, one just in, the other about to go out, neither are actively “in the game”. Whatever the case, it’s well known a baby in the arms of a senior benefits both.

I imagine these pairs ideally holding hands on the journey of life. Only the Sun stands alone—as indeed do we all when making the fateful decisions that shape the arc of our life. This isn’t to say that someone in their Sun period has no company or counsel, nor that those in the other periods make no fateful choices, only that the period of life signified by the Sun most typifies this heroic moment in life. All of us face the question, “what will I do with my life?” In real terms, this question is most often determined during the period of life overseen by the Sun. The periods to either side all refer to that decision: those prior, preparing; those later harvesting and disseminating. The period of Mars, coming directly after that of the Sun, signifies the labour of harvest. It takes real effort to gain the fruit of one’s decisions. In Jupiter’s period we abound with harvest. The work is done, the wine is ready; we rest, become jovial and pontificate. Then things slow down and something more essential begins to emerge. Saturn oversees our reflections. What we hope to do, or would do differently, we can no longer do. Like rocky outcrops uncovered by erosion, our life as it is begins to emerge, the outcome of our choices exposed. What better company for this moment than an infant, reminding us how little we knew coming in, how far indeed we’ve travelled–and yet how not very far at all–and how it’s all really just about swings, ladders, and slides.

 . . .

These are the archetypes, the generic templates. In order to then see how they will express and play out in a particular life, we can examine the placement and condition of the planets in the individual chart. There is the question of the planet’s compatibility with the sign it occupies, whether or not it is comfortable there. Is it dignified, peregrine or debilitated? Does it enjoy the stability of being received by the domicile lord, or is the host turned away, promising instability? There is also the question of what kind of place it is in. Is it angular, succedent or cadent? Is it in a “good” or “bad” place? And, of course, there are aspects and configurations to consider. It may also be intriguing to consider if perhaps the configuration (or lack there of) between the various “hand-holding” pairs mentioned above sheds light on the presence and quality of such relationships within the life. For example, having Mercury and Jupiter in adjacent signs might show lack of regular contact with the grandparents, or similar such figures, during the childhood years. All of these together compose a general image of the time.


Footnotes: [1] Ptolemy, Tetrabiblos, 4,10. [2] Robert Schmidt, Translating Hellenistic Astrology into a Modern Idiom (workshop audio recording), Project Hindsight 2000. [3] The Spirit lots are: Spirit (Sun), Eros (Venus), and Victory (Jupiter); the Fortune lots are: Fortune (Moon), Necessity (Mercury), Courage (Mars), and Nemesis (Saturn). [4] Daytime calculations for the three lots of techneh, from Paul of Alexandria, are: Asc = Venus - Mars; Asc = Moon - Mars; Asc = Sun - Mars.

Mutual…

A bit tongue-in-cheek, but…

Robert Schmidt’s project

Sometimes as I’m listening to recordings of Robert Schmidt’s talks, I become filled with sadness verging on grief for the noble and ambitious project he was attempting but wasn’t able to complete. And sometimes I struggle not to succumb to feelings of anger verging on malice towards his detractors, whose envious opinions, like poisonous whispers spread around court, undermined and distracted his work. He might not agree that it distracted him—and certainly he still managed to do an amazing amount of work—but I can at least say, as I follow him closely in his lectures (and especially as I work to edit the transcripts), that his detractors were a distraction. And I guess what infuriates me at times (whether reasonably or unreasonably, I don’t know) is that they appear to have been blind to the valid beauty of what he was doing.

Or were they simply just too envious to allow it? This is a thought that often comes to me, but that I entertain uncomfortably. Were Robert’s naysayers and detractors, who have puffed themselves up with academic aires while dismissing the value of his work (they are willing to give him credit, but only as a translator), motivated to do so by envy? I don’t believe they really understood what Robert was doing. Or if they did, if they were able to spy it thanks to his brilliance, that it daunted them. I suspect they found it threatening to have the fullness of astrology revealed as something requiring a quality of intelligence they feared they or their followers might lack. The astrology that Robert revealed was not a simple thing. It was complex. To master it would require real work and a willingness to become humble. What, then, about their expertise? What about their careers, built upon what they already considered themselves to know?

As with a Rubik’s Cube whose only solution is a precisely prescribed set of moves, realisation of the original system of horoscopic astrology, at least as Robert presented it, required a willingness from modern astrologers to throw almost every preconceived notion into the fire of humble apprenticeship. Anyone trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube in a manner other than the prescribed method may get one or two sides complete and even look promisingly close on a third, but so long as they try to maintain these gains, proud to show what they’ve accomplished, they’ll shy away from the necessary prescribed steps required to actually solve the entire thing. It will seem too risky. The thought that keeps revisiting me is that Robert’s detractors were proud of what they considered their accomplishments and were unwilling to let them go. And that like a kid who has painstakingly managed to get first one side of a Rubik’s Cube and then another all the same colour—and having won some respect from their peers for doing so—they didn’t want to hear that they were going about it all wrong.

Envy is an ugly emotion, which makes it hard to admit. I know. I have wasted a lot of my life derailed by envy and am only now making more conscious effort to address this stymieing tendency within me. Envy is like a lead weight that keeps one pegged to the floor; one can only climb so high without ditching it the way a balloonist ditches sand bags in order to rise. Rather than admit the ugliness of envy within one’s own heart, it is very tempting to let reason have a go at justifying it as an ugliness not within oneself, but outside oneself. It’s not that I am wrong, it’s that he is wrong.

“Someone thinks he’s Hermes Trismegistus!” I literally heard one of Robert’s more prominent detractors say this about him. It sounds reasonable. Who is anyone to think they are Hermes Trismegistus? What hubris! But did Robert really think he was? Or did he perhaps only think that he was tapping into whatever state of mind so permeated that of “Hermes Trismegistus” as to allow the original system of horoscopic astrology to be conceived? To participate in the state of mind of Hermes Trismegistus is different than to claim identity with Hermes Trismegistus. And if we’re ready to condemn one of our own for achieving such participation, what then do we consider ourselves to be attempting when we try to practice astrology?

I can’t say if Robert’s reconstruction of Hellenistic astrology is an accurate reproduction of the original. Even he admitted that he could have it wrong. But what he knew by his own direct perception is that the fruit of his considerable efforts had led to the revelation of a system of astrology so cohesive as to suggest an original system, suitably subtle and complex as to train one’s mind into seeing with stable knowledge the changing world of material existence. He was able to reveal how astrology can constitute valid epistemology. This is no small feat. But the problem is that the overwhelming vast majority of us, satisfied to simply feel that we know, never think to ask ourselves how it is that we know what we think we know. So, for most of us, Robert’s efforts and achievements don’t even register on the radar of things worth paying attention to, and the astrology he revealed easily appears overly and needlessly complicated. “He must be over-reading the texts,” is another popular critique. Is that the problem? Or is the problem that, despite the normalised vanity with which popular culture has appropriated astrology, most of us are simply unable actually to appreciate it fully?

This is going to sound both snobbish and pessimistic, but lately I find myself wondering if popular astrology is simply an oxymoron in the same way salvation for the masses, public privacy, and institutionalised freedom are oxymorons. They make for great slogans, but they’re not well thought out. It’s like promoting “space flight for all” while not taking into consideration the great cost of each launch and the fact that the capsule has only room enough for three. Or like saying “we’ll get through this together” when the challenge to be traversed is actually a tightrope spanning the Great Canyon. Like the beautiful realisations whose subtle logic dances atop the crude rudiments of established grammar, daunting all but the most intrepid poets, astrology’s perfection is finally a solitary affair. It cannot be taught en masse. The basics can. “What’s your sign?” But not much more than that. Most people simply won’t have the desire to delve so deeply into the subject, and even less the desire to be changed by it. This can only lead to offence. And that, in fact, is what we have. It’s as though the impact of Robert’s revelations produced a crater of offence at the centre of which he and Ellen found themselves blinking in shock. The institutionalisation of a revelation is always an insulation of its power. It is a covering. Like Saturn, which rules the skin, as soon as it is cut, immediately it is healed. The red blood cells aren’t prompted to curiosity; “Say, hold on a minute… what’s out there?” They have only one imperative: to heal the rupture and reknit the integrity of the commune. It’s a very special blood cell that thanks the knife.

Valens’ books have been famous for a long time, but he didn’t write them for mass distribution. He wrote them for one or more of his students. And he specifically asked them not to share the knowledge indiscriminately. Beyond the most rudimentary levels, astrology can only be taught by intimate means, from teacher to student. The higher one goes, the smaller the class size must be. Why? It becomes too personal. Astrology is not some dry accounting. At the lower levels an algorithmic approach might yield some results, and we can just feed the code into the computer. But just as with language, at the higher levels it’s a different matter. Language achieves its perfection not in dictionaries and grammar books, nor in the official dictates of authoritative websites, but in the intimate moment of communication where, somehow, amazingly, despite the multivalence of words and the great odds favouring equivocation, a settled sense of meaning is shared between the souls of two people. It’s personal.

Listening to a recorded talk given by Robert as a companion to his book, Definitions and Foundations,[1] I learned that some thought he had stopped publishing translations because he had decided to start a secret school and only teach the material to his private students. He clarified this was not the case. And I suppose I should be grateful, for otherwise I may never have come across his work. But I wonder sometimes if perhaps that would have been the wiser route, and I think he did too.

Let me say a word or two about his project, about what he was trying to do. In terms of translation, he took his role as translator very seriously. More, it seems to me, than most. His goal was to recreate in common English an experience similar to what an ancient Greek would have experienced reading the original texts. He didn’t want simply to transliterate technical terms like horoscopos and zoidion, or gloss them by using familiar equivalents like ascendant and sign. He didn’t want to do this because the words used by the ancient Greek authors were meaningfully evocative in ways that our modern equivalents are not, and he wanted us to experience the implications of the words chosen by the founders of Hellenistic astrology, which he considered to have been chosen very carefully. But there is a world of difference between modern English and ancient Greek. The languages do not simply line up in rows of words neatly equivalent to one another. This is why Robert talked about trying to match up the semantic fields of words. It took him time and a lot of study—not of the language, but of the Hellenistic astrological system—to come up with suitable English words that not only by themselves but together could represent the vision of astrology he was discovering in the ancient texts.

This really makes up what was the core of his endeavour. He wasn’t trying to establish himself in a professorial role as the academic-like explainer of ancient Hellenistic astrology—a role many of his detractors have fairly fallen over themselves to fill. He understood a measure of that would be unavoidable, for people would need help to understand. But that wasn’t his primary goal. His project was to leave us with fresh access to ancient knowledge. He was trying to give the original system of Hellenistic horoscopic astrology a new birth. That is why when he would sign the inside cover of Definitions and Foundations he would write, “Toward the restoration of the astrological tradition.” And that is why he and his partner, Ellen Black, chose the image of a mummy being watered by a servant, with wheat sprouting from the casket for the bottom of the title page. That was his goal; to rebirth this ancient astrology and give it new life. To insinuate that he was full of hubris, saying that he thought himself Hermes Trismegistus, is like accusing a woman in labour of thinking herself to be God. It’s an outrageously insensitive and ignorant thing to say.

If he had been able to complete his intended project, we would have all of the ancient Greek astrological texts available to us in carefully chosen English translation—not technical transliteration—complete with accompanying notes and explanations, in what he envisioned to be a thirty volume set. Can you imagine? The first volume was intended to be a companion volume, full of technical information like tables and diagrams and a glossary of terms that would be handy for reference alongside while reading the other volumes. The last volume was to be a kind of summary of the collection, meant to clarify the shape and form of the original astrological system underlying the collection of ancient texts. In between there were to be twenty-eight volumes of translation, beginning with the all-important Definitions and Foundations, which would provide the key to understanding the rest. Twenty-eight volumes to match the twenty-eight shafts of “mummy wheat” growing from the watered casket. And when you subtract Definitions and Foundations—which arguably stands apart on its own compared to the ancient texts—twenty-seven volumes would remain, matching the twenty-seven days of the moon’s sidereal cycle. Altogether, thirty volumes. Translated ancient texts, twenty-seven. Thirty and twenty-seven: the two minor periods of Saturn, and the idealised periods of the lunar month as measured by synodic and sidereal cycles respectively. It would have been glorious. It pains my heart every time I see the numeral “2” marked on the solitary spine of Definitions and Foundations. But I’m grateful to have at least that.

[1] Definitions and Foundations and the TARES walking tour lecture discussing the work are published by Project Hindsight and can be ordered by contacting kathryn@projecthindsight.net

Robert Schmidt’s project (short version)

I would like to say a word or two about Robert Schmidt’s project; about what he was trying to do. In terms of translation, Robert took his role as translator very seriously. More, it seems to me, than most. His goal was to recreate in common English an experience similar to what an ancient Greek would have experienced reading the original texts. He didn’t want simply to transliterate technical terms like horoscopos and zoidion, or gloss them by using familiar equivalents like ascendant and sign. He didn’t want to do this because the words used by the ancient Greek authors were meaningfully evocative in ways that our modern equivalents are not, and he wanted us to experience the implications of the words chosen by the founders of Hellenistic astrology—which he considered to have been chosen very carefully. But there is a world of difference between modern English and ancient Greek. The languages do not simply line up in rows of words neatly equivalent to one another. This is why Robert talked a lot about trying to match up the semantic fields of words. It took him time and a lot of study—not only of the language, but of the Hellenistic astrological system—to come up with suitable English words that not only by themselves but together could represent the vision of astrology he was discovering in the ancient texts.

This really makes up what was the core of his endeavour. He wasn’t trying to establish himself in a professorial role as the academic-like explainer of ancient Hellenistic astrology—a role many of his detractors have fairly fallen over themselves to fill. He understood a measure of that would be unavoidable, for people would need help to understand. But that wasn’t his primary goal. His project was to leave us with fresh access to ancient knowledge. He was trying to give the original system of Hellenistic horoscopic astrology a new birth. That is why when he would sign the inside cover of Definitions and Foundations he would write, “Toward the restoration of the astrological tradition.” And that is why he and his partner, Ellen Black, chose the image of a mummy being watered by a servant, with wheat sprouting from the casket for the bottom of the title page. That was his goal; to rebirth this ancient astrology and give it new life.

If he had been able to complete his intended project, we would have all of the ancient Greek astrological texts available to us in carefully chosen English translation—not technical transliteration—complete with accompanying notes and explanations, in what he envisioned to be a thirty volume set. Can you imagine? The first volume was intended to be a companion volume, full of technical information like tables and diagrams and a glossary of terms that would be handy for reference alongside while reading the other volumes. The last volume was to be a kind of summary of the collection, meant to clarify the shape and form of the original astrological system underlying the collection of ancient texts. In between there were to be twenty-eight volumes of translation, beginning with the all-important Definitions and Foundations, which would provide the key to understanding the rest. Twenty-eight volumes to match the twenty-eight shafts of “mummy wheat” growing from the watered casket. And when you subtract Definitions and Foundations—which arguably stands apart on its own compared to the ancient texts—twenty-seven volumes would remain, matching the twenty-seven days of the moon’s sidereal cycle. Altogether, thirty volumes; translated ancient texts, twenty-seven. Thirty and twenty-seven: the two minor periods of Saturn, and the idealised periods of the lunar month as measured by synodic and sidereal cycles respectively. It would have been glorious. It pains my heart every time I see the numeral “2” marked on the solitary spine of Definitions and Foundations. But I’m grateful to have at least that.

What a natal chart shows

What does a natal chart show? In short, it shows all that we must tolerate: the good, the bad, and the ugly. It is shows our prārabdha karma and our svabhāva, the deep impressions giving rise to our state of being—neither of which are to be identified with if we are to realise our full and creative potential as loving and loyal instruments of the Supreme. As such, the natal chart shows the state of nature we have been given to deal with, the lot we have to work with as “gardeners” in the Lord’s employ.

So long as we mistakenly identify ourselves with the nature of our lot, we are affected and thus ruled by it. Simply reacting to karma as per the dictates of “our” nature, we become nothing more than part of the natural current itself, a puppet expressing the ebb and flow of its ever-transforming qualities.

By learning to renounce such reactive identification, we learn to remain unaffected, making ourselves available to the response ability of superior consciousness. This does not free us from the nature we have to work with, it is not a means of escape, but it gives us the perspective needed to cultivate that nature in a way which is beneficial, beautiful, and pleasing to the Whole.

The difference between an animal and a gardener, both of whom spend their days effecting change in nature, is that the gardener does so with a vision inspired by the one under whom they are employed. Simply reacting to the affect of nature, the animal remains a part of nature. The gardener, however, lifted by this vision, remains unaffected and responds to nature, working with it objectively to cultivate, as well as possible, a reflection of the vision.

The natal chart is an astrological schema, a kind of tool or yantra, for conceptualising the nature to be worked with. The study of astrology helps us to objectify nature so that we may see it with dispassion. As we see reflected in the chart the patterns of nature we experience, we are gradually reminded that we are not those patterns but the observer of those patterns. It is this subtle shift of consciousness that forms the basis of our participation in human being. Without it, we are really nothing more than glorified, clever animals. Our charts are not meant to be identified with, but rather the opposite; they are meant to help free us from such identification.

What are the odds?

If we were to begin with a square and then cross the diagonals to find the centre, like this…

…we could use the centre to draw a circle inside the square with a diameter equal to the sides of the square, like this:

If we were then to measure the sides of the square and add them up, we could divide that value–the perimeter of the square–by half, and then by π, in order to arrive at a radius that would describe an outer circle whose perimeter was equal to that of the square, like this:

Having done so, we could then draw another circle, this time centred on the circumference of the outer circle, with its edge just touching the circumference of the original, inner circle, like this:

Going through these steps, we would have an immediate and intuitive understanding that the relationship in size between the smallest circle and the inner circle was not arbitrary and random, but highly specific and tightly constrained. We would have demonstrated to ourselves, in the very act of drawing, that the two are bound together in ratio characterised by the square’s relationship to the circle it perfectly contains.

Now, as it happens, this ratio can be expressed in whole numbers very neatly as the ratio 3 : 11, e.g., if the radius of the smallest circle has a value of 3, the radius of the circle inside the square will have a value of 11.

These numbers are inherent to the proportion of a circle and square of equal perimeter, and can be expressed as a ratio, a fraction or a percentage.

3 : 11 = 3/11 = 27.3%

All signify the same proportion.

Why does this matter? Remarkably, this proportion exactly defines the relative size of the earth and moon. We saw that the smallest circle relates in size to the original circle as 3 does to 11; the same is true for how the size of the moon relates to that of the earth. Let’s do the math:

3 / 11 = 0.2727 = 27.3%

The radius of the moon is 1079.57 miles
The radius of the earth is 3959 miles

1079.57 / 3959 = 0.2727 = 27.3%

That the relative size of the earth and moon should conform so perfectly to the proportions generated by “squaring the circle” is astounding. Making the randomness of this coincidence even harder to believe, the same value of 27.3 defines the moon’s sidereal orbit around the earth. It takes the moon 27.3 days to make one full circle around the earth as measured against the backdrop of the fixed stars. Combine this with the fact that, despite the enormous difference in their sizes and relative distance from earth, the sun and moon are so perfectly proportioned in their size and distance that they both appear to be the same size to us on earth.

What are the odds?

The practice of astrology

With regards to astrology, my thoughts have primarily revolved around the question of how it can actually serve as a “liberating art”—to employ Robert Schmidt’s way of speaking. While this includes philosophical understanding, it must also include some sense of astrology as a practice—and by this, I don’t mean primarily a consultation practice, but a personal practice. What do we do with astrology? What is the most beneficial way of being in relation to astrology? How do we liberate ourselves through the practice of astrology, and of what, exactly, does such a practice consist?

While the world is said to be round with a more or less even surface upon which we all stand, I feel this is mirage and that a truer vision of the world comes to light if we imagine its surface heavily pocked with craters of such depth and number that each of us exist within the isolation of a single crater with seemingly unscalable sides. All material activities we partake of, like marbles spun around a bowl, dispel their energy and come back to settle at the bottom. On occasion, by some great effort (or divine intervention), a marble manages to escape, but only to find itself coming to rest at the bottom of another hole.

The purpose of all liberating arts is thus to help us scale the side, to allow us escape from the isolating gravity of our individual holes. This must be the primary purpose of astrology if we’re to consider it a liberating art—that it function as a ladder, a scaffolding upon which we can climb out of and above our identification with the isolating particularities of our individual experience. Otherwise it’s just more weight holding us down.

And, once the side is scaled, astrology must be light enough to all but discard. For the true surface of the world, so pocked, consists of razors’ edges where adjacent craters meet. There is no flat ground above all. The liberated soul is first and foremost a balancing artist who walks along edges, skirting the holes. What little he continues to hold while walking upon the edge must be light and agile less it compromise his balance and send him tumbling back down a hole. And so, it seems to me, astrology must expand itself in such way that its tuitional dogma ever lightens the more conversant one becomes, the scaffolding that seemed so structured and weighty at the bottom transforming into something lighter than memory at the top.

In this way, the aim of astrology must be its own transcendence, something its philosophy cannot contain but only note. The map itself can never be the place it depicts. And so the question of how one practises astrology becomes all-important, for balance is something we learn by feel.

Mahamantra

A young girl, feeling very distraught with all she was seeing around her in the world, one day came across an elderly woman who was sitting happily by herself, her eyes glistening with joy and contentment. The young girl thought this rather curious, for the situation around was clearly disturbing. She approached the elderly woman and asked, “How can you be so happy when the world is in such terrible shape?”

The old woman smiled at her and, almost laughing, said, “Oh, yes, the world is in a terrible state! This, young lady, is the age of Kali. Everyone has forgotten life’s real purpose and become instead unfortunate and disturbed by so many things. We’re short-lived and quarrelsome, full of envy and hypocrisy, and there are so many of us without food, shelter, stable domestic life, or even basic protection from the onslaughts of nature. And the governments are barely helping. Instead, they often make things worse, for they too are suffering from the same affliction.”

Visibly dismayed to hear the obvious confirmed, the girl asked, “Then why are you happy?”

Smiling again, and even more deeply, the old woman lowered her voice a little and replied, “Because, you see, there is only one thing to do in times like these: I am sitting here chanting my mahamantra.”

“What’s that?” asked the girl.

“What is it?” said the old woman, pausing and looking up a moment to consider her reply, “Well, I can tell you this…” and rocking forward a little, she said, “it’s the most confidential secret, that’s what it is. But if you listen closely, I’ll share it with you.”

And then, leaning towards her a bit more, the old woman whispered near her ear: “hare kṛṣṇa hare kṛṣṇa kṛṣṇa kṛṣṇa hare hare hare rāma hare rāma rāma rāma hare hare.”

The girl’s face grew calm and intent with concentration as she listened, but once the old woman had finished, she drew back with a quizzical look and asked, “What does that mean?”

“What does it mean?” replied the old woman, looking almost surprised. “Oh… well… actually….”—and here she chuckled, her eyes lighting up—“that’s the greatest mystery…”

“But by repeating these Names, we hear them, which gradually joins them to us, bringing them more intimately into the immediacy of our being. There, very gently, we can subtly extend our feeling to them, listening more carefully… and more carefully… and even more carefully… very softly, each time enquiring, “What do You mean?”

“Because it’s a mystery, we have to approach it in a very special way. First we have to surrender our habit of self orientation, putting aside all of our mundane, “what about me?” concerns. Then, in that humble mood, we have to become very sincere in our hearts and ask this Mystery, “What can I do for You?” Then, of course, we have to follow through. We need to serve the Mystery with no ulterior motive, allowing ourselves to be inspired and guided by it, doing as it asks. In this way we may enter.

“Those who have gone most deeply have found so far that hare has to do with everything and everything. And while eternally and supremely mysterious, kṛṣṇa, they’ve found, is entirely and most intimately personal…and mesmerisingly attractive beyond compare. Rāma, they say, is the very source from which every joy and pleasure flows.

“These have been their findings, but you may try as well.”

Association

The thing about association is that it changes you. This is an objective fact, and it is for this reason that such importance is placed upon keeping good company. The company we keep affects us. It affects how we feel about ourselves. It affects how we reason and come to understanding. Thus it affects our entire view of reality. This being the case, telling good association from bad becomes all-important.

How, then, to tell good association from bad?

Simply because potential associates adhere to an ideal to which we are attracted (perhaps appearing to be above others, somehow better, or more in the know) doesn’t mean this is objectively the case. Ideas, ideals and appearances are capable of exerting powerful influence upon our perception. But they can also be deceiving. How to know at the outset? Upon what basis can we judge good association from bad if, once accepted, it affects us and we come to see things according to the views and quality of that association?

Here are some thoughts I’ve had regarding the qualities I value in association:

When in good association both my personal insignificance and my intrinsic worth as an individual are simultaneously affirmed; it humbles me without making me feel unloved.

In good association, my need to outwardly affirm self-worth is calmed, and I am able to relax, accepting myself and others.

In good association my defences relax and I am able to take in new perspectives and appreciate the value of others without feeling threatened.

In good association I am able to be vulnerable and openly admit my ignorance, which allows me to learn.

In good association, everything is forgiven as secondary to love.

By clarifying my ignorance in an accepting way, good association allows my false notions of self to be admitted, challenged and debunked, to the satisfaction of my own intelligence.

In good association, I feel welcomed relief; it cools the passions, releasing me from their grip, replacing them with an open contentment.

These are all very nice and desirable things, the awareness of which may help to steer me away from bad association towards good. But simply judging the association offered to me by others (which can easily lead to judging the others themselves) is not enough. I also have to ask myself; am I capable of offering good association? Am I qualified? Am I doing my part to sustain good association? Do I even know how?

Good association exemplifies the art of carefully maintaining itself. For one who is aware, it is alive with a beautifully delicate and subtle dance of etiquette, never insisted upon but always observed. Good association is thus exemplary of awareness. It enlivens the heart.

By contrast, bad association is characterised by the very opposite. Etiquette, if not entirely ignored, is insisted upon dogmatically. Full of stiffness and posturing, it reduces openness and numbs the heart.

In bad association I find myself fearing the judgement of others while simultaneously passing judgement upon them.

In bad association, I hide myself, masking my closed heart behind a calculation of persona which engages others in a subtle warfare of wit, aiming to keep them slightly more vulnerable than myself.

Whereas in good association the self-preserving urge is aimed outwardly toward the preservation of that association itself, in bad association it is aimed inwardly toward preserving oneself only. In good association it is recognised that in the preservation of our openness together we are all preserved. Such faith is absent in bad association and the qualities of openness and sincerity are deemed naïve.

In the most simple of terms, good association is uplifting. This is its hallmark—just as the opposite of this is the hallmark of bad association. As a kind of litmus test, I may ask myself; am I participating in associations of genuine upliftment? Am I encouraging openness, honesty and vulnerability by my own example? Do I feel safe, valued and well received while doing so? Am I reciprocating courageously in a heart-full way with others, and they with me, when openly sharing in this way? If the answer to these questions is not yes, some introspection is in order, for no matter what the compelling attraction to associate may be, without these qualities present I am not yet participating in good association.

It’s about relation

The practice of astrology trains the eye to see life holistically, as a complete whole extending through time. Just as one cannot wish the hidden side of an object to be other than it already is—as though, not yet existing, it could be fashioned according to personal will—so too is wishing for ‘unpromised’ eventualities in life futile. And yet we have free will. We know this in an immediate and self-evident way. So how to reconcile these two sides of life, the holistic side inviting our sense of fate, and the presence of free will? This cannot be answered in a mechanical, algorithmic fashion. The relationship between the two is far more subtle and personal. But as a possible analogy, we might consider how caring for one part of a system too complex to see in whole nonetheless benefits the state of the entire system as a whole. We don’t have to control the entire system in order to affect it.

Next year I may have a transit of Saturn or Mars to contend with, but here and now I have the anticipation of that transit to contend with. While my predictions for what it will bring may or may not prove accurate, and while any attempt to control the future is questionable, caring now for that part of life I do control—my awareness in the moment, the only true jurisdiction of free will—is the real opportunity. By caring now for Saturn or Mars, both as immanent faculties of soul and in terms of what they signify in my chart, I enter into their association. This changes everything. With familiarity comes communication, and so greater sensitivity and responsiveness. This in turn leads to trust, and trust to relaxation, and relaxation to play. The whole system changes on account of caring without having to control. While next year’s transit is sure and its outcomes difficult to predict with certainty, whether it comes as a stranger or as a familiar is up to me. And that difference makes all the difference. The point of astrology is not to predict and control, but to receive the darshan of Truth; it’s about relation.

Acknowledging Robert H. Schmidt

In mathematics, a ready distinction is made between applied and theoretical mathematics. I have never heard this distinction made in astrology, and it would never have occurred to me before encountering the thought and work of Robert H. Schmidt and Project Hindsight. In his hands, that constant question whose settlement normally preoccupies the majority of astrological thought: “What does it mean?”, was transformed into a far deeper and more rewarding question: “How is it able to mean?” And for me, at least, this has opened the door to a profoundly richer and more deeply satisfying conception of astrology.

In attempting to reconstruct the original system of Western horoscopic astrology, Robert’s work could not help but encounter the question of its founding intent. And, perhaps more important than settling upon a final, scholarly verdict, I have found simply to ponder such a question while binding its consideration to the patterns and constraints of the system itself, closely studied (as Robert taught), to be an inexhaustible and fertile source of realisation, and one from which the traditionally common reasons for approaching astrology are satisfied as natural byproducts.

At the risk of sounding trite, what comes to mind as I think of Robert’s unique contribution is the saying about teaching someone to fish rather than simply giving them a fish. In early life, we learn language in a direct way, with each word pointing to its object. And while that suffices for simple and direct matters, it soon becomes insufficient for plumbing the deeper currents moving us from within our hearts. For that we need a system of linguistic reasoning that, by the integrity of its essential constraints, is able to address infinite variety in a singularly meaningful way.

I can think of no simpler way to sum up Robert’s work than to describe him as the preeminent astrological grammarian of our age, preoccupied with the clarification of Western horoscopic astro-logos (literally “star reasoning”, but more profoundly: reasoning according to the phenomenal cosmos). Whether one agrees with all of his formulations and conclusions is of less than secondary importance compared to the terrain of thought he introduces and the manner of approach he exemplifies. His greatest contribution, of which his formulations and conclusions are the product, has been his potent exemplification of what it means to think astrologically and reason according to the phenomenal cosmos. No one has more influenced me in this way than Robert H. Schmidt.

Fortune’s game

“I started to think in literary terms, or movie terms, about the meaning of the lots, since at least in a rough-hewn way, we came to the conclusion that Fortune was the audience, or the eye of God, and Spirit was more like an actor, playing for the audience, or God.  I had one interesting thought and that is if you looked at the planets’ distance from the Sun the first is Mercury (related to Fortune), the second is Venus (related to Spirit), the third is Mars (related to Fortune), the fourth is Jupiter (related to Spirit), and the fifth is Saturn (related to Fortune).”—Seth Kupchick, from a private 2015 email  

Dear Seth,

When I read your observation about the hermetic lots and the order of the planets from the Sun, I envisioned the order upon the Thema Mundi. There, with Cancer rising, the moon has place of honour, establishing the world—of which the Thema Mundi is the chart—as “a place of Fortune.” This is further made clear by Saturn’s reign over the opposing place, in the Capricorn descendant. “Come!” cries the barker, “Encounter your nemesis, the limit of what you would dare!”

After the Moon comes the Sun; and then, as your observation makes clear, each planet affiliated with the Lot of Spirit is flanked on either side by one of Fortune’s agents. The whole of Spirit’s calvary is in fact contained by Fortune’s regiments—held down, we might say, with the Moon and Saturn keeping the lid on either side, from birth (Asc) to death (Des). The game is rigged in fortune’s favour.

Especially in this “new age” of ours (despite the increasing signs of its dilapidation), one might understandably ask why Cancer and not Leo rises in the Thema Mundi. Why is the sun held down, below the horizon? But the picture is an honest one. What avenue does Spirit have to express itself in a newborn? It’s all just gurgling hunger and fluid management. Tube care. And then, in the end, when death overtakes us, again, what avenue for expression does Spirit have? This entire realm we call the world, through which we pass but momentarily, is Fortune’s realm through and through. Made of anangkē, that interlinking fabric of infinite cause and effect through which the waves of Fortune play, Spirit appears and—in its time allotted—makes at most a temporary impression upon the fabric of Fortune, which the infinitely rebounding waves of cause and effect are destined to eventually wipe clean.

So, while Fortune is mastered by Spirit, it remains forever sovereign, never losing its nature despite Spirit’s best efforts. The door in and the door out are both manned by Fortune. Spirit may be supreme, but its visitations are measured in time, and time is marked by Fortune. Spirit is like a “john” who enters the brothel and is catered to by the mistress of the house. While he’s there it’s all about him, and she appears ever pliable to his will (more or less, of course). But when his time is up, she disengages; she readjusts things, and his presence is in most cases soon forgotten.

The tenth house overcomes the first. Whereas the first and seventh belong to the Moon, the tenth is member to the solar court and arguably its most celebrated seat. Every spirit aims to overcome Fortune. The protagonist aims to overcome circumstance. This is the hope of every soul, choosing a life before the prophet of Lachesis—“that I may overcome circumstance and put one up on the scoreboard for Spirit!” But as every tyrant throughout history, regardless the extent of power and success achieved, has had to realise, the game is rigged. No matter how many times you bend the dice in your favour, the house always wins. Spirit is not at home in the world of Fortune, but merely a visitor.

Quite naturally, whatever reflects, aids and abets the desires of Spirit must be thought of as beneficial to Spirit—that wilful, voluntative entity experiencing the caprices of Fortune. And whatever challenges or stymies it can only be thought of as malefic, hindering Spirit’s ability to realise its desire. Mercury “goes both ways” but only in the same way a cop can be “good” or “bad”. Ultimately, he’s Fortune’s agent, regardless of how helpful and facilitating he may be. He’s working for the house.

In any movie, it’s the protagonist we’re encouraged to identify with. When we see the billboard for Rocky, we imagine ourselves as Rocky, beating all the odds and coming out on top. That’s Spirit. (“That’s the spirit!”) Spirit is the protagonist, and that’s what we sign up for. And it belongs to the movie every bit as much as the circumstances of Fortune it encounters. In Plato’s tale of Er we’re told that after having chosen a life (after having scanned over the movie billboards and bought a ticket), the soul is assigned a daemond which is “the guardian of the life and fulfiller of his choice; the genius that was chosen.” That’s Spirit (genius = genie = spirit); the daemon is Spirit. It’s the protagonist belonging to the life chosen, whose voluntative desires drive the life forward.

So, we could say that in examining the Spirit lots versus the Fortune lots (which I’d suggest should be considered in assembly), we are actually considering the protagonistic versus circumstantial characteristics of a life. It becomes a kind of character study, but not a static one—for character is only measured meaningfully as revealed through the eventualities of time, which is Fortune’s play. This is the sense in which life is bios.

So who are we in all this? And I mean especially as students of astrology. Are we but predestined characters, protagonists of more or less predetermined fate? On the one hand it might seem that way, as though the protagonist in a movie were suddenly written in to discover the movie’s own script: “Here, dude, have a look at your chart.” What choice does he have? But, on the other hand, no matter how immersed we become in a movie, identifying with the protagonist—whose fate indeed is “in the can”—we can’t really say we are him.

If we back it up a step to the souls that gather before the prophet of Lachesis; are we to identify with them? They have a degree of free will, which they exercise in their choosing of a life. That choice is not entirely unlimited, though. Lots are cast, and not by the souls but by the prophet. Only afterwards, in the order of their lots, are they able to exercise their choice—which some do more wisely than others. So, even in the Myth of Er, the radical free will proposed in this tiring new age has no foundation. (Surprise, surprise…) The soul’s only jurisdiction of choice is in the movie it selects among those available when its turn to select arises.

In the same way a film’s protagonist reflects the viewer who chooses to watch it, Spirit reflects the soul, but from a lower, more materially bound order. And in the same way the circumstances encountered by the film’s protagonist conspire by their containment of him to reveal his character, Fortune reflects the principle of constraint experienced by soul at a higher order. The soul doesn’t get to choose any life, any time it wants. Although possessing the faculty of choice, there is only one moment in the cycle of living and dying it gets to use it in a meaningful way. The souls arrive upon the field from whatever heaven or hell their previous lives have lead them to, there meeting up with old friends and acquaintances for some chit-chat before the cycle starts anew. Only after Lachesis’s prophet casts the lots determining the order in which they will be allowed to select—and thus determining the selection from which they will have to choose—do the souls meaningfully exercise free will.

I suppose there is a whole discussion to be had regarding how to understand one’s current life. As much as we may recognise the fatedness of life (“It’s in the can!”), it seems impossible that while in this life our choices do not matter. My own speculation is that, in much the same way each time period in zodiacal releasing is made up of lower order, self-similar reflections providing infinite cycles in minor scale of the order at major scale, we constantly return before Lachesis throughout the span of life we call “our life” but in minor form, from moment to moment (be they hours, days, months or years), at the resulting end of our choices, and that not only does this give us opportunity to practise wiser choosing, but that in exercising wiser choice at minor levels the fabric of fortune itself is subtly transformed at higher levels. As a sort of proxy for the soul, Spirit affects the fabric of Fortune, and thus Fortune eventually shimmers in reflection. But this is quite different from the “I create my own reality” radical free will of the deflating new age. It isn’t a control of fate, but the cultivation of a kind of relationship with fate that makes of it an agreeable familiar (as opposed to a disagreeable stranger).

Just as in the Myth of Er, where the life is chosen within the containment of a prior allotment, the Thema Mundi places Spirit, the soul’s lower-order proxy, within the containment of Fortune, reflecting back up to the higher order of soul its similar containment. It’s always fortune’s game. And yet it reflects our choices.

Thinking of the lots in this way, here are some descriptions that came to mind:

• Fortune = allotment (that containing us which we don’t control)
• Spirit = selection (that which we choose from within our containment)
• Necessity = plot (following Seth Kupchick’s formulation)
• Eros = desire
• Courage = challenge
• Victory = hope
• Nemesis = limit