Doorway in the Mountain

At a certain point in time – quite a long while later, it seemed – the size and volatile nature of the fire subsided until it was about the same height as me. It turned into a crown-shaped, three-tongued flame that I saw as Shin. I sat inside it, relaxing a little.

It was an interesting exercise and I spent a long time practicingsitting within the circling flames and watching the fiery heads of the tongues flickering. The tongues kept making a circle and I tried to ‘straighten them out’ into the usual Shin shape.

Eventually the fire/snow and then fire operation came to an end and I saw that dawn was breaking. It had come upon me unawares. The tribesmen indicated for me to follow them and began moving away from the fire.

There seemed to be quite a lot of men around by then and I noted that I’d been right in my assessment of their clothing: leather trousers and boots, woven woolen jerkins and hats, belts, practical but colourful clothes. The mood was still rather serious.

I was told to fall in line as we approached a triangular mountain, at the base of which I saw there was an entrance. More than just an opening or crevice, this resembled a large door. It was quite astonishing to see and I faltered for a moment. Did I really want to go in (I’d decided against going into mountains or caves prior to this experience) and would I get out again if I did?

I was told by my guide – a serious man of few words – to not be afraid.

The Portal

As the Shaman tapped the deer-skin
Drum, he spoke aloud his thinking,
“What became of those two fellows,
Those who still remain in heaven?”

From the deep green emerald forest,
Stepping softly came a figure,
Made of light, a horseback rider,
In one hand he bore an object.

“One returns,” spoke out the Shaman,
“He could tell a pretty story,
Judging by the hand that’s holding
Stuff of legend, history, glory.”

Robed in silence, seven sages
Watched the horseman drawing nearer,
Saw the object, clear as crystal,
Then, exhaled their breath for ages.

“This makes eight but who shall tell us,
Where the final one is waiting?”
Spoke the Shaman, at which moment,
Something stirred within the forest.

Light of limb and swathed in mystery,
Dazzling in the emerald darkness,
Stepping soft upon the carpet
Came the ninth and moved among them.

Sat she down beside the fire,
Peaceful as the moon at midnight
As the eight in spellbound wonder,
Took her as their inspiration.

Eyes that once were blind with wisdom
Opened then to something greater.
How it happened, none could fathom;
How the ninth became this lady.

So, there is the greatest mystery:
Free of time and made immortal,
Born to hold the key of history;
She, who dared step through the portal.

Golden Feathers

As their consciousness grew thinner,
So the eagle scanned the mountains,
‘Til it spied a pair of antlers,
Saw the stag to bear the spirit.

Folded wings became an arrow
Tipped with plumes of golden feathers.
Startled though the stag was, doubtless
Is the soul that leapt unto it.

By the silver moon of Mani
Did the stag with spirit wander
Cross the deep green emerald forest,
There to find the Shaman’s body.

By the campfire, dying embers
Glowed just like the sun does setting,
Wakened by a moth, the Shaman
Tapped his drum to reach the sages.

Piled he high upon the fire
Dried up leaves and tinder-branches,
Blew upon the peaceful faces
Of the sages smoke, while dancing.

Lifeless seemed the ones before him –
‘Saw the Shaman, none were breathing,
But were bathed in light of silver –
All around them stars were gleaming.

The Camp Fire

Gathered round a blazing camp fire –
Flame of white, like pure magnesia –
Sat a group of men of learning;
All had found their way with reasoning.

Each had spent a life in study,
Each had found his deeper wisdom,
Yet knew naught of any other’s.
Each had made a spirit-prison.

Said the one who carried with him
Nothing ‘cept the staff he walked with,
On his belt a carved mandala,
Set in which were grains of barley:

“Once upon a time in Asia
Did the son of Suddhodana
Leave the wheel of incarnations,
Teach the eightfold path with patience.”

Answered one who bore a tablet
Made of stone. This etched upon it
Bore the ancient Faravahar –
Winged disc – and hieroglyphics:

“Once upon a time in Persia
Lived a man named Zarathustra,
True of mind and true in speaking,;
Undiluted star-light seeking.”

The Fairy Bird Flies

I wandered absent-mindedly into another room and without warning chanced upon the pair I sought – my reason with the fairy – although they did not see me at first for I remained out of view, the quietest of those present.

Both of them appeared to have changed clothes and had become somehow more real looking, which served to diminish their power in my eyes and deprive the sprite (as she had become) of the intensity of pure magical beauty. Funny, then, that she attracted me somehow more strongly than when she had been composed entirely of fire and air.

The attraction was more basic though, for mingled with clay and water she seemed quite human, even if the golden hair, which had lost some of its length and lustre, still tumbled past her slender shoulders and glistened invitingly in the half-light. She stood with her back to me, both hands joined with those of reason, who gazed at her in such complacent adoration that she did not see me at all. I could not tell if they were dancing, making love or struggling with each other. Slight annoyance was mingled with an overwhelming desire to touch them both; I was totally beside myself and moved towards them determinedly.

As soon as I stepped forward they turned around quickly. My reason beamed at me beatifically, “At last, you’re here, what on earth have you been doing, you were ages? We’ve been having a fantastic time!”

I acknowledged that the other one was less pleased to see me, but also that she grew lovelier once again as the weight of reason drew away from her. The same reason moved languidly to my right and rested her head on my shoulder, “I love you”, she murmured softly, once again my modest companion. Fire grew in the sylph-like eyes of the other and with every inspiration she became more like the wind.

Subtly, almost imperceptibly, her robes changed again to the hue of dawn on a bed of blossom and the coils of hair unfurled into their pure golden streams.

I abandoned myself for an instant and lay down on the dewy carpet. As she spread her wings I closed my eyes and sighed in half-forgotten ecstasy, while the fairy bird leaped silently into the air and across our reclining figures, touching the surface of our skin with the hem of her gown as she passed us by on the scent of lilies and melted into the future night, rosy as clouds before dusk.

Was this the appearance of my passion? I held it close as I lost consciousness and entered oblivious insight, soothed by the treasures of the sleeping mind.

Meditations on the Tarot: The High Priestess

The essence of pure mysticism is creative activity. One becomes a mystic when one dares to elevate oneself – ie, ‘to stand upright’, then even more upright, and ever more upright – beyond all created being as far as the essence of Being, the divine, creative fire.

‘Concentration without effort’ is burning without smoke or crackling fire.

On the part of the human being it is an act of daring to aspire to the supreme Reality, and this act is real and effective only when the soul is serene and the body completely relaxed – without smoke and crackling fire.

The essence of pure Gnosis is reflected mysticism. Gnosis signifies that that which takes place in mysticism has become higher knowledge. That is, gnosis is mysticism which has become conscious of itself. It is mystical experience transformed into higher knowledge.

Now, this transformation of mystical experience into knowledge takes place in stages. The first is the pure reflection or a kind of imaginative repetition of the experience. The second stage is its entrance into memory. The third stage is its assimilation in thought and feeling, in a manner where it becomes a ‘message’ or inner word. The fourth stage, lastly, is reached when it becomes a communicable symbol or ‘writing’, or ‘book’ – ie when it is formulated.

The pure reflection of mystical experience is without image and without word. It is purely movement.

Unknown Author, Meditations on the Tarot, Letter II, The High Priestess.

The Fairy Guide

I turned around swiftly, shaken from my reverie by the clear, bright voice that had mercifully prevented me from fully transforming into a fumbling classicist. There before me stood a most remarkable creature, smiling through the sunshine and shaking her lovely hair in the soft summer breeze.

I couldn’t remember having actually seen a fairy before this occasion, although I had been almost sure of their existence and had longed to meet with one of their number for my entire life. As such, I was slightly in awe of this one, maybe because she radiated the most extraordinary confidence through glorious green eyes that betrayed no sign of conscience whatsoever.

Or maybe because of her incredible beauty, which combined all the lightness of air with the alchemy of fire.

Fairies are elemental existences, emanations of the ethereal spirit, and they follow natural laws. I have heard that they have no allegiance to any but themselves and their fairy master and take great glee from high-jinx and trickery.

Quick-witted, easy to both anger and delight, fairies are beings that cannot be trusted beyond reason and must always be treated with caution, but who might also prove to be extremely helpful under the right circumstances. Conversing them safely requires both impeccable intent and a certain degree of intelligence.

I recovered some of my sense and eyed this one authoritatively.

“Thank you ma’am, I was just daydreaming for a moment – this ancient city was part of my first youth and I’m trying to recall the way to the Elysium Fields”.

The vixen-like appearance of the elemental being softened perceptibly and her eyes lost their mischievous glitter. “I see that you are a little confused, for surely it is not yet time for you to return. Come, let me first take you to the Potter’s hearth for some light refreshment while you decide what to do for the best.”

Deep Secret

She saw him as he kissed her on the cheek.

Warmth was like a firefly, dancing in his eyes, melting into liquid all the diamonds of her mind.

He put both his hands into her hair.

The radio crackled and grew fainter, framing the endless silence like a braid of wheat, magnetising all background interference so the air grew taut as a lens, magnifying live reactions as if they were in a scene from a lyric master’s play.

A tear escaped from the corner of one eye, smelted by the heat of his star-like gaze. Silver like mercury, burning as bright as magnesium on fire.

Her secret name was spoken as a seal and she felt as if light, not blood, was flowing through her veins.

Why it was and always would be such a deep secret, who could say?

Victorious is the bright desire from the eyes of the fair bride; it sits enthroned beside the eternal laws, for the goddess Aphrodite works her invincible will. (Sophocles, Antigone)