Private Papers of a Reluctant Astrologer

  “Why do you call these “Private Papers”? Peter asked while clutching my manuscript to his chest. I had just left the sun room, leaving scattered chapters of my book splayed out on the coffee table. I took the papers out of his hand, and sat down with our wine glasses.


They’re not so private when I’m going to publish it, eh?”

“These "Private Papers" of yours--is it a novel, memoir or--an astrology book? I mean, I'm a little confused--"

“--of course you would be, since it has elements of all--how much have you read?” I pretended a nonchalance I didn’t feel. I wanted him to give me a good first reading, yet looking at him there with my papers and his editorial pen in hand made me feel annoyed, and vulnerable. I better get over that attitude I thought. I handed the papers back to him, and got cozy at the other end of the couch. “Do you like it?” I asked, as I took a long sip of wine.

“I read just enough to get the jist of it— yes, it feels private, as if you were speaking personally to a friend. I like that.” He twirled his wineglass like he was peering through a crystal ball and pursed his lips. So now Peter might end up knowing more than he wanted to know. Peter tended to be a private person, but in reading this he would be forced to see the world from my perspective. Yet that was something I admired about him. He could allow himself to see things from different points of view.

I don’t need to be defensive I thought, but I still went on: “It’s more about different kinds of love--love within families as well as romantic love…and between people we idealize, and the difference between love that endures—and love that doesn’t.”

“And about you being a ‘reluctant’ astrologer?” he asked. “And a former divorced woman?”


“Yes, although I’m not that anymore.” I took another sip of wine and felt such gratitude for having him in my life now, and for having finished the book. And in the writing of it, I had moved beyond my secrets, beyond my reluctance."

“So it’s more than an astrology book—it’s a love story---” He asked again.

“Yes, with an unusual ending. Have you read that much of it yet?” I laughed.

“Well, I’ve only read the beginning of it. I was just wondering if I’m going to find some of this too personal. Me being the Virgo man with the Pisces moon and all that—is this supposed to be a memoir or—

“Fiction. It’s fiction, Peter, mostly. For some readers they’d say it’s about love and astrology, and moving beyond doubt…yes, the overcoming of doubt and skepticism. There is astrology there too—techniques of how to understand the chart in those email letters when I was mentoring Kendra.”

“So does this book fall into the spiritual “inspiration” category?” Peter put his pen in his mouth like a dangling cigarette. He had been such a “skeptic and non-believer” for most of our lives, especially anything that had the whiff of organized religion to it. We had many talks about the difference between spirituality and religion over the years.

“No, it’s not about converting to any belief—it just uses some astrology—I mean, that is what Isabelle is! She’s an astrologer, so the reader has to be open to that. Doesn’t matter if you believe in it or not—the reader just needs to be open to learning a bit of a new language and to move beyond the superficial sun sign astrology.”

“Okay, you don’t need to defend yourself. ”

“—I know. But…are you worrying that I said too much about you?”

He didn’t say anything, but I could see his face softening. It was only a few years ago he would have been closed down to me, to astrology, to too much disclosing about anything. Privacy mattered. Now I was breaking all that with these “Private Papers.”

“You just read the beginning of the story, didn’t you?” I grinned. “Give it a chance. It really is a love story—and it’s not just about us—its more about looking at what love is…and isn’t. You only sound like a “bad guy” somewhere in the beginning…really, you get much better!” I rolled my eyes in jest.

“And you only sound like a neurotic fortune teller for part of it, right?” Touché. He was playing with me now. “But, Isabelle, I still want to know, is this supposed to be a book for astrologers or learning how to love—or us? Because I want to know what’s true here and what isn’t.”

“That’s the essential question here, isn’t it? So what did you think, from what you’ve read so far?”

“Something sounds right. The truth? I don’t know, it’s not the literal truth, so far. It sounds more like emotional truth rather than what actually happened. There’s not so much astrology here that I got put off by it. I liked the part about us visiting Carl Jung’s house and your little studio on Beacon Hill and you and Sophie in the sacred sites in England. And…..” He stopped and put down his wine glass. “But it didn’t happen exactly like that, it was a rough road at times.”

“I know. Do you mind that I wrote it?” He looked up and gently smiled at me while nodding his head no.

“I’ve come to trust you.” It was true, we had somehow learned to trust the process of our life together again. And I had learned to trust the process of writing even when I didn’t understand what was happening. It was a trust I didn’t have before the book was finished.

He leaned back into the cushions. “But I think the question is: who is going to read this anyway? I hate to see you wasting your time. People who like romances will only like parts of it, and people who think they don’t like astrology will shy away, and people who want the memoir of a famous astrologer won’t read it.”

“So you’re wondering who is going to read it? So that’s the question isn’t it?” I said, gazing out the window, my eyes strained and unfocused from yet another long day at the computer. It was a fear of mine as well. I looked down at my wrinkled hands. Why did my hands look so old? “Well, you read it! You weren’t a believer, and you didn’t care--”

“—but I do love you and I am reading it.” Peter took a long sip of wine and put his glass down. Then he reached his hand over to me. “You did a good job, really. You were a reluctant one…me too, I was one of them, and you were even a reluctant writer. I guess you could say I’m one of the others now, I’m your reader. No reluctance.” He squeezed my hand, and I hadn’t realized till then how cold my hands had been.

I took Peter’s other hand in mine, and thought how much more “we” mattered to me than this writing. But still I cared about the story. Was I getting ready to die? Was that what all this introspection was about? Or was it simply that I believed too, that the “unexamined life wasn’t worth living?

I looked past Peter to the framed calligraphy on the wall behind him and let out a long sigh. It was a quote by the writer George Eliot, and said: “It is never too late to be who you might have been.” Was I sighing from acceptance or relief? I didn’t know, and perhaps it didn’t really matter. Beneath this quote was another inscription by Thoreau, written a little smaller:

“We are constantly invited to be who we really are.” This was good: I was pleased we are accepting this “constant invitation”. And we would see where it led….
                                                                            ~
(c)Elizabeth Spring  elizabethspring@aol.com

The Letter and the Journal: What is Said, and What is Felt

Dear Kendra~


Yes, all that Pluto in Tomas’s chart is a bit unnerving! Pluto can be ruthless and strip our egos of everything we think we need—even our health and closest relationships. Yet this Pluto, this “God of the Underworld” is somewhere in everyone’s birth chart—and it’s always busy “revolutionizing” by clearing away the old and making room for the new.

I think Tomas’ strong Pluto in his birth chart reveals his deep vulnerability, fear…and his strength. Did I tell you he kept fingering his Celtic cross as we talked? In mythology, Pluto wore a helmet that made him invisible, and as you may remember he stole Persephone and brought her to the underworld as his wife. It’s a strange story really—about a young woman losing her innocence, leaving her mother, and spending half the time in the underworld with her husband, Pluto, and the other half of her time in the above-world with her mother, Demeter.

BTW, did you know that Pluto has been demoted from a planet? I think it’s because of its tiny size (but astronomers don’t know it’s the most powerful ‘planet’ in astrology) and Demeter, who was once unnoticed by astronomers and astrologers, has now been promoted to the status of a planet, because of her size. Ah…the importance of “the Mother”!

Now they just discovered a new planet out beyond Pluto called Eris or Xena. Like the film goddess, Xena, she’s about the female warrior spirit, probably because she’d in the constellation of assertive Aries. Astrologers don’t know what to make of this new planet yet, as the meaning of the discovery of a planet always reflects something of the zeitgeist of the times. And Eris/Xena seems to reflect both the chaos and randomness of this time in history and the spirit of women’s struggle.

Hah! Sometimes I think science and astrology mix like oil and water…but history and astrology correlate in tandem, as the meaning of each new planet always reflects the nature of the time it’s discovered. When revolutionary Uranus was discovered in the 1700’s we had both the American, Russian and French revolutions. So, who knows how the archetypal “woman” beyond Pluto may impact our lives….?

But to answer your question about Tomas’ character: I don’t know whether it’s good to judge anyone too much by looking at their chart, as we don’t know how a person has acted out these energies. Being born with a lot of Pluto, like Tomas, can mean he was subject to a lot of trauma in life. But it doesn’t mean he was guilty or bad in any way because of it! In fact, with Pluto it’s really a victory to not fall into feeling like the victim, but to surrender to the story and heal. Many therapists have a strong Pluto—it’s like having a stamp on your passport, saying you’ve “been to hell and back”. You could say with Pluto: “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.”

Both Alistair and Tomas are strong men, each in their own way. I’m holding my loneliness and yearning with the “unknowing” of what’s going to happen---holding the tension of the opposites now, and waiting for the way to be clear—to hear from them! Do you remember Carl Jung counseling this? About holding the tension of the two opposites, till the third way is revealed? I am attempting to do that. Not easy.

Love,

Isabelle



Journal, December 1st

Tomas dropped by unexpectedly as I was finishing the email to Kendra. He found me crying. I was going to work on “the reading” with him for Friday, but he caught me…unprepared, in a moment.

As I looked up from writing to Kendra about Xena and Jung’s Reconciling Third Way, Tomas appeared at the door, and as soon as I let him in, I almost collapsed into my own counseling chair—

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Tomas took my hand in both of his. You can tell me…Isabelle….we don’t have to stay in any roles here. Just tell me what’s happening.”

“Tomas—tell me, if Alistair meant what he said about our story not being over, why doesn’t he come here? Why isn’t he with me now after my mother’s death…why does he keep me waiting? Why is he still –off in Europe somewhere? He doesn’t even email me. Sophie doesn’t either. What’s happening? I don’t know if I’m more sad, than mad, or more mad than sad. I can barely stand what I’m feeling.” I looked up at Tomas and a great wave of peace came over me. He was here. He was with me now; and holding my hand. Maybe this was all I needed.

Tomas continued holding my hand as he sat down. His head dropped. For a moment he didn’t say anything. When he looked up I could see his eyes were closed.

“Heavenly Father….Divine Mother” he began. “We ask your help and support for Isabelle. We ask that her way be made clear and that she feel the Spirit of God within and around her. Let her know she is loved, and that your Love always will always answer her every human need. Grant her peace...”

Tomas’ large hands were cradling and holding mine. There was energy here—it felt as if we had a direct line to God. No interference or static. Warm energy encircled us, and my mind flashed to Sophie’s healing circle of prayer at Lindisfarne.

Tomas continued: “Do not doubt the rightness of the two sides within you, and let whatever may happen, happen. A life without inner contradiction and tension is either only half a life or a life in the Beyond, which is destined only for angels. But God loves human beings more than the angels….Amen.”

“Amen” I whispered. “Didn’t Jung say that?” I asked.

“Exactly—I memorized it. There’s more to it, but that part stays with me. Ah…so my dear, I guess I dropped by at the right moment, yes?”

“Yes….perfect timing. And tomorrow, Friday…you’ll come by?”

He nodded. “Tomorrow I’ll come to you and you will hold me, and guide me. We can change roles that easy. Why not? Teacher-student, counselor-counselee….” He grinned, and walked to the door as I whispered my thanks again.

I’m struck by the synchronicity of Tomas quoting Jung to me just after I wrote to Kendra using Jung’s ideas. I want Kendra to see the tense paradoxes of people and astrology without being judgmental, but for me it’s about holding the tension of the opposites of sad and mad. Can I “hang in there” when the two people I love most are not even communicating with me? Is it deliberate or what? My heart wants to be with Alistair and Sophie again, and to let the mystery of their silence not crush me, or make me mad. But…I’m paranoid. I don’t get it. My angry sadness wants to take hold of me. And somewhere in there, I see that Tomas is in the equation now too. (c) elizabeth spring

It is Never Too Late to be Who You Might Have Been"

“It is never too late to be who you might have been.”
         Mark Twain



My hands gripped the steering wheel as if the car was going to go out of control at any minute. The radio was turned up high to a country-western station. Thoughts and words flew around me like the lyrics to the songs: ‘Free at Last’, ‘Wild Woman’, 'On the Road Again'. I turned to to an oldies channel where the Eagles were singing 'Desperado'. Ooh…I snapped it off. I couldn't allow any more tears; the windshield was all fogged; the sleet had turned to snow and it was dangerously slippery.

I had to hold on tight and focus. I wanted to reach Newport by dusk, and check into a little hotel downtown—one that I had walked by and admired many times.

It took longer to get there than I hoped. I circled the inn looking for a parking place, and checking the hotel out from the street. It was opposite a large beautiful hotel, but at first glance I couldn’t tell if this little inn looked quaint or seedy. It was somewhere in-between, but it was too late to make changes.

Putting on a matter-of-fact persona, I checked in with the clerk, telling him my basic information while quietly reminding myself that I could be cheerful. “ Isabelle Cocroft: Room 301” he told the porter. He wasn’t listening, so he repeated it even louder--

“Isabelle Cocroft, Room 301.” It echoed. This was me; nothing more. A middle aged woman staying for an indefinite period of time at a questionable hotel.



What about Isabelle the devoted mother of Sophie? And the loyal Mrs. Alistair Cocroft? What about Isabelle Cocroft, MA; professional astrologer and aspiring writer? What about the Isabelle who used to live in blue jeans and cowboy boots and wore her hair in a loose bun on top of her head? Or the other, older Isabelle--the one with curly cropped coppery hair—the one who loves picnics on the beach with a bottle of wine and a sunset to dream upon? And what about this Isabelle Cocroft—the one standing here right now—the one who feels like she's losing her mind? Mr Alistair Cocroft would suggest that they accept her for just one overnight stay, for she will be returning to resume her normal life tomorrow. But this Isabelle Cocroft of Room 301 was checking in for a week, and she was going to prove him wrong.



When I got to my room I called Alistair to let him know I had made it safely here, but the answering machine picked up instead, and I heard myself announce: “Hello, you’ve reached the Isabelle and Alistair, but we’re not here right now, so please leave a message after the beep” A little passive-aggressive for him not to pick-up, but understandable. Just how much did I want him to care?

“I just wanted to let you know I made it here safely and you’ve got my cell if you want to call.” I paused. What else could I say? Hope you’re feeling better? Sorry? “Bye.”

I dropped my cell in my bag, and put on my black-hooded coat and purple scarf. I could take a walk up on Bellevue Avenue. Why not? The little white lights of the Christmas season were up on the trees and shops, and the snow had stopped.

And so I walked up one side of the street and down the other trying to find an un-crowded restaurant where I could feel comfortable. The cappuccino place, C’est Ci Bon was closed. Nothing looked right, and I was reluctant to eat alone where I’d stick out, so I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bed. As I stared at the blank wall at the end of my bed, it reminded me of a blank page and my life now; fresh, full of promise and fear; ferocious in its emptiness. I lulled myself to sleep thinking how I was mastering my ambivalence—how un-Libra like I was becoming. It must be my moon in Aries. Or was it that my Sun conjuncted Neptune? I finally took an ‘Ambien’ my doctor had prescribed for sleeplessness, and fell asleep.

The next morning, after bringing a bagel sandwich and coffee back to my room, I opened my laptop and brought up the astrological aspects.

Jupiter, the planet of expansion and new opportunities, had just passed over my Moon. I always told clients how Jupiter was an “ancient beneficent” in the old astrological texts, but that it has to be taken in context with the rest of the transiting aspects in the chart. This was the art of the astrologer—to be able to synthesize the whole chart.

I wasn’t so happy to see that old devil Saturn, the ancient ‘malefic’ and planet of transformative change going into my seventh house of relationships; of marriage. But it was the truth; I had ‘saturnized’ my relationship with Alistair; seeing him in a negative light, and now it remained to be seen how we would play it out. I was going to have to be mindful of my projections. Did he abandon me or was I leaving him? It seemed like he had left me years ago, and I had just now become aware of it.

Closing my eyes, it all sank in and took only a minute before I knew what to do. I had to get on with the immediate job of my life and find an apartment. ‘Saturn’ calls one to action and restructuring one’s life, I reminded myself. How many times had I told others this?

Fumbling in my bag, I found the number of the realtor I had circled on a piece of paper. I called, and she told me to be there in an hour.

Down on the street again it felt good to join the multitudes and the mass of humanity bustling on the streets. It seemed hard to be really lonely in the city; guess that why I love them so much.

Thames Street was crowded, and it had the feeling of a city within a city. Here the sidewalks were full of people chatting happily on their cell phones and walking their dogs---but they looked me in the eye when I looked at them. I wondered if they could feel my fear….

I turned left nearing the side street with the old Swiss-German house as I had an extra fifteen minutes before my appointment. The guidebook called this historic area between the downtown and the ocean “the hill.” I loved walking on the brick sidewalks, and I walked up to the top, yet I knew if I wasn’t careful I could trip on the uneven pavement. I had on the wrong kind of shoes on for this kind of walking, and it was dangerous with my head in the clouds as well. Better be careful: ‘pride cometh before a fall” I reminded myself. While pondering this, I gave my feet a rest and leaned against a wall while gazing across the street. There was a “For Rent” sign up in a paned window of a small shop—or was it an office?

I hobbled over and looked in. The room was very small, perhaps only big enough for a desk and a couple of chairs, but the ceiling was high and the walls were a combination of wood and my favorite color: a soft salmon red. It had an old world charm, and best of all there was a fireplace; no not exactly a fireplace but a mantle with a black iron-cover to a fireplace that was molded into the face of a woman—or was she a Goddess? She had closed eyes and a serene expression.

How expensive could this be? How much could I afford? It felt like almost too much, too soon. But if I didn’t pay too much for an apartment couldn’t I make this my astrology office?

I took down the phone number and forgetting my sore feet hurried over to the realtor’s in a state of hope almost like falling in love. Could I really do this? Do I dare spend money so quickly—on me, on this, now?

The realtor had the key to the office on a peg board behind her and in no time she was unlocking the black door and turning the old latch. The room smelled like fireplace ashes. I loved it.

It was somewhat out of my price range, but then again I wasn’t sure what that really was. The most amazing thing was that this wasn’t only an office, but upstairs was a small studio apartment that came with it, and a tree shaded little courtyard behind it. The flagstone courtyard had a few small evergreens, and an oriental-looking stone bench and birdbath. I said yes immediately. What wasn’t perfect? The studio apartment had skylights and a small alcove with a view of the garden courtyard and a writing nook. The guilt of renting this was delicious, and lasted till the evening.

Walking back home, after signing the lease, I stopped off again and peeked in the window at the silent goddess who had blessed me with this opportunity. Then I treated myself to lunch with wine, at the Italian restaurant, and felt like I’d been transported into a romantic fantasy. I let the feeling linger…

That night I called Sophie from the hotel. Alistair had already told her about my leaving and I could hear the pain and coolness in her voice. But I assured her it was a temporary arrangement—a marriage sabbatical, and not a legal separation. She had a hard time understanding why, and I wished I had called sooner, or at least before Alistair had. I kept telling her how much I still loved Alistair but that I had to go. I didn’t want to tell her the details; I didn’t want to build a case against her father. There were long pauses.

I asked about her current boyfriend, but she was reluctant to talk about him—why couldn’t I have just stayed in town instead of moving to Newport? She asked. Was it because she was here? I assured her that I loved her, and that I knew she needed to have her own life now that she was out of college and out in the working world, and that I loved her and wouldn’t interfere, but I would come to Boston to see her for lunch each week. For lunch at least. I just wanted her to try to understand…not take sides, but just to allow us to do what we each needed to do.

“But why? Why did you leave?” Sophie didn’t get it. I told her the truth as I felt it. I told her the story again briefly—how I had gotten sick, desperately unhappy, and how her father distanced himself.

“He wasn’t there for me what I felt I was dying. He didn’t know what it felt like to be told: “you might have cancer and you’ll know by the end of the day the result of your biopsy.” He didn’t understand about anxiety attacks, and he didn’t want to be involved in “my fear.” He had never felt unsupported this way, and I had. That why I left.” And I left it at that. Sophie’s phone was beeping in with another call. “I love you” I almost yelled, as the call ended abruptly.      (c)~elizabeth spring