Why I don’t defend astrology…

Natally, Sagittarius is the sign of my third place where Jupiter resides in opposition to Venus in the ninth. I think that’s why I love words — writing them, reading them, sharing them with others, and learning new ones. To me, the written word is high art. It transports us, moves us emotionally, or leads us to bubble with spontaneous laughter. I marvel at those who can cleverly turn phrases, or whose prose is as elegantly strung together as freshwater pearls.

I also cherish the rapidly declining art of long-hand correspondence. Growing up, I had a bevvy of pen pals around the globe, posting letters to the United Kingdom, Austria, Poland, Singapore, and countless other places. Whenever the agency to whom I sent funds each year dispatched a new address of some little girl or boy looking for a correspondent, I mailed a new letter. Most of these exchanges dwindled from lack of time or interest or just being another casualty of the Internet Age. Now, it’s easier to drop someone a hastily typed line than a lengthy, handwritten missive.

Recently, I confessed to an Antipodean friend that I had various “occult fascinations.” (Shocking, I know, since nobody would guess from my online persona!) Our correspondence has been brief, but intense. We confine ourselves to cathartic admissions around life’s vicissitudes and to cataloging abandoned dreams. In an exchange around coping methods for seemingly endless periods of bad luck, I wrote that astrology had helped me navigate painful episodes of loss, failure, and frustration. To my astonishment…