“In the Mysteries one learns more about nature than about the gods.” Cicero
When did mystery become heresy? When did fear begin to author the holy books? When did comfort and convenience trump adventure and spontaneous faith?
At the Round Table, King Arthur and his knights always left a 13th chair unoccupied to honour the presence of mystery. There was time when this was sacred. That time has sprung again (and again…and again).
I see it
In the place where the heart sings and the intellect stops its chattering to listen.
Overwhelmed by beauty, devastated by captivation, in a moment, in a moment faster than the speed of light. And Intellect weeps, in rapture and awe; in the beauty of being diminished, in the wave falling back to the ocean, to the surrender of symphony…
“There is a dream dreaming us. The Universe is a living dream.”
the Bushmen of the Kalahari.
…Who were moments later ordered to reserves by official force and capitalist cunning, to starve on booze-binged promises; their hunts made unlawful on pretence of ecological instability…
…In the distance the sad eyes of a gazelle, whispering a wave to the wind: ‘How I miss the honour of being invited to nourish the great human soul so well honed by respect and love. How I miss the game of being pursued and the release of my spirit to the soft hands of wisdom, plying the entire of my flesh for friendly utility. How I long to be killed for such life…’
I suckle to the sky and let my mind rip open, say goodbye to former limits spoken by the ruse that serves no use but to bury my love and power in Gods above that demand I cower. By here and now, opening and endowed, in a fervent wish-kiss, teeming with a birthrighted bliss, the divine holds no empire in mere heavenly station but overflows in all my senses’ information. And the subtle sensuality too, that asks assumptions to politely denude, and make a palace for giggles, and beliefs that are welcomed to wiggle and play and wander in their own delight as gift-bearing creatures made of sound and light.
Weaving is the way.
The War for Interdependence will end them all for it must be waged not with bombs nor guns but global dances and riots of love.
Gaia, Mama Earth, awaken the Wilderness of Soul, the Jungle of Love, the Himalayas of Hope! Make certain that every last human being, even if unintelligible, knows in the quakes and shakes of their human spirit, that beauty and harmony is the truth tantamount. It is, always is, She murmurs in a whisp of falling water. You simply must remember…
Let us fall
into the thrill of love
and make a mess of leaves...
May embraces become so fierce that hearts can only wonder. May wealth be so naturally abundant there’s no longer need to plunder. May the father find himself in the love he awakens in mother.
Do not fear, she lingers in his mouth, bridling her words to a syrup of kisses, to fondle free the truth and seduce his pride to set itself on fire and vaporize into smokey joy. This body will dance with death, you’ll see, and release a fragrant continuity, so face of this dance with all your love for me. And the once restless brave, knee-fallen, murmuring into the wind with tear-smattered eyes, falls to Her ground to become unwound and find the courage of a zillion blades of grass all raising hands to hold him…
I will not let your supposed evil make of you and me enemies. For I am a genius of bridge building: I can build hundreds in an instant, to draw all these divisions into a collapse. It’s time u learned of the indomitable love; the one all the nuclear arsenals in the world could barely rustle; the kind that perishes not and knows no end, for it is birthless and ever conceiving origin. It is time you realized the misery of constant struggle you impose has no use but to diminish your chance at truly being free, loved and happy.
The yearn for wildness, and the bath of ferocious skies, untangling the mind, sensitizing in the quiet milk of dawn, in the bastion of stars trampling tasks and obsessions…look, look, look at me, can’t you see, I am the face of Eternity and such revelry becomes of me and all things I thought were deathly…
On the edge of madness, prison-cities, skyscraping rapists, toxic tubules eliminating chemical carcasses of industry’s aborted nightmare, smog burials, homeless and forgotten peoples left to disappear in plain sight, things things things, superfluous utility, rising illness of mind and body (what will it take to break the back of this zombie march into utter destruction and anguish? Perhaps more tsunamis, more tidal deaths, quaking earth prophecy? Perhaps NOW? Perhaps NOW? Perhaps NOW?)))
There came from Isis (Earth) a light and other unutterable things conducing to salvation – Aristides (initiate in the Mysteries)
This was salvation: understanding the Earth as it really is; sensing it in Truth…seeing Her Light…’shamanism – archaic techniques of ecstasy’ (Eliade). It was via multidimensional experience that it was asserted through experience not belief, experience which engendered stalwart faith by perception, that Earth was much more than meets the Eye—aye, All is.
I will resurrect indeed but not a man but the Mysteries.