Well. Pluto is now in Aquarius, and will be for most of the next twenty years. It won’t be back in Capricorn for another two hundred thirty or so — in March of 2254 AD.
When we look at what Capricorn means in terms of places, it represents a number of things: fallow fields… the storerooms where old wood is laid up in storage… the treasury where valuable things are put out of sight and under lock and key. Vaults and cellars come to mind. So do tool boxes and tool chests and locked-up warehouses where useful implements are kept. Bank accounts, too, are a kind of store-house: a place where wealth goes to be accumulated but not spent — Capricorn stands in for granaries where the harvest is gathered in, but never released to the hungry for their bread.
Pluto itself is less of a personal name, and more of a title: “the wealthy one.” His ancient name, before he became lord of the underworld, was Aidoneus or ‘Aides, from which we get Hades. He didn’t start out as a god of the dead; he began as a brother to Zeus, and got the ‘promotion’ to be the manage of ‘downstairs’ because he and Poseidon drew lots for the offices of the sea-god and the underworld-god. I don’t know whether any myth tells us whether he won or lost the lottery.
Pluto in Capricorn thus represents an image, something like the billionaire Scrooge McDuck swimming in his money-vault, enjoying the riches of and delight of accumulation for accumulation’s sake. Pluto in the latter degrees of Capricorn is best represented by the old man in the Ten of Pentacles from the Rider-Waite-Smith Tarot Deck — an old man seated in a chair, looking at the next generation of his household in satisfaction, surrounded by the towering fortress walls of his palace and with leashed hounds at his feet doting on him. All is perfect and all is well for him.
But Pluto in Aquarius represents something quite different.
Sources from the Hellenistic era through to the 17th century inform us that Aquarius is a field newly plowed, or a mine freshly opened for drawing precious ores out of the ground. It’s a quarry where skilled laborers chisel out stone blocks for the building of a cathedral. It’s a forest where lumberers are felling trees speedily and turning them into rafters for the king’s great hall. It’s a master artisan laying out the geometry for her next project while diligent apprentices look on. It is a circle of knitters, eagerly passing on their craft.
If Capricorn is the scheming fat-cat yowling at the midnight moon, Aquarius is the general contractor who’s at their miter saw a half-hour before dawn, speeding through a cut-list to turn a pile of 2x4s into a new fast-food restaurant. It is resources released to do work… and it is whistling artisans, raking in good coinage for putting their skills to work.
The tide is shifting, from “those who own” to “those who know how to do” — and the wealth is going to shift, too. The last time this happened, the last time Pluto entered Aquarius… the American Revolution was winding down — and the French Revolution was winding up. It will be thought-provoking to see where things go from here.
In the meantime, a poem for Pluto in Aquarius. Don’t worry if you don’t read it on the day of the ingress… He’s not going to be going anywhere, at least not for a while.
Hymn for Pluto In Aquarius
Hail, Wealthy One, with your permits in hand,
with rakes and picks and axes in your cart!
To level foundations, you've poured out sand,
chiseled pavers to shape with all your heart!
A chainsaw in skillful hands's a cleaver:
before you shout "timber!" the base is chopped.
Trunks fall with a crackle, and then a boom.
None can better an accomplished weaver:
once warped on heddles, weft cannot be stopped,
but back and forth goes shuttle on loom.
Here's a circle for crochet and knitting,
and welders haloed with precision sparks,
and line-cooks intent, though grease is spitting,
on putting dishes before oligarchs
and truckers alike. O! — What vast treasure
lingers in hands that do, in minds that know?
House-holder feeds her turkeys before dawn...
justly dispenses the proper measure...
and her hatchet gleams in the rose-red glow.
Hail, dread 'Aides, who loves functional crafts —
and minds and hands that make beauty, useful.
You love the flavors of home brewers' drafts,
and wooden bowls and spoons seem more truthful
than pot-metal flatware plated with chrome.
You call us to make in our mortal years —
bread for the belly and clothes for the bone.
The scarf grandma made in the nursing home
carries more love and laughter than tears...
and the work remains, when you call us home.
It’s been a long minute or so since I was able to find the time to do some poetry. Phew. See you soon with the column for the Sun’s entry into Sagittarius.
