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Since I started working with geomancy, I have consistently found Acquisitio, the figure of abundance, to be the most inauspicious figure by a mile: always a signal of extreme stress. This has been a source of great confusion to me, since every textbook I've seen considers it to be, generally speaking, the most favorable figure of all.

Today I noticed Nigel Richmond's commentary on I Ching figure 28, "Excess," which says, "We recognize excess by the stress it creates: without stress excess is felt as abundance."

Oh. Well, then.

It occurs to me that our NASA Moon programs match the geomantic figures of their mythological namesakes. The Apollo program is Fortuna Minor, a figure of the Sun denoting swift-but-ephemeral-success; while the Artemis program is Via, a figure of the Moon denoting growth-for-growth's-sake (with completion always deferred somewhere in the future).

The demarcation between earth and water is called Necessity by natural philosophers because it is believed to bind and solidify the clay of which bodies are made. Hence when Menelaus, in Homer's Iliad, was invoking evil upon the Greeks, he said, "May all of you be resolved into earth and water," referring to the muddy substance of which human bodies were first made. The demarcation between water and air is called Harmony, that is, a compatible and harmonious union: for this is the interval which unites the lower with the upper, reconciling incongruent factors. The demarcation between air and fire is called Obedience; for whereas the muddy and heavy bodies are joined to the things above by Necessity, the things above associate with what is muddy by Obedience, with Harmony in the middle promoting a union of both.

(Macrobius, Commentary on the Dream of Scipio VI)

I find it fascinating how well these names and descriptions—Necessity, Harmony, Obedience—correspond to the natures of the geomantic figures, Fortuna Major, Conjunctio, and Fortuna Minor. Given that Macrobius was one of the main philosophical texts available in the middle ages, one wonders whether it exhibited some manner of direct or indirect influence on the development of geomancy.

It is usually frowned upon to try to dig into occult philosophy using divination. (This is because, I think, symbolic divination exists at the imaginal level, and is therefore a sensible phenomenon; but one cannot use the sensible to apprehend the intelligible.) Nevertheless, I've had some successes with it; but I find those successes are primarily on the basis of contemplation, merely using divination as confirmatory of those things I have attempted to apprehend directly. I thought it might be fun to poke through an example which occurred recently.

Because of all the challenges my family faced last December, I now do a fair amount of natural magic utilizing the Orphic Hymns. I'm in the process of learning ancient Greek, and my angel suggested to me that my workings would be more efficacious if I recited those Hymns in their original language. It's hard to trust one's inner senses, though: while I've gotten more accurate with time, I'd still say only maybe 75–80% of the things I hear my angel say are true, while the rest are just my imagination. (This is at least much better than the 50–50 I started with!) As a result, I always check actionable things I hear from them with divination, and so I asked, "Would reciting the Orphic Hymns in ancient Greek possess greater potency than doing so in English?"

The chart perfects, affirming the question. This was very surprising to me, since my understanding is that I am calling to the angels of the relevant divinities, and angels don't communicate using language! In the chart, the querent is represented by Rubeus in the first house, indicating misdirection. The quesited is Conjunctio in the eighth house, indicating coming to understanding. Perfection is found through a mutation in the fourth and fifth houses, which indicates that resolution comes about in an unexpected manner. This is reinforced by the court, which says that I have too narrow a view (Cauda Draconis right witness), but that inspiration will come (Lætitia left witness) if I think about it (Conjunctio judge).

So, I spent a few days mulling it over. As I've said before, I like to spitball possibilities before I try to settle on any of them, and this was no different: I came up with four or five possibilities, ranging from the Hymns being a cunningly contrived spell themselves involving the specific sounds (which are, of course, lost in translation), to my experiences involving angels being idiosyncratic. Ultimately, though, the option that seemed to be most likely to me was that the language of the Hymn itself didn't matter, but rather that the effort of mastering it was. (Certainly, this was the solution I came up with that I felt directed towards.) So I asked whether this was the case:

And look, we have a winner! Perfection is brought about through a simple occupation of Tristitia—hard work—in the first and the ninth. Therefore it is simply the nature of making the sustained effort that brings the increased potency about. But I note something additionally interesting: Fortuna Major in the seventh (of the other party; in the case of a Hymn, the angel I'm invoking) and fifth (of pleasure), which indicates that not only does the extra effort itself matter, but that it brings satisfaction to those I'm working with.

It's going to be some months of work before I'm capable of making such use of the Hymns, but it seems the effort will be worthwhile.

My family and I are on vacation: we're exploring the Rocky Mountains, which we've never seen before. I still do my daily divinations while on the road, of course, and I got another one of those funny charts today:

Once again, it's a felicitous chart. Of particular interest is Conjunctio rejoicing in the first in company with Albus in the second (of my property), fifth (of created objects, and given the Mercury association, I might assume books?), and eighth (of things owned by others). Looks like my angel's again got something set aside for me which they would like me to read. Just like before, Via rejoices (guidance, direction) and Lætitia rejoices (blessings).

We stopped in town to pick up some supplies and my wife suggested we go to a bookstore a friend of hers recommended. Sounds fine to me, of course, so I poke around. The only book that stood out to me was in the "Metaphysics" section, Susan Levitt's Taoist Feng Shui. I flipped through it and it seemed interesting, but I'm studying so many things already... I figure it's probably best to leave such a thing for another time.

As I'm putting the book back on the shelf, though, my angel says to me, clear as day, "You sure you want to put that one back?"

"Oh," I said, "is this what I was supposed to look for, today?"

"You should give it a try, I think you'll find something interesting in there."

So, I bought it. Indeed, after doing so, my family and I went over to a cafe next door and I read the first chapter while sipping some tea; and, indeed, I noticed something interesting. The first page of the book, introducing the Tao, quotes the Tao Te Ching XXV:

The Tao is great.
The universe is great.
Earth is great.
Each human is great.
These are the four great powers.

A human follows the earth.
Earth follows the universe.
The universe follows the Tao.
The Tao follows only itself.

Having read Plotinus, I can't help but see his four levels of reality in this: "the Tao" is the One, "the universe" (e.g. the cosmos, all that is) is the Intellect, Earth (e.g. the living world) is the level of souls, and "a human" is the level of bodies. Maybe it's time to give the Taoists another look, after all...

In any case, don't be too surprised if you start to see musings along those lines in the near future.

I found another translation of the Life of Plotinus (by Thomas Moore Johnson, in Bibliotheca Platonica, his other Platonic journal—seriously, you gotta love this guy), and this prompted me to re-read it. I discovered something funny.

Plotinus' most devoted student, and the most eminent after Porphyry, was Gentilianus Amelius. (He studied under Plotinus for twenty-four years and was the one who went all the way to Delphi to ask after Plotinus' soul.) Amelius is from the Greek ameleia, meaning "indifference" or "negligence."

When I registered a domain name to post my various spirituality-related things, I settled on amissio, the name of the geomantic figure of devotion. Literally, though, amissio is from the Latin, meaning "loss" or "deprivation;" and these, too, are meanings of the geomantic figure.

So, you see, Plotinus has two devoted-but-lacking students! :D

The above was my daily reading for today. It's an extremely felicitous chart: Luna (Via in the III), Venus (Amissio in the V), and Jupiter (Lætitia in the XI) all rejoice, and the XII is besieged (indicating that I am protected from troubles).

In particular, though, I would like to draw attention to the court. Caput Draconis in RW also occupies (and is in company with itself in) the VII and VIII: this quite clearly says "I have set something aside." ("I" being indicated as "the other party," "the one across from you," "your partner," etc. In my readings, it generally refers to either my wife or my deity.) Lætitia in the LW also occupies the I and XI: this says, "It is a blessing intended for you." (Lætita rejoicing also carries the connotations of something that will make me very happy, furthermore possibly something idealistic or philosophical.) Via in the J also occupies the III: this says, "Go out and get it!" (But also notice how Via is besieged by Fortuna Major on either side—it is quite literally "under the beams" of the Sun, and this has the same meaning as combustion in astrology: it is something hidden from me! I won't know where to go or what to look for, but go out all the same. I will also note that a rejoicing Luna is always associated for me with intuition and luck.)

What on earth could it be? Naturally, I'm as curious as it gets. After the morning's chores, I went out to walk and pray as I often do; for whatever reason, I grabbed my wallet and walked east towards downtown. Both of these are unusual: one doesn't usually need money to pray, and downtown is noisier than the residential districts north and west of my house—but intuition suggested I do so. I tend to get engrossed in prayer, sometimes to the point of nearly being run over by traffic, so I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going, but exactly as I finished my prayers—exactly!—I happened to be in front of the used bookstore in town.

"Well, okay," I thought, "I might as well go in if I'm here." I start poking around for a few minutes, and what should I happen to find on the shelf?

It's a 1977 reprint of Stephen MacKenna's celebrated translation of Plotinus, looking for all the world like it has never been opened before. My deity whispered, "you're welcome," in my ear, and I laughed so hard that I startled the poor shopkeeper.

It seems as if my course is made plain for me.

Let me excerpt an entry from my diary, dated Mar 2011:

While walking by my house today, there was a little leaf devil swirling in the road. I stepped past it, and it began to follow me, darting forward and back, playfully nipping at my heels. It spent ten minutes or so with me in this manner, all the way down the street: I leading, and it chasing. When I finally reached the end of the way and turned onto a side road to continue my walk, the leaf devil balked for a moment, spun in place, and finally whirled itself apart now that the game was over.

When I see such things with my own eyes, it is very difficult not to believe in magic.

I had completely forgotten about this lovely little incident, but was reminded of it by today's chapter of Sallustius, which speaks of circular motion being the imitation of Mind and linear motion being the imitation of Soul. We think very little of plain, old wind—but, for some reason, when the wind moves in circles, it seems intelligent, as my diary indicates!

So reminded, I thought I might ask if there was intelligence behind it, after all.

I'm Laetitia in the I, a figure of inspiration. The prospective spirit is Conjunctio in the VIII, the figure of forces coming together—and, I might note, a figure of Mercury, lord of intellect. Perfection exists through the translation (resolution by a third party, here Sallustius) of Fortuna Major (of success after long and patient effort) rejoicing in the IX (of philosophy) and in the XII (of blind spots). As a figure of the Sun, it's almost as if He's shedding light on the situation, and I would certainly say that taking ten years to make sense of an experience qualifies as long and patient effort!

The court takes a step back and looks at the bigger picture. At the time, I (Rubeus RW) was full of confusion and turmoil—I was just beginning, then, to take my first steps back into spirituality after harsh treatment at the hands of Christianity and materialism, both. This was soon to end (Cauda Draconis LW), but for the time being I was at a loss about the nature of the world (Amissio IV and J).

Puer in the III and XI seems to be my deity, winking and saying, "see how far I have led you?"

 

So I've been digging into why the significations for air and water vary between sources, especially on the topic of "intellect." Chris Brennan makes the point in Hellenistic Astrology that this is simply due to disagreements between Aristotle and his immediate successor, Theophrastus.

Aristotle saw fire as hot and water as cold, and thus in opposition to each other. Theophrastus, by contrast, saw air as cold and thus in opposition to fire. (He instead assigned water the quality of wet and placed it in opposition to dry earth.) Theophrastus' opinion influenced the Stoics, who in turn influenced the development of Hellenistic astrology: notice, for example, how the fire signs (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius) oppose the air signs (Libra, Aquarius, Gemini).

When astrology was revived in the medieval period, the associations stuck, but the interpretation of them was displaced by Aristotle's, who was held (alongside Ptolemy, who diverged from other Hellenistic astrologers) in high regard as being more "scientific" than other traditional thinkers. Consequently astrology (and to some degree geomancy, which flourished in the period and drew upon astrological symbolism) ended up chimæric, retaining the Stoic astrological associations but using the Aristotelian elemental symbolism.

I believe this fully accounts for my confusion with how air and water are interpreted.

The next question is which is correct? I don't think there's a simple answer to this, as the personal factor is too great to ignore. Whichever you choose, master it—but be aware that others may have chosen differently.

I tend to spend a lot of time in prayer each day. I've been pretty sick for the last couple months, but I was feeling strong enough today that I decided to get out for a walk while I did my prayers today. About halfway in, a few dogs streamed in from all over the neighborhood I was in and started following me as if I was the Pied Piper of Hameln. I went on praying and as I wound down, the dogs trailed off one at a time until I was left alone by the time I reached home again.

What a strange experience! I've never had that happened before, and I wondered if there was a connection to my prayers, or if there was a more mundane explanation.

I'm passionate Rubeus in the first. Normally, this is a pretty bad sign, as it's an indicator that one isn't thinking clearly, or is even engaged in self-deception. In this case, though, I think it's simply showing that I was completely consumed in prayer, or perhaps, since Rubeus also occupies the fourth house (of private things), it indicates that my assumption that my prayers are private is quite mistaken! The quesited is shining Laetitia in the ninth house and occupying the third, indicating that yes, my prayers were in fact shining like a beacon for the neighborhood to see.

These perfect in three ways (which act as emphasis):

1. Through the translation of Fortuna Minor in the second and tenth, indicating the intensity of my prayer.
2. Through the translation of Populus in the eighth and twelfth, indicating receptive spiritual pathways.
3. Through the mutation of Laetitia and Rubeus in the third and fourth, indicating the unexpected or surprising nature of the connection.

The dogs, as it happens, are masculine Puer in the sixth. (The largest dog, who was closest to me, was male, at least!) It is interesting that perfection also exists between me and the dogs, and between my prayer practice and the dogs, all facilitated through translations of receptive Populus.

I'm not clairvoyant, but this makes me wonder what the world looks like to one who is.