I usually spend late Saturday morning meditating with a geomantic triplicity. I’ll consecrate a patch of floor, draw out a simple chart for recording two signs, cast for two signs, do the math, then just sit with it. I listen for what the spirits say, I apply my sense of the signs, I make notes, I may look at a few books for amplification. I’d say it is easier than taking a full chart, but I have sat with these triplicities as long (or even longer) as I have sat with many full and complex charts.
I can trust that the triplicity is going to address me directly, but also that it will yield what are, for the lack of a better word, cosmological insights. One of the advantages I have found with looking at just the triplicity is that I have to confront more directly the individuality of the signs. I don’t have houses or relationships to diffuse them, it is just three signs and their interaction.
Populus. Whew. That sign shows up and I know that I am going to have to work, to set aside the nervousness that sign can provoke for me, in order to appreciate why it is showing up. Populus comes with a wide slice of humble pie. All the divisions, from the subtle to the sharp, from the supportive to the antagonistic, can be snuffed out in Populus. At the same time, though, it’s exhilarating—we’re part of something that holds us all together no matter our personal ideas about it.
When we die, maggots may consume us and flowers may rise up to grow between our bones! But also, we might choke on a chicken bone and just die, because, well, our mortality is like that. Simone Weil soberly observed that while we may choose to die by the cross (Puella) or by the sword (Puer), either way it’s death.
Yeah, it is a weird sign. Any sign twinned gives birth to it and because of that it seems like any pair of twins might erupt from it at any moment, whirl ecstatically through the room, and fall in an exhausted heap on the floor. There is much of the witch’s craft in Populus, the night of the black cows with horns that might glisten if someone brings forth the lantern. The glory and impermanence of life against this abiding and all-but-silent duration. Glory be.
Ah, but how do you want to live?
The heaviness of truth can squat in Populus, cloaking the dark world that sits beneath all of our expectations and assertions. In Populus, things can just be how they are going to be whether we struggle or accept it. The river can be nudged but not deterred. But with the weight of the world, you can make something with density and duration, too. To become part of what endures, yes, to speak with what endures, yes, that’s there, too.
To be so close that we cannot hope to see everything, but we can almost feel everything in dim echo, pulsating in the depths of the flesh of the monads we are.
Ah, the candle burns low. Onward then to other tasks.