Astrology and Myth

ORIGINAL POST February 2022

In 2022 I joined a year-long class that met weekly to learn the structure and philosophy of traditional Hellenistic astrology. The textbooks alone filled in many gaps for me. One thing became clear: to truly understand astrology requires a devotion not just to technique, but to archetypes and mythology.

I felt something similar when I first studied the Enneagram. What captivated me was its depth. Not only are there nine core types, but each type carries nuance—wings, stress points, growth paths, and variations shaped by mental health and life circumstances. It acknowledges the extraordinary complexity of human beings. My frustration with the Enneagram, however, was practical. You can’t reliably help someone else with it unless they are deeply self-aware and willing to articulate their inner landscape. It’s easy to mistype yourself and even easier to misunderstand others.

Astrology differs in a crucial way. A birth chart is fixed. Regardless of how someone is currently expressing themselves, the chart doesn’t change. From it, you can see areas of potential growth, challenge, and emphasis. That doesn’t mean people live their charts consciously, but it does mean the material is there to be worked with.

What I’ve learned, though, is that simply knowing someone has Jupiter in the 12th house or Venus in the 5th doesn’t get you very far. Those placements offer hints, but not understanding. Early on, my analytical mind wanted formulas, checklists, and rules that would allow me to read charts “correctly.” That approach can produce a competent reading, but it doesn’t produce a meaningful one.

Reading Cosmos and Psyche by Richard Tarnas and The Astrology of Fate by Liz Greene shifted something fundamental for me. It became obvious that a chart has to be approached more like a living system than a diagram. I started thinking of it as a game board.

Stay with me for a moment.

My oldest son plays Magic: The Gathering and Dungeons & Dragons. When he lived with me, I’d overhear the games and notice how much depth was involved. Players didn’t just know the rules; they knew the characters intimately. They understood what tools each character possessed, how those tools interacted with others, and how different environments changed the dynamics. They created scenarios, motivations, and evolving storylines. Astrology works the same way.

It’s not enough to know that Aries is ruled by Mars. You have to ask questions. What happens when Venus enters Mars’ territory? Is she welcomed, challenged, ignored, or empowered as an outsider? Does Mars share resources, or does Venus have to survive on her own terms? When Venus moves into a Jupiter-ruled house, does the environment support her values, or does it reinterpret them? These kinds of questions require imagination grounded in archetypal knowledge.

That realization has pointed me toward my next step: mythology.

To read charts well, one needs to know the characters. It helps to understand the Greek myths, Jungian archetypes, and the emotional texture behind the gods and symbols that populate astrology. Only then can a chart come alive as a story rather than a list of traits. Of course, imagination alone isn’t enough. The person whose chart is being read must confirm how those archetypes are actually showing up in their life. But once that resonance is found, astrology becomes a powerful tool for understanding both karma and trajectory.

Without that depth, astrology risks becoming merely interesting.

One of the most compelling examples of astrology as lived narrative comes from Liz Greene’s discussion of Pluto transits. Pluto moves slowly, often taking twenty or more years in a single sign. Where Pluto is placed in the natal chart points to an area of life that demands profound transformation. As it progresses through the chart by transit, it dismantles whatever sense of stability a person has built, forcing growth through disruption.

As I searched for a modern metaphor that captured this experience, I thought of The Hunger Games. In the final book, the characters find themselves inside a clock-like arena. Each hour unleashes a different form of chaos—fire, poison, mutts—designed to prevent rest or complacency. Pluto operates in a similar way. It brings symbolic death: the death of identities, beliefs, relationships, comforts, and illusions. Not to punish, but to strip away what cannot endure.

Greene emphasizes that Pluto cannot be resisted. Fighting it only deepens the damage. Acceptance, however, allows for regeneration. Pluto tears down so something stronger and more authentic can be built in its place.

Using stories like this helps people relate to their charts emotionally. Saying “Pluto is transiting your 12th house” is abstract. Framing it as a descent into an inner battleground—where preparation, self-compassion, and the right tools are required—gives someone a way to engage with the experience rather than fear it. The house Pluto moves through suggests not only the terrain of the struggle, but the kind of armor and weapons needed to survive it intact.

A twenty-year transit is not trivial. It deserves respect, context, and meaning.

This is what excites me about astrology now. It asks me to integrate my left-brain need for structure with my right-brain capacity for symbolism and story. There are no neat boxes to check, no pat answers that apply universally. There is only synthesis, discernment, and deep listening.