AFTER SUPPLYING the ego with the courage to incarnate and move about with sovereign will (as symbolized by the Aries head), the soul works its way down to the Taurus neck, or “Taproot,” in order to ground itself into the body and, thereby, encounter and sculpt the material world through the five senses. In the third step of incarnation, the soul feels the call to widen its body-centric worldview by growing Gemini “Chi Tendrils” to reach out, communicate and network with other people, places and perspectives. This impulse to ventilate and network outward from the dense subjectivity of the body is beautifully symbolized by the Gemini arms and hands, the articulating aspect of the tongue, the ventilating larynx and trachea (“wind pipe”), and the intricately branching, finger-like tendrils of the lungs and nervous system. Who would we be without these beautifully bifurcating fingers of god?
In the chart pictured here, notice how the trachea, or “wind pipe,” branches in order to feed the two lungs which are, themselves, an orgy of bifurcating “chi tendrils,” or “bronchioles,” that travel the entire geography of the lungs with their oxygenating message. Is this not a perfect metaphor for Gemini, whose glyph is the Roman numeral 2 and whose planetary ruler, Mercury, is called “the winged messenger?” Clearly this somatic scripture was designed to focus our attention on the nature and purpose of duality, networking and the spontaneous flow of communication.
It’s almost as if — lest the head-born Aries dream of sovereignty turned too solid — the matter-ingesting function of the Taurus neck (esophagus) was infiltrated by a mutable, windswept tube: the trachea. Amazing, isn’t it, how gracefully the throat houses the movement of both earth and sky? Indeed, the body’s very survival depends on a delicate little valve (the larynx) that alternately turns the neck into feeding tube and wind pipe. It is this spontaneously adaptive Gemini valve that allows us to avoid the extremes of scientific materialism (too much solid food) and empirically untested belief (too much air).
The message of the Gemini-ventilated neck is clear: we are both bounded and unbounded beings with corresponding dietary requirements. A well-rounded diet of form and emptiness, self and no-self, doing and being is essential for our psychospiritual health. But how much of each? The answer is obvious when we consider which passageway is most continually active — the wind pipe or the feeding tube? Buddhists take it a step further: “form is emptiness; emptiness is form.” The savoring of form and emptiness (personality and undivided presence) are activities that happen inside a greater divine physiology. In this sense, trachea and windpipe perform the same function: to point us at the wheel-like nature of both breath and bowel so we might awaken as the pure awareness at their hub.
The H-like structure of the brain
Traditionally, the brain is ruled by Aries. In terms of its actual inner activity, this makes sense. The brain’s lightning-fast ability to “show up” and its gutsy endowment of I AM individuality is pure Aries. In terms of its bridged hemispheric structure, however, the brain is a distinctly dualistic, Gemini symbol — an extension of the bifurcating Gemini nervous system.
In the same way that Gemini balances the body-densifying function of the Taurus esophagus with the constant respiration of new experience and information, the sign of the Twins injects mirror-like polarity (and, therefore, the potential for objectivity) into the otherwise self-referencing I AM-ness of the Aries brain. By dividing the brain into two conversing hemispheres, Gemini “de-narcissizes” the brain, mandating that we mix with and internalize other points of view and (lest we become mentally unhorsed) wake up as the silent, reflective mirror of a myriad of differing identities and perspectives.
A good way to picture the complementary relationship between Aries and Gemini is to feel the “closed system” quality of the number one, which corresponds to Aries, the first sign of the zodiac. At its best, “one” is sovereign, whole and complete; at its worst, “one” is blindly self-involved. Now consider the two vertical posts of the Roman numeral “two”, the symbol of the sign of Gemini. At its best, “two” is dialectic and objective; at its worst, “two” is fragmented and bi-polar. Can you see how each number is the other one’s medicine? “One” needs the self-reflective mirroring of “two”; “two” needs the synthesizing focus of “one.” By stirring Gemini interrelatedness into Aries individuation, the higher-octave expression of both numbers is enhanced. This challenge to integrate “one” with “two” is dramatized by the fact that we have one brain with two lobes.
What is needed is a horizontal, connecting slash that unifies the two posts of the roman numeral two, forming something similar to the letter “H.” This would give the two hemispheres of the brain a cafe table across which to gab and come to some sort of integrated consensus. Anatomy calls this hemisphere-bridging bundle of 200-300 million nerve fibers the “Corpus Callosum.”
The ultimate integrated consensus, of course, would be to wake up as the primordial awareness that these bridged hemispheres float in; an awareness in which inner and outer, self and other, are not just bridged but are felt as phenomenon arising within a larger cosmic brain (our true nature). Is not the duality-bridging H-like structure of the brain a compelling anatomical invitation to experience precisely this kind of nondual realization?
Think of it: one brain, divided into two, with a pathway provided to return us to the experience of union. Is this not an ingenious 3-D version of the entire Buddhist dharma? When we vibrate the air with Gemini words, are we not, in effect, creating a virtual corpus callosum between two people? Is not every self/other combination a hairdo’d reenactment of God’s two hemispheres, saying “peekaboo” to itself? How do we know which words to vibrate the air around us with? Simple: whichever words most please presence; whichever words illuminate the air’s corpus callosum status.
Tongues and thumbs
The tongue is the ultimate Gemini “chi tendril.” Agile beyond comprehension and veritably feasting on the multiplicity of thought and experience, the tongue is grand central station for Gemini communication. It does not, however, bifurcate. In this sense, it appears to fail the duality test until you consider the Native American expression, “forked tongue.” (an attribute of the devil in Christianity). To speak with a forked tongue meant to display the characteristic of deceptiveness, duplicity and untruthfulness. In short, it refers to a person whose speech and action diverge and are not congruent.
Ah, but whose words and deeds perfectly match? Whether consciously intended or not, we’re all lying to the extent that we lack in follow-through. This makes speaking with a forked tongue an inevitable part of human journey toward union and, in this sense, the tongue is a constant, real-time measurement of how well we discern the difference between the me-stories that flatter ourselves (and others) vs. the me-stories that embody our naturally committed heart.
Opposable thumbs allow our Gemini hands to juggle and manipulate the world’s evidence of separation so that we might tangibly inquire into who it is that’s grabbing and releasing, gaining and losing. Here again, the hands serve as hinging dualities – opposing thumbs coming together – grasping at the river of sensation to paradoxically savor what is always here, ever-present and ungraspable. Why are the charts of so many astrologers strong in the sign of Gemini? Because higher octave Gem is hungry for uncommon amounts of social and intellectual experience from which to harvest the subtle pattern recognition required for deeper understanding. And because it takes a bird-like nervous system and a plethora of perches to fully take in the larger archetypal themes that sew together the relentless change that is this world.
Wave jumping in search of wetness
“Klesha” is a Buddhist term that means, “states that cloud the mind and manifest in unwholesome actions.” Kleshas are what happens when we claim ownership of personality instead of abiding as the loving vastness in which it arises.
What happens when the healthy curiosity that compels the Gemini Chi Tendrils to reach out for new experience and fresh vantage points becomes automated, detached from any inquiry into the One who seeks? In short, manic distraction – or, as Ken Wilbur put it – “wave-jumping in search of wetness.” The search for new experience becomes an identity-hardening movement away from dissolving presence. Here are some common Gemini kleshas:
Restless, inconsistent, easily bored, unreliable, ungrateful, out-of-sight-out-of-mind, mentally scattered, heady, dilettantish, garrulous, fickle, commitment phobic.
Know anyone suffering from a hyperventilated, experience-junkie approach to life? A being whose life overly bifurcates and whose nervous system visibly suffers from the relentless change? Want to help? You must first earn the right to speak by letting your heart break open at the honorable intention informing their habit of riding life’s life-giving wind. They have taken on the respirating role of the lungs and are doing so imperfectly. So what? You, too, are mishandling the somatic scriptures that correlate with your birth chart.
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