Every Thursday night, I haul my trash bin out to the street so the collectors can empty it the following morning. Most weeks it’s three-quarters full. But now and then I produce an unusually large haul of debris. On those occasions, I have to turn into a one-person compaction crew: I grab a low-hanging branch of the persimmon tree, hoist myself up, drop down feet-first into the can, and bounce around to squash everything enough to squeeze in the overflow. Consider this my audition to be your role model, Scorpio. According to my reading of the celestial weather, it’s time for you to consolidate and discard at least half a year’s accumulation of obsolete clutter—both the invisible emotional kind and the tangible stuff filling your space.
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