Maghdim, Magos, Magi

Very ancient Eastern languages used words such as Mog, Megh and Magh to define that which is priestly, wise or excellent. Thence is derived the Chaldean name Maghdim, meaning supreme wisdom or divine philosophy. Thus the Greeks had the Magos (Magician) and Mageia (Magic) and by these terms they denoted higher knowledge of nature, especially with relation to religion and the science of the stars. Magicians were, literally, the Wise, the Magi; Philosophers, Shamen, Witch Doctors, Priests, Scientists, Artists, Initiates.

A discourse on magic need not, therefore, be a code of practice for witches and yet, a belief in magic and/or a pantheistic sort of worship tended to precede a belief in one God for many people. True belief is in fact a magical experience; hope, faith and love are sacred magical processes. it is also fair to say, however, that grave misinterpretation of magical phenomena is possible and it is as well to be aware that all things natural and supernatural have really been brought about through God’s will. To separate the individual, personal power, from that of God would be divisive in essence – an act of darkness – whereas the channelling of the divine spirit through the self is a positive, light-filled action.

There is a woman with a passion for music and nature so deep and abiding that the Shaman has a sacred place in her heart; she knows that so much was, is and will be shown via his highly skilled techniques, mastery of which entails a vivid fascination of tantric dimensions with seemingly boundless proportions. The Shaman is so singular for the direct way in which he helps her access an internal rhythm and fathomless understanding of movement in connection with the eternal muse.  The Shaman may assist her in releasing bound (because dark) energy in a spiritually viable way of light. The Shaman will, therefore, be credited for eternity as a vital psychic instigator of Change.

It would be harmful to repress ancient hereditary impulses of human cultures, which in past times were psychologically dependent upon the performance of magic for various reasons. Magical rites could spring instinctively from an urge to love and be as One with the Universe, as we are all able. Subtle and manifold are the ways of magic.  On the most practical, naïve level, many are they who may unwittingly conduct spells or even sublime acts in conjunction with nature and the source of divine energy. Such things tend not to occur by chance, even in cases where a butterfly effect might be perceived. There is a code and a key behind creation: A mysterious element to the passage of time, a multi-dimensional reality behind space that we can all access if we would only remember how and why it is so.

Twofold Teaching

History – as, moreover, the life of the individual – is ‘worked’ by day and by night. It has a diurnal aspect and a nocturnal aspect. The former is exoteric, whilst the latter is esoteric. The silence and obscurity of the night is always full of events in preparation – and all that which is unconscious or superconscious in the human being belongs to the domain of ‘night’.

This is the magical side of history, the side of magical deeds and works acting behind the facade of history ‘by day’. Thus, when the Gospel was preached by the light of day in the countries around the Mediterranean, the nocturnal rays of the Gospel effected a profound transformation in Buddhism. There, the ideal of individual liberation by entering the state of nirvana gave way to the ideal of renouncing nirvana for the work of mercy towards suffering humanity. The ideal of mahayana, the great chariot, then had its resplendent ascent to the heaven of Asia’s moral values.

This is the formula of the twofold teaching – by the speech of day and by the knowledge of night; of the twofold tradition – by verbal teaching and by direct inspiration; of twofold magic – by the spoken word and by silent radiation; and lastly, of twofold history – ‘visible’ history by day and ‘invisible’ history by night.

…and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night (Genesis i, 4-5)

And the act of separation of the intelligible from the mysterious signifies at the same time the establishing of cosmic respiration, which is the analogy of ‘the Spirit of God moving above the face of the waters’. For the divine breath (ruach ‘elohim) above the profoundness of peace (‘the waters’ – it is this which is the psychological as well as the cosmic reality of nirvana) is the divine prototype of respiration.

Unknown author, Meditations on the Tarot, Letter V, The Pope

Tomberg: Apocalypse, Israel and Atlantis

In the sense of the Apocalypse, we can best understand the choosing and the significance of the chosen people, or the undying Israel, by studying the history of humankind with the purpose of discovering the origin of the chosen people. We must go back to a time when civilisation flourished in Atlantis, the continent of West Europe, which was later submerged.

That civilisation was especially distinguished from that of today by the fact that it was based on very different human faculties. Modern civilisation is founded on the human faculty of thinking and the experiences that reach us through the mind, whereas the Atlantean civilisation was based on faculties that would be viewed today as ‘magical’.

The faculties of Atlanteans relied on a far more intimate relationship between humankind and the natural environment than exists in modern times. For Atlanteans, an external natural event was as direct inner experience; similarly, the inner experience of Atlanteans exerted an influence on the outer events of nature.

The will had the power of not only moving a person’s limbs, but it could also effect the forces of nature. The will had the power of not only moving a person’s limbs, but it could also affect the forces of nature. Likewise, the spoken word had a power that today, when speakers lecture or declaim – we can no longer conceive of. It could heal or kill, build or destroy, through the natural force that accompanied it.

Christ and Sophia (The Chosen People, The Nature of the Old Testament) Valentin Tomberg

The White Age

Come back now

Thank goodness that was over – a second more and I would definitely have started panicking – I wasn’t at my best underwater, but so often seemed to find myself in that position whenever I became conscious of my situation.

Why, I asked myself, did ‘holidays’ almost invariably end with being captured by the sea? The only time I had really experienced a watery destination and had managed to avoid going under was when I had gone to the prior existence of the light side with Peter, a place of virtual hieroglyphic communication, very close to the ancient Sanskrit lands. How I would love to recall that tale, for it was truly the epic journey of my most sublime imagination, an Arabian night made day.

There, the water had been azure, the vista of magical blue eternity studded with islands of far-reaching heart-felt wishes. A breathtaking view indeed and if I should ever recall or revisit that fathomless beach of my Odyssey, surely I would declare unto it the homage of a thousand sighs in words, without weeping.

This was the fantasy of the East as it was in the eye of the creator, reflection in light of the land near and far, mystical pre-incarnation of a maharaja’s dream. Never before seen were those crystal quartets of jewel-like structures, the bathing houses of ideal dimension, gleaming quadratics, defined manifestations of the glittering perception of marble queens. This was no ordinary era, it was the utmost peak of infinity. It was the white age.

There were reams of turquoise, ether avenues of ultraviolet stone, columns of mystique, the foundations of purity in a destination almost unseen, all at the origin of eternity’s horizon, whilst onward stretched the shore of our forever on the smoothest sea of love….

It’s at this point that my memory fails, though in my minds eye I still see the crystal waters, which none can remove from my understanding of mysteries, far beyond the green of the Zoroastrian glade.

Not too far back

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.

Pros Theon

The Master sighed, deep in thought, and approached an overloaded bookcase on the Eastern wall of the treatment room. The afternoon sun cast rendered certain areas invisible with its blinding rays.

Scanning the shelves intently, following the words on each well-worn spine with a finely-nailed forefinger, all but that which the Master sought was readily apparent, the object itself merely absent.

After almost an hour of fruitless seeking, the Master stamped a foot and sighed loudly in frustration. Thoughts from what was by any standards a frequently exercised brain penetrated the atmosphere with ease.

Where on Earth is the magical book?

There was no answer to this question.

Didn’t I see it just after Halle Bop came around again and the moon was side by side with Jupiter?

Again, there was no answer, but the Master felt sure this was when the rare and ancient copy of ‘Pros Theon’, which translated into English as ‘By the Gods’, had last been consulted.

Where can it be, for heaven’s sake?

Who could say? No word came, though the room was imbibed with an overpowering sense that to lose the text completely would be disastrous.

There were only seven transcripts of the book left in existence and at least two of those – the Master’s included – were incomplete. Of the other six, a well-used copy was with the exiled Dalai Lama and the Chief Rabbi – who may well have denied its existence had he been questioned – kept a pristine version hidden away in his library behind the more orthodox texts.

Mahavatar Babaji had somehow obtained a copy of the book that he subsequently left with his disciples, while a famously un-heard of Sufi Magician inherited the fifth from his grandfather. This highly revered leader of a largely forgotten tribe of nomads had escaped persecution by retreating to a hidden network of mountain caves above the plains of ancient Babylon.

The Vatican had the remaining two copies of Pros Theon. One was in fragments and a second had been retrieved by the Knights Templar from a vault below the Church of the Sepulchre in Jerusalem.

The Master felt a sudden chill. Could it be true that the only freely available text of Pros Theon had been lost or even stolen?