December 29, 2019 - Year's End

It only lasts for a minute or so, and it only happens in winter.  There are some days when the Sun rises just right, and it turns the jutting white bones of the old Birch tree to a delicious shade of pink.  I tell myself when it happens that it is going to be a good day.  I guess that’s how local legends and superstitions get started, but you’ve got to start somewhere, and it might as well be with a Birch tree lit up like up fireworks.  But you can still throw salt over your left shoulder if you choose.

That makes it honest, you see.  You can’t trust the trees in any other season but Winter.  In the Spring, they’ll say anything just to leaf out—liars, every single one of them.  In the Summer, they blend together like a pack of wolves, hiding everything, plotting and planning, tricking the hapless traveler who is foolish enough to go through the woods.  In the Fall, they paint themselves like forest prostitutes, giving that come-hither look.  Best to run then if you know what’s good for you.  The leaves conceal, hide, fool, and manipulate.  They are a living, breathing screen that hide the bare bones of the woods.

But the Birch, she doesn’t care.  Her leaves are plain and boring in Spring, small and unassuming in Summer, and dull as can be in Fall.  But come Winter, everything changes for our Lady Birch, because that is when the masks are all off.  And while the rest of the trees are hiding in ugly bony greyness, she juts her white bones right out for all to see….mesmerizing and terrible at the same time.  My mother always used to say, “Beauty is skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone.”  The old Birch is damn pretty clear to the bone, so I think I can trust her, unlike the other trees.  Don’t ask her any questions if you don’t want the truth, though, because she’s just stuffed right full it.

And speaking of truth, it occurred to me that I ought to have waited the other day for the man who was praying to finish.  Then maybe I could have asked him a few questions.  I didn’t know what those questions would be, but I knew I had them just the same.  I figured the best way to find out would be to backtrack and go back to land’s end and look for him, so that’s what I set out to do today.  I took the alabaster scabbard with me, of course.  I rarely leave without it.

This time there was no crow flying above to mock me, nothing by which to gauge my intentions.  Now I almost wished he were there, high up in the sky, laughing at me and calling me names.  Having an enemy, real or imagined, is a good distraction.  I know just what he’d say if he were there:  “Caw!  Caw!  I’ll wear you down to the bare bones!” in that raspy, terrible voice of his.  Scraping and scratching and bleeding.  Mirror images, indeed.

So I kept walking, and the land ended again just like it did last time.  But the man on bended knee was nowhere to be found.  There was no figure in sublime gentility, unpretentious and unassuming.  There was no glow from the sunset, just a cold wind.  He hadn’t left any tracks either, and I started to wonder if maybe I’d imagined the whole thing.  That would certainly make things easier, because then I could go back to haughty expectation and victimhood.  And the world’s just full of that today, isn’t it?

But as I turned to go, I felt a presence.  Just as I had been watching the man on bended knee earlier, now someone was watching me.  I had felt this presence before.  I knew who it was.  I turned around to find the man I had seen on the road at night in the earlier part of the month, the one with the big pack on his back, the one who had told me that if I thought I was stronger than him, I should come across the road.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.  “I thought you said you had to turn around because the thing you feared had come upon you?”

“That is correct,” he said.

“Then why are you back here now?”

“For the same reason, it would seem.”

Damned peculiar.  I still felt the invisible barrier between us.  We both knew it was there, and as before we both behaved accordingly, although I believe it was a matter of courtesy on his part and not any force that kept him at bay.

“I will keep on going,” I told him, “because I haven’t really got a choice.  Well, I suppose I could curl up in a ball and refuse to face reality and shut the world out forever.  But that seems to have lost its luster, so I will keep walking into the next year.”  I did not know that was my intention until I had said it.

“A wise choice,” he said, and I thought I saw the hint of a smile.

“You knew I was here looking for the praying man, right?”  The smile vanished.

“My brother ends up in the strangest of places,” he said, “But as you can see he is not here now.  It’s cold and getting dark again, too.” 

And that sounded more than a bit menacing to me.  It was past time for me to go.  As usual, though, he seemed to read my mind again.

“Watch out for those Birch trees,” he said, “Because the forest is just thick with them this time of year, and you don’t want to get caught up in a prison made of bones.  It’s no better than any other prison, you know.”  And as he said it, he looked at my alabaster scabbard.  Yes, it was definitely time to go.

“Are you with me or against me?” I asked.  I’ll never know what possessed me to ask that.

“Against you,” he said simply.

I thought he might come across the imaginary barrier at that point, but he didn’t.  I turned and walked away, slower than I wanted to because I didn’t want him to know I was afraid.

The year is turning quickly now.  Like the old Birch tree, I have stripped off all my leaves and left my camouflage behind.  I will do the same to you, if you will let me.  Let’s throw off these costumes and rid ourselves of this foolish posturing and political correctness.  Caesar and the merchant be damned.  Let’s have it be a New Year’s resolution:  GIVE ME TRUTH.  I know what my old bleached bones reach for.  So what are your bare bones reaching for this time?  It had better be your homeland and the Sun.  If you have any sense at all, it had better be your homeland and the Sun.

December 21, 2019 - Winter Solstice

A crow was flying overhead, following me and cawing incessantly with his raspy crow voice.  You know the sound they make?  That scraping of the back of the throat, that mocking tone, that derisive sound.  I continued to walk, pressing further to the end.  The crow was the only creature in the sky, and I was the only creature on the land.  Mirror images.  Knowing he was an opportunist and a shape-shifting carrion bird did not help my situation.  What did I do to deserve such a harsh mirror?

Presently, the land came to an end, as it has a habit of doing here in Maine.  Now what?  Was this it?  Was this all there was?  Was this the so-called gift at the end?  I saw nothing but the tracks of the icy wind on the half-frozen water, and I pulled my cloak closer about me.  It would be dark soon, and at least the wretched crow would find a quiet harbor for the night.  Then I would be alone with my thoughts.  What a terrible thing that would be.

I was angry.  I have pushed on and I have fought for far too long.  When I wanted to sit, I stood.  When I wanted to rest, I had run instead.  When I wanted to quit, I pressed on in pain.  I had met the Adversary at every step of the way, and I had met him with equal force that cost me more than I could admit.  And now here I was at the end, and the Promise was nowhere in sight.  “You lied to me,” I whispered.  And the crow just laughed and laughed, high up in the sky, his raspy caw ripping into what was left of my heart. 

As I turned to go back—I did not want to, but it was the only way left to go—I saw a man not far from me.  He was on one knee, facing the setting sun with his hands held together.  His right hand was in a fist, and the left hand was cupped over it.  His eyes were shut tightly.  And he was praying—that much I knew.  He was praying at the end of the road.  When there was nowhere else to go and no hope left, he was on bended knee praying, a look of fervent serenity and faith on his lined old face. 

In this cold and desolate spot at land’s end, knelt a man in prayer, in sublime peace and belief.  I could tell he was a strong man, the kind one gives a wide berth to in Caesar’s world.  Yet here he was in humble prayer, whereas I just moments before had been in haughty expectation, angry that the Promise had not made itself known to me.  The raspy old crow was right about me all along.  “Caw!  Caw!” he shrieked, scraping his throat in victory.

My heart melted.  In another lifetime I might have thought the look on this old knight’s face was the glow of the feverish fanatic, of the religious fool.  I might have laughed at him because I did not know the love of the soul back then.  But that was another lifetime, not this one.  Here we were together, although he did not know it.  Two lost souls at the end.  “Oh, how I wish you were here,” I had said so many times into the inky darkness of the night, only now to see my desire in fruition.  At the end.  Always at the end.

I felt a momentary stab of jealousy because I worried that he had found something I had not, but I quickly dispelled it.  The prayer on his old lined face was enough to quell the most savage heart.  Had I sought to interfere with this?  Did I think I would come between him and his heart’s desire?  No.  Even though I was not worthy of witnessing his supreme act of humility, still I could bow my head and give thanks for this gift.

Silently, I left.  I do not know if he was ever aware of my presence.  The crow continued to follow me.  High in the sky in his cold and raspy voice, he scratched out the words, “You are near and dear to me.”  Even the old carrion bird knew.  We are naught but two lost souls.

I made it back home just as true darkness was stealing across the landscape.  The house was cold and dark.  I lit the oil lamps, as always, and started a fire.  First with the tinder, then the kindling, then the wood—hard and sure.  It occurred to me as I watched the flames lick up the side of a piece of birch, that the energy the tree had stored within was finally being released in the form of fire.  One way or another, the energy is always released—decay, consumption of food, fire in the pit.

And where did the energy come from to begin with?  Yes.  It was Him.  All along.  The tree had stored the Sun within as a gift for me.  On this cold and lonely day.  A gift for me.  Surely, I could do the same for someone else.  We are not marionettes in a cold world, moving haphazardly according to the merchant’s hand.  We are precious beings loved beyond measure, even through our pain.  Especially through our pain.  We are condensed sunlight, reflections of the divine, mirror images. 

The King is dead.  Long live the King.

December 18, 2019 - Virgin

I am pressing onward toward the secret, and it is growing in intensity.  When I think about it, my heart pounds and I breathe heavier.  How can you not see it?  Soon it will be upon us all, hidden as always in absolute plain sight, as are all of the greatest secrets known to mankind.  The plainer and clearer it is and the louder it is proclaimed, the more of a secret it seems to become.  Because man can never see what is before him as he is always too busy reaching for the next shiny bauble purposely dangled before him by the merchant.  And he misses the prize of a lifetime.

Six days from now, I will quietly leave my home in the dark of night when it is very late.  I am not afraid because I know the path well.  It will be cold, though, so I will be wrapped up in a thick cloak.  I will have the alabaster scabbard with me, as always, with the tiny candle lit from the fires within.  I will protect it like my life.  No one will see me leave, and no one will know where I am going because the night will have veiled the pole.

Like a sentry, I will stand watch and look toward the east.  And there at midnight I will see the constellation Virgo as she rises high in the sky.  The Virgin will be visible along with her barnyard companions, the ox and the lamb (or the bull and the ram, if you please).  She brings the Promise with her, and when she rises the Sun will remember, and He will stop in His tracks and will start His move northward again.  With Him, He will bring the promise of renewed life.  Each day He will climb higher until He crosses the equator in a few months and all of Earth will rise again.  But that is for the ex-pressed future.  On this particular night, however, we are concerned with the Virgin.

The secret is based upon the heavens.  I told you it was right there in the open all along.  The ancient magi knew that the heavens are reflected downward.  Like the great Seal of Solomon, they proclaimed, “As above, so below,” with Hermes Trismegistus illuminating the way.  Allow me to explain, and once I do, you will see how simple it all is.

Deep within the mind of man lies his unconditioned consciousness, and there we find the seat of the Watcher, as was explained in the last article.  The Dove, the Raven, and the Judge make up the conditioned consciousness, the ego, what you identify with, who you believe yourself to be.  The Watcher is the UNconditioned consciousness.  He does not concern himself with the trappings of mortality.  He is not what you believe yourself to be.  He is what you ARE.

In the realm of the Watcher, there is a fertile field, and this field is virginal.  It is within every human being, and no one else may enter this field.  Caesar cannot touch it, and oh, how he hates mankind for it.  This field contains all potential and all possibilities, and it desires the plow. 

Now as the Earth goes into its deep sleep, so too can mankind go into a deep sleep or a state of meditation.  Putting all things from my mind, I drift further and further into myself, echoing “I AM” as I settle into a meditative trance.  Now all things are possible in a vast field that cries out for fertilization. 

Then when I see the golden rings, I reach into my heart’s desire and pull out that which I have secretly loved and wanted.  I take it and I plant it by IM-PRESSING it upon the virginal field with my complete obsession and emotion.  I impregnate the Virgin within with my own thought, and the seed goes deep into the fertile field where it immediately takes root.  And I will say, “It is done.”  And a secret life will begin to grow, virginal, untouched by man.

Then I will awake and return to Caesar’s world, where I will say nothing to anyone of my secret desire.  Caesar will sense that I am different now.  He will know that I am more than I was.  He will try to reach for me, to get me to talk, to get me to explain, to coerce me into giving up my secret and exposing the Virgin.  All so that he might immediately pounce upon her and fill my mind and spirit with doubt.  So that he might introduce the Old Adversary, of whom he is a friend.  I will not give in to Caesar, for he cannot touch the Virgin, not with a thousand spears.  Oh, how he hates me.

And the seed will grow, and I will secretly nurture it with loving thought and emotion and desire.  Soon it will become too big for the hidden field within.  One day, that which was IM-PRESSED will suddenly be EX-PRESSED, and the Virgin will give birth to her Holy Child.  Thus, the desire will be born and made manifest.

Now, my friends, you see the secret that has always been in plain sight.  Now you see how the entire world teeters back and forth, dangling from a tiny thread, suspended from a “myth” about which it knows nothing and has, in fact, completely misinterpreted.  Millions and millions of people blinded.  Alas.

Look to the eastern sky in the dark of the night six days from now and remember.  Then behave accordingly.  Do not be afraid, but do keep silent—always.  Within silence is great power and protection and fecundity, and Caesar cannot touch that, not with all of his generals and all of his troops.  He lies impotent before the Virgin.

December 15, 2019 - The Four Principalities

There are always four.  Most people pay no attention to their existence whatsoever, let alone their influence.  For most, it is enough to eat and drink, to sleep and work, to live and die.  And even that is often too much.  Having enough can be burdensome when one lacks in gratitude and understanding.  The lack of pain in life tends to dull the senses, it would seem.  (The implication here would be that pain somehow bestows a deeper sense of self, and though you may argue passionately against this, you cannot disprove it either….  How I long for the simpler days of my youth.)

But no matter.  For the sake of posterity both now and forevermore, we shall discuss the four principalities of the mind, and if it be too much pressure to bear for the dear reader, I would remind you that indulging in the chemical erasure of such knowledge is a common pastime.  Having said that, let us bravely and stoutly move on to a discussion of the four principalities.

First we have the two “sides,” and we shall herein call them the Dove and the Raven.  We will find them endlessly portrayed in life.  They are the “pros and cons, ups and downs, good and bad, conservative and liberal, etc.”  They fight against one another for dominance in our mind.  Whenever you have a decision to make, you can bet that the Dove and the Raven are feuding in your mind.  Some simple examples:  Shall I move out of state?  Shall I take a new job?  Shall I marry and have children?  Some covert examples:  Shall I take what is not mine?  Shall I hinder another’s advancement?  Shall I exult one friend and damn another?

In the case of the simple examples, we easily allow the two to argue it out, and the one with the strongest and best arguments wins.  In the case of the covert examples, we often do not consciously acknowledge that the “fight” is taking place in our mind at all.  But that does not mean it is not taking place.  It merely means that we are either too daft to admit to our own dark side or too cunning to allow it a foothold in our conscious mind (and so it festers in our subconscious mind).  Those who are daft are the lucky ones. 

In any event, the two opposing “sides” (of the same coin, mind you) are the first two principalities.  Then there is the third, and we shall call him the Judge.  The Judge sits back and impassively listens to both arguments.  If he is a good Judge, he will not favor one side over the other.  If he is a bad Judge (easily bribed by that which has gained a foothold in our subconscious), he will play favorite, and the poor unsuspecting individual might know nothing of it.  Alas, youth is wasted on the young.

It is the job of the Judge to encompass both sides and, hopefully, come to an understanding.  When we put on the Judge’s robes, we can actually feel a difference in our thoughts.  They become heavier as we weigh now this idea and then that, now this good point and then that dark promise.  The Judge has an intelligence that goes beyond that of either the Dove or the Raven because he must project himself into the future to gauge his choice while simultaneously plunge himself into the past to compare prior similar arguments and their outcome. 

The Raven and the Dove place themselves entirely in the jurisdiction of the Judge and will abide by his decision whether they agree with it or not.  This is a prerequisite for sanity.  Those who cannot abide by the Judge’s decision will soon find themselves held in a detention center of their own making, and they shall slip slowly into absurdity and hysteria until they can correct their witless delirium, make a decision, and move on with their lives.  I decree that we shall have no fence sitters.

For many intelligent people who function quite well in Caesar’s world, that is where it ends—with the Dove, the Raven, and the Judge.  And there is nothing wrong with that.  In fact, I envy the surety of those people at times, even if that surety proves false, because sometimes it is enough to simply “know” what you want and not realize that all knowledge comes with a price.  A person can get by quite well in life with the first three principalities, without ever acknowledging the fourth.

But there is a fourth, and once I point him out, he will seem obvious.  So you have the Dove who pulls in one direction and the Raven who pulls in the other, and you have the Judge who sits between the two, listens, evaluates, and decides.  Behind the Judge you have the Watcher.  He sits and observes only.  Surely you know him?  How could we even discuss the Raven, the Dove, and the Judge, if there were not a fourth to point out the existence of the first three?  We know of the Judge because the Watcher has told us about him.  If there were nothing standing behind the Judge to define him and expound upon his parameters—to explain the reason for his existence—we could not know the Judge.  How can you know something you cannot think of?

So there is the Watcher.  He sits back and watches everything.  He never judges—ever.  He would never lower himself to do so.  That is for the realm of simple flesh and blood.  He watches dispassionately and keeps exquisitely fine records of every single thing that ever happens in our life.  He watches us as we live and move and breathe and love and die.  He experiences the joy of every triumph and the agony of every defeat.  He is our unconditioned consciousness whereas the other three are our conditioned consciousness. 

He is the shard, the spark of the Great Unmanifest, who manifests through each individually expressed channel and ultimately experiences Himself.  He is the same as the Source, but never forget that He is still on a much lower level.  The apple is not the tree, but it comes from the tree and ultimately will express the tree when its seeds are allowed to experience final fruition.

These four principalities, then, make up the mind of the individual man.  Behind them is the backdrop of the Great Unmanifest (the fifth).  We will save this for another time.

But understand, please, that there are those shrewd individuals out there who know this all too well and who take advantage of others who cannot grasp their own complexity and divine nature.  Know that the wily merchant and his ilk are always circling like a pack of coyotes, looking for the weakest member of the flock, exploiting the minds and bodies and labor of the sheep, siphoning off their fine wool.  And we hear them growl in their guttural tones, “Baa baa, black sheep, have you any wool?  Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full!  One for the master, and one for the dame, and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”  One for the Dove, and one for the Raven, and one for Judge who sits on The Bench (from which three the merchant shall extract his greedy share).

December wants me to finish up these loose ends for you, so that we might plunge into the great unknown together and begin again.  I am weary of the fight, and my armor has certainly seen its better days.  But I expect I shall rise to the occasion just the same.  Let us continue on, then, in what we shall call a choice.  Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

December 11, 2019 - This Darkness

It is a heavy thing, this darkness.  December’s full Cold Moon rises and looms in the frozen air.  The grassy bed under my feet is now rigid and icy.  It no longer begs to be lain upon, offering its sweet wet scent in return for a sleepy visit.  Everything is foreign now, and the burden on my shoulders is great.  I want to put the darkness down and rest, but I am afraid to let it go.  We have known one another for a long time now, and it is hard to let go of a good enemy.

“Greet me like you used to,” I say to the moon, “back when we used to hide together in closeness at night under the forest canopy.”  I know he hears me, but he does not answer.  Something else hears me as well, other creatures in the woods.  They are not the summer creatures, those of flesh and blood and simple need.  They are darker, their need deeper.

It is a bright moon and I can see the path quite clearly, so I leave the woods and take the road made by man instead.  I do not often take man’s path because he is treacherous, but just now it seems the lesser of two evils.  So I continue on December’s path, wondering if it is a nighttime mirage that causes me to think there is a man in the road up ahead, walking at a steady gait toward me.  Presently, though, I realize that he is corporal, of the flesh.  Instinctively I reach for the alabaster scabbard, protecting the tiny candle within, which I guard like my life.

Now we are across from one another, he on one side of the road and me on the other, and even though there is no barrier between us, we behave as if there is.  We stop and stare across at each other.

“What is it, girl?” he growls at me.

“What is it yourself,” I respond, attempting to sound much braver than I am.

He is an old man, and his face is deeply lined, each line having a lifetime story to tell.  But old or not, he still seems as hard as steel to me.  My hand tightens on the alabaster scabbard.  I do not think he likes me.

“If you think you are stronger than me, then come across,” he says as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“That is unfair,” I return, “because my burden is very heavy.”

“And mine is not?”  He turns slightly to reveal a tremendous pack on his back.

“I cannot carry mine much longer,” I say, but he scoffs at me.

“Pick it up and shoulder it.  If you are damaged, it is because you are weak.”

I look in the direction from which he has come, the very direction in which I am heading.

“Why are you leaving?” I ask, and this makes him falter a bit.

“Because the thing I feared has come upon me,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because I feared it.  I feared it and that fed and fanned the flames.  And now what I dreaded has come to pass.”

I wonder if he is simply afraid because he is old, and he smiles as if reading my thoughts.

“Look around well, sweetheart.  I am the oldest man you will meet.  I am older than the King,” he says.  Then he adjusts the pack on his back, a grim and determined look on his face, and he continues to walk.  Without stopping, over his shoulder he says as an afterthought, “And so he put her in a shell, and there he kept her very well….”

Then the cold night swallows him up, and I cannot see him anymore.  The path before me is empty and cold, and now I wish he were back.  I have more questions about what is ahead and what I might expect and what it was that he feared.  But it is too late now to ask. 

December is swallowing me up.  I am coming to the end of this old year.  What about the promise the Sun made?  When He said he would always love me?  Where is He now?  And what about the promise that I made?  “Will you trust me?” I had said.  To him. 

The burden grows tangibly heavier as I think and walk.  The Cold Moon is climbing in the sky.  The “nothings” it whispers to me now are exquisitely empty.  What wisdom the old mathematicians must have had to have understood first substance, and then zero, and then less than.

December 7, 2019 - Caesar's World

You have heard it said that we are spiritual beings having occasional physical experiences, and that it is not the other way around?  It is not that we are physical beings having occasional spiritual experiences.  And this is quite right.  We are spiritual beings.  This concept is as old as time, and I think we will talk more about it come the New Year.  I will write a new lesson plan, but for now, I will elaborate upon a term I have used frequently on my blog, and that is “Caesar’s world,” or just plain “Caesar.”

You have heard me say “Caesar’s world” many times because that is the world in which we live.  The material world, the physical world, and the complete mess we have made of it all belong to Caesar.  One might say that he and I are old adversaries, and this would not be a lie.  I would say to you that while it is true you might be a spirit, you are presently encased in matter—in the material world—and that world belongs to Caesar.  And woe to he who does not give Caesar his due.  Let me tell you that he has dealt harshly—severely—with me in the past when I have forgotten to give what he has demanded.

It is hard for the spirit to understand that there are certain rules and laws in this physical world.  It is so funny, so strange, so tragic that the spirit longs and hopes and prays and schemes to get to the point where it can be “effective,” where it can cause mighty change in this world not just with suggestions but with actual physical force…..and then when it gets here, i.e., into a physical body—the only thing capable of effecting lasting change after all—it freezes in a state of suspended animation, in a complete panic, blindsided by the sheer force of the warrior, Caesar.  Bend your knee to the King of the physical world!  Behold Caesar!  The spirit trembles, forgetting its own godhood.

And who, then, is Caesar?  Caesar is the one who has conquered this physical plane.  He is the Lord of all he surveys.  He runs the governments, he rules the people, he creates the money, and he writes the laws.  He demands loyalty, rewards worship, and severely punishes those who cannot (or will not) seem to grasp his rules.  He is the collector of rents and mortgages and all debts.  He is the cutthroat financier.  He is the shaper of society, the one who governs social position.  He is the King.

Is it any wonder, then, that he and I have fought at every turn in the road?  Is it any wonder that he has defeated me in every battle of materialism?  Should you be surprised that I have learned to warily and softly walk while in his presence?  Do not marvel at this admission, for you have done the same.  Again and again, you have given Caesar his due, and you will continue to do so if you want to function in this world.  Flesh demands sustenance, and Caesar harnesses this desire.  He says, “I will sate your need, your glut, but in return you shall adore me.  In return, you shall give me what I desire.”  And people do.

Alas.  It sounds so hopeless, but it is not.  Caesar hates me because I know something about him that he does not want me to say.  I know that there is a physical heart in my body that dances to a spiritual song, and Caesar cannot touch or stop that song.  And when I am at my lowest, I listen for the magical sound, ha-shah, ha-shah, ha-shah, over and over the rhythmic sounds of my own heartbeat.  If I listen back in time long enough, I can hear my mother’s heartbeat as well, which danced to the same rhythm.  And the mother would say, “hush, hush, hush, stop your crying baby girl, hush” ha-shah, ha-shah, ha-shah ….

And he cannot touch that.  He cannot track it with ten thousand bloodhounds.  He cannot capture it with the mightiest army—and I assure you, he has the mightiest.  He cannot stop the rhythm of the heart, played out in the patterns of the world, rocked gently by the pulsating Universe.  No, that is not his.  And he hates me for it.  Again and again, he will stop a human heart from beating, only to have several more crop up.  Like drums, they beat a rhythm that will someday conquer the King.  Yes, he hates me.

It is December now.  The snow is falling, the ice is forming, and the world is getting ready for its winter holiday, poised on the precipice of death.  The merchant, who adores Caesar in every way, hangs his rusted tinsel in the store shops.  He shouts to the passersby that the world is a physical world and there is no other world.  He bears the banner of Caesar.  He, too, fears the spirit, the rhythm and pulse he cannot control, the wildness that screams for fulfillment.  So he charms and lures and bewitches and conjures in the hopes that the people will stay asleep, and many of them will.

I check inside my velvet alabaster scabbard.  The tiny candle is still there, still glowing, perhaps a bit brighter.  I am not sure.  My mind plays tricks on me sometimes.  But it does appear to be brighter, albeit smaller.  I see an image of an old tree decorated with tinsel, back in the days when tinsel was actually made of a kind of aluminum (and before that, it was silver).  My mother would save the tinsel from year to year because we were very poor and could not buy it every year.  Each year, it would become a bit more worn and gloomy, but we all still loved it.  At night, it would still shine brightly and reflect the Christmas tree lights, its wornness forgotten.

“Remember when you used to love me?” the tinsel asks.  “Because you did.  You did love me.   Remember when I shone brightly, even though I was tarnished and old and used up?  And I brought you joy?  Remember how we dreamed impossible dreams together?”  Yes, I remember.  I remember the tinsel and the music, the scent of pine everywhere and the cookies, the handmade gifts and the winter sports.  But most of all, I remember the holiday spirit, the giving, the sharing, the joy, and ultimately, the sacrifice.  And Caesar cannot touch that.  Oh, how he hates me.

I move forward into snowy December.  The tiny candle smolders in the alabaster scabbard, but I am strong and sure.  That is what I tell myself, and that is what I tell Caesar.  To hell with him.  If this is the end, it is the end.  But so far, the sun has always risen.  I am not dead yet.  In Latin, those with ears will hear Caesar’s name, and then they will understand.  He is the Lord of this world, and he is not all bad.  A secret part of me admires him and is smitten by his allure.  I am human, after all, and he appears god-like to my imperfect eyes.  I give him his due because, although he is a harsh ruler, he is effective.  As a spirit, though, I fly veiled and he cannot stop me.

November 30, 2019 - The November Witch

I have a velvet alabaster scabbard, a bit worn with time but still fine and beautiful.  The directions for its making were in a blueprint that was given to me at conception.  I followed the formula exactly when making it.  The seams are all but invisible, seen only in the brightest of lights, which reflect off the rich alabaster depth.  I have woven many symbols into the scabbard with fine ruby-red threads that dance and pulsate upon the surface of the soft velvet as well as throughout it, surrounding and enclosing the contents in cryptic warmth.  It is always with me.  We are inseparable.

And it was with me today as well when I headed into the woods to see off the November Witch.  I wanted to be sure she left on schedule because December is weighing heavily upon me.  I can only take so much.  I was patient as I walked, but I knew she would find me.  It is a child’s game we have played for a long time now as I am not young.  The signs were everywhere—frozen pools of water that just a couple of weeks ago would have still been running down the slopes of the woods, icicles hanging from rock formations, the putrid scent of an unlucky animal caught by the coyotes the night before.  Everything said “Witch” to me.

There was no ambush this time, no slings or stones or arrows.  There was no hidden trap and no poison mushrooms.  Instead, she sat upon a rock waiting for me, as if waiting for a good friend or a long lost lover, her tattered dress of forest leaves hanging down in a long train that was still beautiful, albeit bedraggled.  Her once beautiful face was slightly swollen now and lined with time.  She smiled and waved when she saw me, and I warily raised a hand in response.  I will never trust the November Witch.

She rolled her eyes at me.  “Oh, greet me like the friend I am!” she said.  “You and I have known each other for a very long time.  That must count for something, at least.”

“What do you want, Witch?” I asked.

“Nothing.  Can’t I talk to an old friend and be welcomed?”

“An old friend?”

“Why yes, of course,” she said, “Do sit down.” 

But I did not sit.  I could smell the trickery in the air.  She is an old adversary, but old or not, she knows the woods as well as I do, maybe better.

“So you’re going to see Him, then?” she continued on, seeming not to notice that I kept my distance.

“Where I go is not your concern.  You have done your level best to stop me.  Again and again you have tried, and with the help of Mercury this time, you almost succeeded,” I said.

“You are brave.”

“You are flattering me,” I returned.

“You are smart.”
“You are cutthroat.”

“Will you speak so ill of an old acquaintance who only wants to see how powerful you have become?” she asked.

I turned to leave, but she stood up quickly, much faster than I would have imagined she could, and I was reminded that there was not much distance between us.  In fact, we were closer than I would at first have thought.

“Please,” she said, holding her hand out, “I know I have been beaten this time, and yes, I will be back again next year.  But I can at least acknowledge when I have been bested.”

She still held her hand out, a small and delicate hand after all, and I moved closer and reached for it.  Why not? I thought.  Let’s have a truce, if only for a moment.  But as I reached, I felt an icy breeze on the back of my neck and I froze in motion, my hand only a few inches from hers.  And then I backed up—quickly, very quickly, feeling angry and foolish.  How close had I come to a final embrace with the Witch?

Her hand fell to her side and she smiled, a smile that never reached her eyes, a cold smile that froze upon her face as her entire body froze before my eyes.  She turned to crystal ice, each white tooth in her mouth frozen and exquisite.  And then they dropped out of her mouth, one by one, and fell to the hard rocks at her feet, smashing with a tinny, tinkling sound.  Her gaze was frozen in time, and she could no longer see me.  I had witnessed for the first time a slight brush with the Great Alchemist.

I turned as fast as I could and ran into the woods.  I knew I should not turn around and look at her.  I did not want to tempt fate, having witnessed the alchemy, and I knew I was lucky to be alive just now.  Then I heard a large crash as her entire body of ice crushed and fell to the forest floor, like the sound of the stained glass windows from nine hundred and ninety-nine cathedrals crashing to the ground.  The Witch was dead.  Again. 

I stood still in my tracks.  I could hear the wing beats of the usual suspects, those who always come at death.  My heart moved with pity—it shouldn’t have, but it did.  I expected no more from her than what I had gotten, but from me I expected no less.  I decided it was not for me to judge the Betrayer.  There was another Judge who waited for her, who waited for all the Betrayers.

“Come you angels of mercy,” I whispered, “and take her to the Summerland where she will be safe from the bloodlust of the night woods.  Come Epona, and carry her away like the wind!”  No sooner did I say it than I heard the massive hoofbeats behind me.  They seemed to mingle with the drumbeats I could hear in the distance ahead of me as I walked forward into the woods.  I did not turn around to see the transmutation.

I kept walking and I was reminded of Dante’s Inferno.  "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate" said the sign on the Gate of Hell.  “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”  There were nine circles of torment that the soul had to journey through, each worse than the one before it.  The first was Limbo, the second was Lust, the third was Gluttony, the fourth was Greed, the fifth was Wrath, the sixth was Heresy, the seventh was Violence, the eighth was Fraud, and the ninth was Treachery. 

The ninth was saved for the Betrayers.  For surely there is nothing worse than those who claim to love us and betray us.  The inner ninth circle of hell is saved especially for them, and rightly so.  This is the realm of the traitor, of the oathbreaker.  The Betrayer of friends, of family, and of country.  But most especially, the Betrayer of love.  Abandon all hope.

Goodbye to the November Witch for another year.  I continued on my walk, the threatening drumbeats in the now darkening forest growing a bit louder and deeper still.  I reached for my alabaster scabbard and looked within.  There inside was a tiny stub of an old candle, which I always guard like my life.  A glowing ember sat at the tip of the wick, giving off a soft and warm light.

“We are almost there, my beloved,” I said out loud.  “Will you trust me?”  But who was I talking to??  I did not know, nor did I know the words would escape my lips until the very moment they did.  I was afraid.  Even after all this time of being cared for, I was still afraid.  “You can go back and be the seed that never sprouted, or you can be the one who burst and bled his soul upon the Earth in a holy sacrifice.  The choice is yours.  The choice has always been yours,” I said.  To him.

That was enough for one day.  I am only a woman, and I am tired.  But, of course, I will fight.  I was born to fight.  I move on, then, to icy December.

November 22, 2019 - Shattered Souls

It occurs to me that a great many people are walking around wounded today, more than I have ever seen before.  So many, in fact, that I am inclined to believe something foul is afoot.  I am not talking about uncomplicated wounds—broken bones and cuts, bruises and contusions, colds and fevers, simple terminal illnesses—no, not them.  Those are the easy wounds.  Even the ones that kill the body are simple in comparison.  No, I am talking about people walking around with their souls in filthy and shattered pieces.

There’s the man who waits in line at the coffee shop and rocks back and forth on his feet ever so slightly as he stands at attention with a faraway and haunted look in his eyes.  He squeezes his fist over the dollar bills in his hand and his breathing is shallow.  The muscle in his jaw tightens and releases as he grinds his teeth together and releases them, remembering for a moment where he is until he forgets again and his face goes pale and the grinding continues.  He is not sick, but he is dying just the same.  Every day he dies a little more.

I see the pieces of his soul all around him.  They lay on the dirty floor of the coffee shop, and people walk all over them as if they are nothing at all, as if they are garbage….  Nothing but God incarnate lying in the gutter as the empty people laugh and walk by.  And I want to walk up to him so badly!  I want to walk up and say, “Excuse me, sir!  Is this your soul lying on the ground in pieces?  Please, let me help you pick it up.”  Please….so that I might be able to forget about my own soul, just for a moment.

But I do not say it to him.  I cannot.  If I did, he would run away in fear at having been discovered to be human.  Then his soul would be left on the filthy floor, and the filthy people would kick it back and forth like an old can on the street.  He would have to return later in the dark of the night and pick the sooty pieces up and pretend they were beautiful and that he loved them.  “How beautiful you are, my love!” said King Solomon.  “My beloved is to me like a cluster of henna blossoms.”  Or a soul in pieces on the floor of a coffee shop.

And anyway, you cannot touch the raw elements of another person’s soul without their permission.  The penalty is too great.  He who goes into that light comes not forth again.  It is death to touch the mysteries unprepared.  So I leave his soul on the floor, and I try to walk around it.  But the nagging thought stays:  If I help, I could redeem myself, make myself worthy again.

We all know it isn’t just him, though.  They are everywhere.  Maybe you are one of them?  One of the people with a splintered soul?  There was a time when souls were regularly examined and cared for and healed and loved and put in a special place befitting their station.  We all knew it.  We all did it.  And when we found the occasional broken soul, we rallied together and fixed it as best as we could.  Not anymore.  Something somewhere has broken.

Maine’s November ghosts haunt me deeply now as the days turn grey and cold.  The mirror on the pond beckons.  “Mirror, mirror on the wall.  Who is the fairest of them all?”  I don’t dare look.  I might see my own soul in pieces as well, and I don’t want an answer because then I would have to act on it.  Maybe the mirror would tell me to go back and find the man in the coffee shop with the broken soul.  Or the woman in the supermarket.  Or the nurse at the doctor’s office….  All of them bleeding sanguine soul light onto the unswept floors.

The November Witch laughs, but still there is hope.  She does not know Who comes at the solstice, and I can wait.  I can carry my own pieces until then.  It is not too great a burden to bear.  And while I cannot pick up the pieces of my fellow man’s soul, I can still offer him a simple smile.  A smile that fills.  And let me tell you if you do not already know (but I am certain you do), you never know just how empty and bereft your soul is until it is filled by someone else.

Something has happened in this world, and it’s high time we undo it.  If you have gotten this far in this article, you know what I am talking about.  Put down the electronic devices, just for a few minutes.  Examine your soul.  Allow your fellow man to experience his pain in silent comfort instead of an agonizing and macabre display crushed into the ground by your own boots.  Give him a hand.  Smile.  Please.  We don’t have to keep doing this dark thing.  We can return.

November 15, 2019 - Where She Treads

WHERE SHE TREADS

They danced as if there were no tomorrow
the evenings filled with their sighs
and man and beast grew fat on the wealth
languishing now where at first they thrived
with no thoughts to the future
or the turning of the leaves
or the cold moon
or the wolf.

 

The Lord of Winter comes now
demanding obeisance and adoration
every knee bent
his hawk's eye upon the lady
possession above all else
conquering
with woman treading softly now
the magical music long since gone
and the King imprisoned or dead.
She seeks the one who will wear the crown
in His stead.
It is good now, the cold, the snow
with memory mercifully fading again
blessed silence and dreams
and walking in snowy fields
no footprints made
no seeds
until the blood-red sky challenges the black heavens
again
and He remembers.

November 12, 2019 - I Will Build a Fence

Now the cold season comes upon us, and it is time for all creatures to go within.  This is the natural order of things.  So I will build a fence, a strong fence made of old oak logs.  I will not worry about the wet soil and the ravages of the icy Maine winter because the oak is the King of trees, and he will protect me.  His strength is unparalleled, and he is so good for fences.  Post after post will be set into the ground, following a secret ley line of the land known only to me.  Each post will be set with a tear, with the ley line in silent agreement, seeming to say, “Yes, this is the way.  Etch out and fence in the esoteric secret, and put it in plain sight where it will surely be ignored.  This is how it has always been done.”

Post after post of the Oak King will stand straight and tall on the arcane ley line.  And around each post I will wrap a thick rope.  Not just any rope, but an unbreakable nautical line, the kind that wizened old sailors embrace because they know the value of the line and entrust it with their very lives.  I will wrap the thick rope around the oak posts, and even the old Oak King will bow to the rope and say, “Aye!  The best in the world has been bested!”  They will become fast friends.  And November will grow colder still and the fence will grow longer, because that is what fences have a tendency to do, especially in November in Maine.

And there will be an anchor as well.  Yes, an anchor on the land, holding down a fence that cannot be moved and a rope that cannot be broken.  But one cannot have enough safeguards, and the symbolism alone will be enough to frighten off all but the strongest of ley hunters as they search for the pattern.  I will wrap the rope around the huge anchor, starting at the bottom and going up in a spiral.  And the Caduceus of Mercury will stand in broad daylight, but no one will know because no one is paying attention.  They are on the other side of the fence, after all, so how would they know?  And besides, they have their own Double Helix, and in the end, there is no difference.  As above, so below.  But I will not concern myself with them because it is November, and I must build my fence quickly now.

At long last after a great deal of effort, the fence will be finished.  I will be on one side and the world will be on the other, and we will agree that it is a fine fence, the finest ever made, a decoration on the landscape.  The secret ley line will be drawn out and hidden in plain sight—as are all of the darkest secrets in this world—an energy line of such power, it could burn the entire world to cinders.  But in the end, it is just a map of my own heart anyway, and there will be no burning of the world—this time.  After all, one must know how to read maps, and surely that is a disappearing talent in our modern world of clever, sterile geniuses.

People will look at the fence and say, “It is a very fine fence, a very safe fence.  You have done well in corralling yourself.”  Then they will return to the pasture and the true corral.  What good is a fence if you have nothing to fence in (or out)?  The fence must do its job, and the world is a willing volunteer led to the slaughter along the boundary line.  Only the ley line hunter knows how to scale the fence.

I languish in November now and it is cold and it is time for fences again.  So be it.  The warmth of friendship follows the sun, and he is nowhere to be found.  They say he went out west, but my eyes could never gaze at his brilliance anyway.  I am tired.  It is a time for deep introspection within the safety of November’s fence.  No one need know the secret lying in plain sight.

November 9, 2019 - This Land

It has been my luck and my great pleasure to fall in love with land.  The gentle slopes, the grassy curves, the spiky outcrops of granite, the slick bogs and marshes, the deep woods, the treacherous cliffs surrounding the sea—all of it lays down like a lover for me.  All of it entices me, enthralls me, envelops me, consumes me.

There are those who say we do not own the land but are only stewards in our lifetime.  I tell you now, those people are wrong.  They do not have vision.  They do not understand that we ARE the very land upon which we walk.  We pull our nutrition from it, and in turn when we die, we give it back.  The very plants and animals raised on the land have turned its once inanimate ingredients into a walking and breathing mural.  We in turn consume the mural and become the walking land.

The animals know what most humans do not:  We are one with the land, the only difference being one of degree.  We come from the soil; we return to the soil.  My ancestors’ blood has soaked back into the clay on countless occasions—red rivers blackening the hungry soil—only to bide its time, seek me out, and spurt back into life in my own veins.  There is a real connection here.  They lived and died so that I might live.  And die.

This is why many people who leave their birthplace feel a real disconnection for a long time.  Sometimes they can forge a new connection in their new territory.  Sometimes not.  It depends upon how deep their roots have gone and how sensitive the living are to the vibrations of the dead around them.  It depends upon whether or not they can unite in an erotic embrace with the new land around them.

There are those with a dark agenda who understand this only too well.  They seek to sever the connection between the living and their ancestors by displacing them from the land in order to rule the world.  They know the secret love affair between man and the soil, and they seek to destroy the union.  The man without a country is a man adrift in a sterile sea.  He has no roots, he has no lifeline, he has nothing to love and nothing to protect.  When he loses the land, he loses his blood.  When others attempt to take what is rightfully his, if he gives it away without a fight, he has given away his own life.

This is not about ownership of “property.”  This is about birthright.  So be careful that you do not hand away your birthright.  Be careful that you do not whittle away the solidity beneath your own two feet in slippery slopes and tiny degrees—all for the shiny baubles of the merchant.  The land in which you were born and upon which you walk and live and move and breathe, is your connection to not only this life you live now, but to your ancestors and ultimately deity itself.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  Vita mutatur non tollitur.

November 7, 2019 - Raw November

Now those inviting waves that lapped against my ankles in the summer and gave relief from the glaring sun, turn cold and biting and cruel.  The tide comes in quickly like an advancing army, and I have to run or it will overtake me.  But instead I pause and turn to see a father and his son on horseback off in the distance, and I smile, forgetting about the waves momentarily. 

But they have not forgotten about me, and while lost in my reverie, a wave crashes over me and instantly chills me to the bone.  Now I must pay for wasting time.  Then the wind joins in and whips against my soaked pants, laughing as I tremble in the biting cold.

“Is this how you always were?” I angrily ask the ocean.  “Back when I loved you in the summer, is this how you were??”

“Most likely,” he responds.

“But you seemed kinder then and playful and full of hidden shells and treasures.”  And now I am sad for the realization before me.

“You cannot be such a cold and biting creature,” I say.  “I will not believe you are such a cold and biting creature!”

“Look again, girl,” he says.  But I back up, having belatedly regained the tiniest bit of common sense. 

November and her soldiers begin to conspire against me.  The wind whips and mocks me, singing, “Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies!  Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!” 

And I wonder why I would have been so foolish to have come so far down the shore on my own.  The sun darts behind the blackened clouds, which he had promised to vanquish.  What a liar.  He was always such a liar.  I look for the travelers on horseback, but they have already disappeared, having quite the advantage of speed.

It is two miles back at least, and the day ends very early now.  I start walking.  Shivering.  I would follow my own footsteps back, but the ocean has already eaten them.  He has always had a monstrous appetite.  Now I must remember which outcrop of beach grass I came out from when I first arrived.  They all look the same, though.  My legs are cold, but I do not see many choices before me, so I will keep walking.  I ignore the ocean when he asks me if I want to come for a swim, but he knows that I hear him.

“Just a quick swim,” the ocean teases, and I am not sure if it is gulls hovering overhead or vultures.  And in the great scheme of things, I do not think it matters much anyhow.

“Just a quick swim,” the wind laughs as it whips the salty ocean spray into my hair.  The gulls are circling now, following their own hidden currents of desire.

Just a quick swim, I think to myself.  A final swim.  It is just too easy, though, far too easy.  And I shan’t have things be that easy.

The court assembles.  Kings and Knights everywhere you look, and I am the only pawn.  The wind grows stronger, and I keep walking.  I am on my own with raw November.