Saturdays with Kronos

On Constraint and Liberation

A restless spirit with fingers in plenty of pies, I’ve tended to avoid anything resembling a box. Boredom has rarely been a problem, perhaps as a result. But rhythm has: what to do when? I've been stumped by this basic question.

Every artist or game player knows that without some constraint there's a paralyzing number of possibilities. A time signature, a rule set--these things give shape by limiting the available options to a smaller, more manageable infinitude. Freedom in constraint.

So, what kind of constraints might offer a structuring principle in the game of life? What box might I be willing to surrender to for the sake of some paradoxical freedom?

The trouble was time: how to slip into it and swim its currents instead of merely skimming the surface?

Like a frustrated scuba diver who finds himself water skiing with his tank on, I recognized on some level that the key was to slow down. To let go of the rope and sink below. Paradoxically, once again, that’s how to make more time: by slowing down. But this maneuver comes at a cost. It requires committing to one thing and sacrificing every other present-moment possibility to it. All well and good, this gory time-making ritual, if only you can decide what is worthy of the sacrifice. That takes commitment, and that, in turn, demands some ordering principle. At least it does if you’re me.

So I found myself on a quest for a structuring element in life, a natural rhythm beyond the seasons and the conventional alternation of weekdays and weekends.

I made some experiments.

First, I tried on for size the calendrical system of East Asian tradition, based on interlocking cycles of 10 and 12. (It's these cycles that give rise to the 120 year Chinese calendrical cycle full of Water Pigs, Wood Rats, Fire Monkeys and the rest.) Though fascinating and resonant for me as a practitioner of East Asian Medicine, a calendar based on cycles of 10 and 12 proved too much at odds with the 7-day week that we are, after all, already stuck with.

I began looking closer to home. And with an old interest in astrology rearing its head once again, I grew curious what depths our old seven-day week held in reserve. Sometimes the treasure is buried right under your nose.

I recalled that the days of the week are, in most Indo-European languages, named after the planets. Except for Satur(n)day, Sunday and Mo(o)nday, these planetary associations aren't evident in English; the Norse pantheon rudely laid claim to our days such that we ended up with Thor instead of Jove, Wodin in place of Mercury. But in many of English's cousin tongues, the planet-weekday associations are still obvious. Take for instance the Italian word for Thursday, "Giovedì": Jove day, i.e Jupiter day. Or Nepalese "Mangalbar": Mars day.

Consistently across Indo-European cultures, from Southasia to Europe, these day-planet correspondences are as follows:

Sunday - Sun

Monday - Moon

Tuesday - Mars

Wednesday - Mercury

Thursday - Jupiter

Friday - Venus

Saturday - Saturn

Many of us, while vaguely aware of these planetary association with the weekdays, never pay them a second thought. They're simply part of the cultural wallpaper. Not so in Hindu India, where no one would think of planning a wedding for a Saturday: not when everyone knows that Saturn signifies limitations, delays and misery. Modern Westerners may be quick to laugh at this "superstition," but traditional Hindus may be just as quick to point out the sky-high divorce rates in the US. Touché. (For those currently in wedding planning mode, fab Friday belongs to Venus and as such is the most favored day for matrimony--but let's not get ahead of ourselves.)

Back to this idea of planet's 'owning' the days of the week in the first place. The idea that seems to have originated at least as far back as ancient Babylon and from there to have pervaded Western culture, broadly construed. Today it's hidden in plain sight. Who thinks about the Moon on Mondays, or the Sun on Sundays? And yet, a few hundred million Americans without an astrological bone in their bodies happen to worship a Sun god--the heavenly father--on his appointed day. Coincidence? Perhaps; even a broken clock will read the right time twice a day, after all.

But I was already suspicious that what was broken was something much deeper: our relationship to the planets, the old gods. We're talking here about deities or archetypes known in Sanskrit as grahas, those which seize. This rather frightening name underscores the planets' potency as perceived by Indian astrological tradition, known as Jyotish.

If as you read these words you are already formulating a witty and pointed critique, then you are seized by Mercury, who rules the intellect and clever remarks. If my attempted argument drives you beyond mere critique and into violence, we can point to Mars who is now seizing your mind. If you are driven right into madness, then the nodes of the moon (mathematical points related to eclipses and considered "shadow planets" in Jyotish) are at work. And so on.

According to this way of thinking, each planet shades and shapes our experience--and does so so pervasively that one would hardly think to question that things could be otherwise. We don't recognize the subtle forces orchestrating the dramas we live any more than a film character gazes off screen and sees the director, the writer or the producer. Yet without these figures, there is no movie. Likewise, the grahas are everywhere at work, weaving the tapestries of our lives with the threads of our karma.

In general, the so-called benefic planets, led by Jupiter, bring to fruition our positive karmas, such that we see pleasant and agreeable fruits in those areas of our lives. On the other hand, the so-called malefic planets, led by Saturn, bring to fruition our negative karmas, such that we see difficult and painful results in those areas. (Of course, from the perspective of certain kinds of growth, these difficult and painful results can be beneficial, making the so-called malefics into secret allies of our liberation.)

For most Western readers, this talk of karma begs the question of free will. If that question is "are our actions predetermined, or can we choose?" then the answer is 'yes,' as in both. Karma (technically, karma phala, the fruits of past action) does constrain our choices, but choose we can within certain bounds. Sometimes the bounds are very constraining indeed, virtual boulders in the river of our lives; there is nothing we can do but accept these fixed aspects and flow around them. Other times they are mere pebbles, easily dealt with. And even in the case of the boulders, there is sometimes wiggle room. Perhaps the boulder is amenable to a little leverage after all, with a long enough stick--or stick of TNT.

This business of applying careful leverage to shift otherwise near-intractable karmas turns out to be an old study in India: the subject is known as upaya. Here astrology intersects with the practical magic of ritual, for it's common for Indian astrologers to prescribe 'remedies' (upaya) to counteract or appease a difficult planet. Most commonly, the difficult planet is Saturn, widely considered the most baleful of the grahas--for, as much as the difficulties he can bring will provide ample opportunities for growth, most of us would prefer to avoid those difficulties in the first place.

Now, to start to bring things back around to the days of the week, lord Saturn rules Saturday. The logic of ritual dictates therefore that remedies aiming to alleviate Saturnian suffering are to be enacted on that day. These can include measures like fasting, acts of service (especially to Saturnine folks such as the elderly), or forms of ritual worship (mantra, puja, even feeding crows and black birds). In order to appease Saturn, the idea goes, it helps to speak his language. Through fasting, for instance, we perform some austerity for this most austere of planets. We meet him halfway, and lessen his need to visit involuntary austerity upon us.

Upaya measures are typically employed in a 'squeaky wheel gets the grease' fashion, targeting the planet deemed responsible for the trouble in the client's life. In my case, the trouble had to with time and how to exist within its framework. And so, without consciously realizing the connection, I gravitated toward the planet whose Greek name is Kronos, time. The one who, in Greek myth, eats his children. None other than Saturn, the slow-mover, lord of duration.

To be seized by Saturn is a humbling experience, for one tends to meet one's own limitations, to endure not only inevitable delays but oft-excruciating suffering. (The arms of the cross, some say, are none other than time and space). The Saturnian process can feel merciless, but its lord is here not just to inflict misery, but to grind and shape us. Even Sisyphean toil builds real muscle (spiritual muscle in this case, not physical, for Saturn is no hulk but a lean and wizened figure).

Being myself at the tail end of a nineteen-year period ruled by Saturn, I'm somewhat familiar with the rigors of this exalted planet, who has brought me delays, isolation, limited results from hard work, financial strain, loss and illness, all according to the specifics of my karma as represented in my natal chart. Growth opportunities all, it must be said--and while it would be disingenuous to thank Saturn for such miseries as my father's dementia, I can acknowledge how these misfortunes have shaped me into who I am. I wouldn't have entered the medical field without witnessing and experiencing suffering; wouldn't have worked as hard on my writing if early attempts had gained traction, and so on. I can and do thank Saturn for teaching me a measure of discipline, granting me some degree of grit, showing me how to focus. I thank him, too, for his teachings on time, a subject we're returning to the long way here, via a detour on karma.

The workings of karma are often mysterious, but occasionally we catch a glimpse of one of its tricks. I'm thinking about karma's habit of covering its tracks, subverting the very means we might use to follow it. For if we could catch it at work, we might be able to change it--and that might not be consistent with what our karma has in store for us. Thus it tends to remain hidden in order to better do its work.

Such was my karma that my prior understanding of Jyotish (in particular, of Saturn's strong influence in my life during nearly my entire adulthood to date) was veiled from me during most of this time. Forgetful of who was pulling the strings, I had no means of influencing the puppet show. It's only in recent months that I've remembered, and picked back up my Jyotish studies. Late in the Saturnian day, I've begun to work with lord Shani (as Saturn is known in India) intentionally. Which is how I find myself up before dawn today, a Saturday, putting the final touches on this piece, which is (it's finally dawned on me) in his honor.

Om Sham Shanaiscarāya Namah. Hail the Slow-Mover.

With all the force of the obvious hidden in plain sight, it strikes me now: among the best ways of honoring and appeasing the slow-moving planet is to go slow oneself. To honor time by sinking into it, sacrificing every other present possibility to the one object of focus. To find freedom in limitation.

If ‘slow’ is the how of Saturn remedies, and Saturday the ‘when,’ then ‘service’ is the what.

Granted, a slow, service-oriented day is far from the typical American Saturday ideal--which only goes to show how broken is our relationship with the planets. As someone who found himself craving structure, however, I can report that dedicating Saturdays to service, as I've done in recent months, has been liberating. Getting up early on Saturdays, putting on work clothes (blue, naturally) and making a dump run, then grinding out some necessary project or other for the Sanctuary where I live--it's felt right. With this commitment came the end of the niggling voice saying 'shouldn't you be working?' while I was trying to relax, or 'shouldn't you be enjoying this beautiful day?' while I was working. And in fact, I often did enjoy the service day once I got into the groove, even on my spartan Saturday diet. Plastering, trimming, hauling, hammering, I was right where I was supposed to be: "right in time," as the singer Lucinda Williams would say. (You can thank Saturn for the blues, by the way).

It's been almost scary how much Saturn seems to be paying attention to this little experiment of mine (though granted, I have been starting Saturdays with his mantra, the spiritual equivalent of calling his direct line). What kind of attention? Well, the time I fudged the spartan diet thing and had a plate of buttery-syrupy waffles before my Saturday shift was done, or when I procrastinated getting into gear or tried once to shirk my newfound commitment, I felt it, jarringly: an off-note in the day's otherwise stately (if rather serious) song. Those times, Saturn walloped me with his staff. Result, a heavy-duty case of the blues: a deep, melancholy funk lifted only by a re-orientation and re-commitment to the nature of the day.

Rather than fight the current, the best approach, I've found, is to work with the iron planet's constraints. That's advice I would extend to anyone in the grips of a Saturnian period (such as, in Jyotish terms, a Saturn mahadasha or the feared sadhe sati, when Saturn transits the natal moon): understand what the master of limitation and constriction requires. Then, meet him halfway. Learn to speak his language, whether through service, ritual, austerity, or some other yoking of focused intent and disciplined action. And for Shani's sake, don't rush.

In giving the slow-mover his due on his day, I think you'll find that other days become less shadowed by his displeasure--less blue. They can then be free to take on their own colors: Fridays as fab as Venus would decree, Wednesdays fleet-footed as the whim of Mercury. But that, friends, is the subject of another post.

For now, wishing you all a slow and steady Saturday.

Further Reading:

Robert Svoboda, The Greatness of Saturn. An upaya of a book-length tribute to the slow-moving planet by way of an explication of a "therapeutic myth" rooted in classical Indian tradition.

De Fouw and Svoboda, Light on Life. A wonderfully-written, in-depth introduction to Indian astrology.