Windows on Mercury

As Mercury is about to end its apparent retrograde motion, a few Mercurial thoughts surface ~~~

“Language is the dress of thought” wrote Samuel Johnson back in 18th century England. Languages, national, international, ancient, modern, written, spoken, technical, speciality, and even slang, how they evolved, how they are written, how so much diversity exists - all of this is a constant source of wonder. Accents, side-kicks of language, add an extra layer of fascination. Astrologically all those are said to be "ruled" by planet Mercury. Astrology is a language in itself of course, with its own vocabulary, as capable of confusing the reader or listener as any obscure foreign or ancient language.

More important than language itself is nuance of understanding, or misunderstanding, arising between people, even when using the same language in the same accent - perception. Here's where astrology, as well as life-experience, plays its part. Mercury's natal position is key. As Anais Nin wrote:We don't see things as they are. We see them as we are. I'd paraphrase that and say that we don't always perceive words, phrases and concepts as they are commonly defined, but as we, via our uncommon natal charts perceive them.

Sanderson Beck has this to say on his website Astrology Time Patterns: Mercury:

Mercury and the mind are like a great lens or focus device; it is an instrument we use to focus our awareness. The soul is the true experiencer of the consciousness, but our direction and consequent awareness depends on how and where we focus the mind. The mind is tremendously powerful; how we use it is up to us.

There's a list of interpretations for Mercury in the 12 zodiac signs, and Mercury the 12 houses at the above link.

While chatting with husband about something Mercurial - writing, and finding subjects to write about, he suddenly said, "This window is dirty". Somewhat taken aback by such sudden interest in household cleaning I gawped, jaw dropping.

"No", he grinned, "write about it. Write about those four words".


"Write about a dirty window?"



"Yes. I did it once, a long time ago, to give myself a challenge. Just write whatever comes into your mind on that subject."

"Alright", I said, feeling uninspired, not to mention suspicious as to whether this was a subtle hint for me to get outside and do the necessary to our, admittedly murky, windows.

I scribbled down a few lines on the subject matter as challenged, then demanded to see his efforts, composed some years earlier.

All of this is leading to an astrological point, by the way.

My own answer to the challenge came via natal Mercury in Capricorn; his via Mercury in Pisces. The two, very different, pieces so typified those two zodiac signs that, on reading them in quick succession, I laughed out loud.

To copy both pieces here would tax a passing reader's attention span to the limit. An extract from the lengthy sample written by my husband will suffice, along with my own, very brief, effort in full. The difference will be only too apparent! I had not seen his version until after I'd written my own, by the way.


My response to the challenge (Mercury in Capricorn: economical, factual, practical, with an eye to work and business.)

"This window is dirty!"
"Of course it is. In Oklahoma there are no window cleaners, and I don't do windows! In England, window-cleaning is a profession. Many a would-be entrepreneur started out with just a ladder, a bucket, a cloth and a van. It's an enterprise I would commend to the young unemployed of Oklahoma. There are dirty windows galore, all over the state. Any likely lad, or lass, could be well on their way to their first million dollars within six months, with or without a ladder!"

Extract from the long piece by my husband (Mercury in Pisces: imaginative, creative, dreamy, sensitive.)

"This window is dirty," Chessie says out loud. It is just a diversion though, just a deliberate vacation from her usual mental employment. She had been thinking about other things.

On the other side of the smudgy glass, November is trying its best to perform a pretty sunset upstage from the colorless props on the residential back street. Orange rays strain through the bare gray limbs of the trees that edge a street of forty-year-old two story homes.

Chessie stands, arms tightly folded across her print dress, staring through the window at an empty spot at the curb. Morgan always parks his car in that spot.

She sighs and closes her eyes. When she opens them again she is looking down at the flowerbed in front of the window. "I think I’ll water the flowers," she says, knowing at once that she will not. The unusually mild November weather had encouraged the 'mums and pansies to bloom in abundance. But the watering thought was just another mental vacation from a habitual hard labor of thinking about Morgan.


She shivers a bit. It is warm in her room but looking out at the expiring November day gave her a chill. Her clear-nailed fingers flutter and drum-roll where they clutch her arms just below the short sleeve cuffs of her dress. She turns and walks to a chrome and vinyl chair, which was earlier turned out from the almost-matching dining table. She whirls and sits, knees and ankles together, arms still folded. Again a deep breath, again a long sigh. The ruffle-trimmed bodice of the dress tugs at the high neckline for more slack. Her thumbs flick in unison at the starch-white trim on the sleeves.


"He is an hour late," she says to the rose papered walls of the room, reflecting an exaggerated thought. Actually he is not late at all, she admits behind a pouting lip. "If he cared as much for me as he says, he would have been here long before this," she says, and that seems to make it all sensible. Actually she knows that if he arrived right now he would, in reality, be a bit early. And Morgan would never do that.

She might have felt some reassurance by reminding herself that he was always prompt, but then, he never was. He was always late. He was always really late. She scolds herself again for just accepting his poor punctuality after more than thirty dates, for just acclimating to his sliding schedule. His unfailing tardiness stole a bit of femininity from her. She couldn’t be late herself. No matter how slowly she prepared for one of their dates, she was always ready earlier than Morgan. "I don’t deserve this. I deserve better."

And with that quiet admission, that small thought, back in a corner studio in her mind a new version of her world begins to form. Like a drop of raw umber watercolor falling soundlessly on wet handmade paper, the thought spreads indiscriminately in all directions. Slowly, surely, softly the color spreads, claiming the gentle texture of the paper, integrating with the fibers, the earthy color blending with the white expanse" (There's a lot more).

Conclusion: astrology will shine through even the murkiest of windows!