This piece for the spring equinox, on Solomon, complements my previous post about the Priestess, and the ongoing “Parvati themes” in janeadamsart.
“Harbour the culture through chaos. Conserve the culture through chaotic conditions. The capacity to do so, is oasis.”
I see Tibet behind Mount Everest, and also the shy bend of the River Torridge in North Devon, its swift mainstream, its quiet circling backwaters which observe. I put a photo of it at the end of Parvati Waters Trees.
Solomon’s wisdom is in the mountains and sages of each place of time, as in the lilies of the field. Before I discovered this aspect pattern in my birth chart, I had intuitively adopted the Seal of Solomon as my guiding Star and logos.
My mandala: something inherited: a dedicated way. My birth was painfully delayed (for my mother) until the moment when the Ascendent “earthed” a hexagonal concordance with the Nodes, Uranus opposite Venus, and the Part of Fortune. Subjectively I was aware from earliest childhood, of beauty, and the microcosmic fact of Macrocosm. The harmonic for me, is inescapable, and converges many old apprenticeships and skills. It is transpersonal. I view it objectively, and try to serve it well.
So: capacity to conserve a culture, creates oasis.
The medieval monks in Europe conserved the culture through chaotic conditions – war, pillage, waste. They kept their prayer and their libraries going. These too got pillaged, but always resurfaced and carried on, maybe a century later. In Tibet, the Rongbuk monastery is back in business. What the monasteries truly have, is eternal and indestructible. The Eternal Life rebirths, in the covers of a book or a body-mind.
Perhaps I am an old illuminator of the manuscripts, sitting in a chilly stone library, like I so often sit in my chilly kitchen, tinkering along in the inward warmth, and rise stiff and cold. Perhaps I receive the same cherishing that I gave to the old manuscripts and their lettering and their wisdom. Perhaps I am tonsured, and even the Librarian: the keys are in my belt, with my rosary. The damp smell of old stone and vellum. Scraping scratch of feathered pens. Cold feet, always: often, cold hands. The Glory. Where am I? Norway? France? North Germany?
In my soul rests a romantic residue of the monastic life, the gothic arch, the songs of prayer, male harmonies, brothers. Were those happy lifetimes? Fulfilled? I know by hearsay that in monastic communities every individual petty misery is magnified. I came into this birth with the warning: “don’t be so selfish”.
Well, I suppose my feet are in sandals, and my robe is brown, and I love the Mountains which are the books of wisdom, eternally. The Mountains erode the pages and stand as they are. I know history. I know that the Knowledge returns from the flames of petty pyres and reoccupies the libraries, as fresh as a daisy.
On DNA racial analysis – human groups: lineage, Levite, the colours in the stitches of Africa …. Solomon sent ships down the Red Sea – sailors went on land – mixture of genes … beautiful Ethiopians? Many are of Jewish origin. Solomon’s bride is dark and comely – as was Parvati, Siva’s bride.
My friend Sarah who looks so English and sensible, researched and discovered her ancient African gene ancestry: her privilege to find and be this body, today’s result (in progress) of countless converging lines of history – a hinterland.
DNA is a physical web or template. It sustains itself unceasingly, and does not change. There is an interplay of physical and Karmic webs with the strands of the Spirit. Slowly the soul merges with the Infantile in the womb – she may come from far away; the earth root is tribal. The soul has the flexibility of good and evil and selection.
Sarah notices distinct facial types of kindred spirit, as among musicians and singers: their carriage or enthusiasm, their shared eccentricity.
(In “Prayer to the Moon” – (http://moma-fauna.blogspot.co.uk/: look for “Animist Blog Carnival: The Shape of Time & Other Things”) – I found a 1980s video of Carl Sagan demonstrating the extraordinary flexibility and precision of DNA models, “light years” inside the depths of the cell … )
I enjoyed trying to play some Bach yesterday, piano – Allemandes and Sarabandes from the French and English suites … spell them out slowly. They are very beautiful.
GEMATRIA is the “spelling”, letter by letter, of the Hebrew Alephbeis. Each letter is a living spirit, a gesture, a hieroglyph of Hashem the holy One, for someone like myself, who can’t read Hebrew ! They each have numbers, which add up, expand and correspond universally. Gematria, the science of numbers, is a gymnasium, extraordinarily profound. It may tempt the monkey mind, a torrent of clever associations – a tasty Law of Correspondences.
But gematria, to live and build with, needs to be held for a long time on the tongue, and relished.
The word Ha-KVKaBIM the Stars, is 103, the number of EBeN Ha-ADaM, Stone of Adam,
and of BoNAIM, the builders, masons (Essene word),
and of GNaN, to hedge about, protect, shield,
and of HVA Ha ELoHIM “He is God” ,
and of MaGeDVN, rendezvous, place of Armageddon or meeting,
and of MaGeNI, my shield.
These all have the mutual linking number 103, and are holy breaths. The stars are the dust of Adam Qadmon. They are strung together as desert sands, to build Sanctuary, and to fence the holy ground of God. At “armaggedon“, place of meeting, rendezvous, they are my shield.
(Note that a similar word, Magid, means “inner teacher, enlightened spiritual guide.)
The miracle-bearing seed of the Royal House of David, is brought to Bethlehem the House of Bread. The yeast is pounded down to rise: meditation pounds it down.
“We must come to the Meggeden, and place of rendezvous.” We must come to a holy place of meeting, with the Companions of the Light. What is meditation but a repeated thought? How simple it is. Any thought, repeated enough, will solidify and manifest. Sustained reflection on “what is true?” produces what appear to be miracles, and helps difficult relationships to unravel and deliver, in any plane of being, or history.
“Rendez-vous” means “Render yourself.” This same root is Surrender: to the indwelling Shekhinah, the Daughter of the Seven – indeed the Daughter of Jerusalem who is dark and comely. He makes an appointment with Her. He seeks Her out, and to her faithful lover, Shekhinah unveils.” (Paul Foster Case)
It is the Song of Songs!
So I get to work.
The Occult doctrine is: The Stone of Adam is the union of the Father Hokhmah with Tifareth the Son – a great Star surrounded by seven smaller stars.
The Bonaim, builders, share the secret doctrine, as did the Essenes. The Builders of the Adytum disagree with Essenic celibacy, but concur with the Rosicrucean Manifesto that “our building, although one hundred thousand people had very nearly seen it, shall forever remain untouched, undestroyed and hidden in the wicked world.”
The pure teaching and practice of the Ageless Wisdom is not designed to be popular or to attract large numbers. It is targeted. It is the Adytum or Sanctuary in the third eye. Paul Foster Case wrote, “In an unenlightened man it is in the same condition as the Temple at the time of David. The materials are gathered, but cannot be erected into a temple by David, the warrior and man of blood. They must wait for Solomon, whose name (Shalom) signifies “peaceful”.”
Then the Psalmist – his entire emotional spectrum in the Songs – was the Shield for Solomon’s Song and Seal within. Magendovid means “Shield of David” – for the Star itself is Solomon’s Seal. David is “the Beloved”. In modern Israel, the Temple – except in some communities, and in vistas far transcending politics – is relatively dormant. The magendovid became a secular flag. But the Covenant is in the air we breathe.
“Solomon comes down to us largely as allegory. His name is the rising Sun: SOL OM ON – Latin, Sanskrit, Egytian. Each syllable and the triad which combines them, symbolises Tifareth.”
(Paul Foster Case)
The Covenant, the Shekhinah, is placed in a Cubical room. This is the flower at the heart of the Cube of Space, extending toutes directions: JHVH and the weathercock. Here and now, it awakens. When the i-habit drops into the deep, the Covenant arises; words or phrases trickle through the silence one by one. This is the goal of spiritual exercise: to grasp the Staff of peace. The Staff is the Key to all history, and is common to each soul who finds it again. The Staff is the collective cosmic Knowledge – Daat on the Tree of Life – when Solomon’s Seal with the Cube it forms, AWAKES. Where else can it awake, but here?
Before the Cube of Solomon awakes, tools to build the Temple lie on the ground waiting for instruction. Their fascinating flat shapes in theory were and are seized and discussed by the learned of all cultures … like the story of the Elephant and the Blind Orthodox Scholars … like fragments of a mirror to put in a museum.
But inside the invisible Elephant, a sage and student stroll towards sunrise … the interior light and conversation common to All: the heart.
Isis gathered the scattered pieces of Osiris, to conceive from him their child Horus. When the Seal of Solomon is re-membered, in a twinkling it catches fire and VOLUME, a burning bush in the heart: eternal Life. Then I know I am a little lens placed near the ground, for the Cosmic prayer of Natural State unceasing. I am a raindrop. I am given the moment shared, which hides the scholarly centuries.
Before it strikes, I don’t know what or where it is. When it strikes, it is unsought, innocent and entire. Sacred geometry enkindles it. The magendovid protects and kindles my desire to let it pass on through my transparency. When this movement sings in the temple of the soul, I am stepped beyond the petty reasonings, petitions or words of the world. Here is source, like the language in the church roof in The Knight. I, the smudgy creature on the floor, pick up the correlation and scribe it. Scribing, as in monastic lifetimes, holds my attention here in sanctuary.
Nothing in all the world is as repetitive as the Ageless Wisdom in the blood: the pulse. The drum of the rain.
So many temple cloths and churches get torn down, to disclose again the Adored ADONAI, KABOD the Glory.
Whatever may happen for secular Israel, the beauty of its hidden communities flowering over rock, salt and sky, extends far and near, like sturdy ground-climbers, and will survive and prevail as the human core: peace. At the root of all Israel’s thought is SOLOMON, Shalom, the peace: keep the peace, even through concrete walls. In this broad picture, the secular combat is a house of cards – a delusion. It rose and fell many times in the old and new testaments.
“The truth is: war will not work. The peace is not with the politicians, but in the heart of the people. The peace is in the young of both sides, who are tired of the war.”
I feel and smell the sweet wind, the milk and honey. The delusion and mutual enemies are a curtain to go right through, to collapse: it is but a second in the pause of God. We Judaeans, Levites, Arabians, Kurds, Chaldeans and Yemenites are a people of Allah, a city of JHVH, and as the everyday mindset, mostly we forget this; and when we forget, we suffer and are tense with an enemy around us, or busy/superstitious with our golden calves.
An ancient habitation of my soul has roots in the silver sand no wind removes – the tablets of the Mountain. Back in 1971, travelling a tiny corner of the Sahara, I saw the Book of the Ages: no human fancy, chemistry or invention is other than the strata of those rocks and dunes, and the faces and histories the wind draws. I saw where ‘I’ begin, between grains of sand numberless as those of Ganges in the Buddha nature.
I would not have this understanding, had not my soul been Jewish, many, many times … as well as being a scribe in Christendom, strange yet integral descendent of Judah: the Word is love. As a keeper of the Book, keep practicing. Hold the flame, keep it burning. It gathers its own. ‘Gathertegen’ was my imaginary childhood city of God, where all the best toyshops were. It is in the gentlest of the breath, the rising falling tide… the immense horizon of the view.
When Moses came down the Mountain … when Yeshua went up the hill to pray … In Moses the Holy One struck a match aflame and spoke: “I AM THAT I AM – go and tell them that.” In Yeshua the YOD is Father, his source: for give.
Each morning when I write, I go up the hill to pray, not remembering why, until I am here. The spark is Netzach, the friction of life. In a motor, this generates the engine. Netzach is Nature, the Tree of Life’s power base. The friction of lightning and rain in Earth’s aeons, generated life. The friction of male and female re-kindles the soul, a lamp in the womb for the soul.
A very old man sings this, his movement of ancient joy and sorrow down the generations, eternally young. It rocks his cradle and tefillin. He told me that after his son was born, he ran naked into the salty sea to release his tribute to Shekhinah.
Egyptian AmunRa brought forth the cosmos from his penis, self pleasuring, God to behold God. Which of the Schools dare to tell us, that God’s condition is joy? Genesis is joy? The tsim-tsum is joy? Erotic, cosmic joy? It is too intimate to be “believed in” ! (Messiaen’s music, sometimes: Turangalila 4th mvt, and Turangalila 5th mvt, Joie du Sang des Etoiles. Just try dancing out the cobwebs to this! /and see the Picasso drawing on the second one./ And if possible, get hold of Andre Previn’s 1978 recording of Turangalila.)
Every atom of the universe is joy. This is our seed, our being. Look at the vast numbers of ways this is misconstrued, abused, misinterpreted – such drab fantasies about virgins in paradise.
The propaganda develops when the fact of joy is forgotten: when local intellect usurps and obscures the fact, it gradually fashions a sitting duck for its own invention – the self-destruct.
Yet everything both light and dark, is a version of God unto God. What dogma closes and confines? What opens, heals and liberates?
If I lived the devil backwards, I see the point again. This is what Arcanum 15 reveals and teaches: dissolving the cramped effigy on his throne, into 6, the Lovers at Tifareth who give each other space and time.
Star, Cross and Crescent … let there be peace.
Peace and let there be peace to all beings, is a dry formula only, rattling on the sand, until stirred with the Water of Life – Yeshua turned away from the rabble and drew in the sand – a reality of joy, a reality of Sangha. This Sanskrit word for “Companions” is the same as the French for blood – Sang-Real: the Grail, the bloodline, the carrier of the Sun: SOL.
The Holy Grail is not a Cup or category. The Holy Grail is a transmission, the bloodline, the Family of God, the JHVH. It has no end; and we see within, our Self.
The myths of Siva-Rudra’s linga, thrust into the Water of Life, were sustained by yoga. The moments of human ecstasy, eros and Light are brief in the daisy chain. The stems of the daisy chain are interwoven. So we find out how to concentrate that continuity, the seed in the vessel. Oak in the acorn. The deep human learning curve is to forsake a “selfish” sexuality, to convert erotic feeling by metanoia, to the common good. Tantra and alchemy have the practice, and it is the language all mystics use. Some versions are celibate, but this is not mandatory.
The mandate is a spiritualized, subtle, sustainable sexuality: a Sivaic perpetuity before the peak as it were. Through this medium, transmission flows. It is similar to the radiation from rocks and flowers, human to human, star to star. Ida Craddock taught it to Victorians, and was hounded to her death by outraged male chimney-pots and the church. They were scared of having their black holes in petticoats taken away from them. The Pulpit thundered.
Sexual honesty is a human Achilles heel: the preference is fantasy, guilt, romance, fast in-and-out, and domination. Sexual-spiritual Odyssey is likely to explore any one, or some of these completely, towards the light.
Then I remembered and found this bit of Solomons Song …
verses by Alan Jacobs and JA, June 1995
“For dark am I, and ardent,
singed and seared by scorching sun
to taste the vine.”
“Our house has beams of cedar,
our bed is green, your eyes are doves in flight.”
“As an apple among the wood,
do you stand out from youth,
I bask beneath your shade
and your fresh fruits are sweet as truth.”
“O that your left hand rest over my head,
your right hand in my heart!
Daughters of Jerusalem
awaken not Love, till He wills …
Hear His voice! how bounding over hills
my lover leaps
like stag or young gazelle,
gazing in through our lattice.”
“Scent of green fig,
oh dove, hidden in rocky clefts,
let me see and touch your face –
catch the little foxes that maraud the vine.”
“How fair you are, my darksome dear,
your eyes behind your veil are doves,
your raven locks are flocks of goats
descending Gilead in silken droves.”
“Your teeth are a herd of sheep just shorn,
come up from Jordan’s streams:
each with lambs is blessed, not one unborn,
your lips are scarlet thread that gleams.”
“Your cheeks are pairs of pomegranate
in a veil of wind swept fields,
your neck is King David’s tower of granite
hung with a thousand warriors’ shields.”
“Your two breasts as pair of soft young roes,
feed among lovely lilies white
till break of dawn with the rose
as shadows flee the light.
I will rise and reach the mountains of myrhh
and hills of golden frankincense.”
“Your lips sip sweet as honey comb,
the milk beneath my tongue,
your fragrant robe as fresh as foam,
a love-locked garden rose, my bride so young.”
“Sealed spring, a crystal fountain
cinnamon scent of orchard spice
streams down the sacred mountain,
aloes, henna, nard and saffron rice.”
“I sleep, but heart and soul awaken
to my lover at the door: his voice to my plight
calls: open my sister, beloved, by me be taken,
my head is wet with dew, my locks with drops of night.”
“My lover thrust through the door’s latch his hand,
my bowels were moved for him, so dear.
I rose to my beloved, to see him stand,
my fingers dripped sweet scent of myrrh.”
“I opened; but how? he had turned and gone!
What did he say? the soul within me failed.
All night I sought him, till the dawn
calling his name, grief struck, impaled.”
“The watchmen found me, lost in the city
as they were going about; they beat and bruised me.
Keepers of walls, they had no pity –
tore away my cloak, defiled and used me.”
“I charge you O daughters, if you find
him, tell him I am sick and faint with love.”
“As cedar of Lebanon, tall his frame,
my bridegroom, beloved his name.”
“Where did he go?
to his rose garden fled.
I am his; the beloved is mine.
He browses in the lily bed.”
“In my nut garden standing still,
the golden Sun sinks into a silver Sea.”
“My love, like a wild stag
or young gazelle,
abounds on mountains of spices:
all is well.”
Aquariel – an angel of the waters and of the air through the woods of life.
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