The Dustbin

My friend Claudia, a Pisces, disliked astrology for years because she objected to the way most astrology books characterize her sun sign. "They always call it the 'dustbin of the zodiac' and stuff like that," she complains. And she's right; lazy astrology writers who begin with Aries and work their way down to Pisces have often run out of interesting and eloquent ways of expressing themselves by the time they get to the twelfth sign. "Alcoholic poets," they might say, or "just this side of insane; thieves, priests, escapists."

But even more problematic than tactless astrologers is the fact that Pisces is a symbol that defies rational and linear description. It is everything and nothing, the alpha and the omega, the heights and the depths. Some of the most fascinating and formidable people I've known were born when the sun was in Pisces; every Pisces I've known well (and I count among these my best friend and the dear aunt who helped raise me) has been an achiever, an activist, an artist, and a treasure. They've made me jealous and crazy, have intimidated and inspired me. And just when I think I've got them figured out, they surprise me.

Pisces marks the culmination of our seasonal year, and the culmination of human experience. The world is full of dirt and refuse and difficulty that collects in our odd corners, but Pisces avoids ninety-degree angles, swimming out to sea for regular baptisms. So no, Pisces brethren, you are not a psychic dustbin; you are the repositories of our collective wisdom, pain, and ecstacy.