I am dipping back into an old diary – see previous post.
22 May 2011 – Pentacle: Dark Pennies and Victory Falls
AVE. Some strong spiritual leaders of humanity “clothe their higher bodies with physical matter, by stepping down the vibratory rate of their personal vehicles. The greater number are men and women who came into earth-life in the usual way” through the birth canal.
(Quotation from Paul Foster Case)
Every one of us has the unfolding, dormant or active potential of master of humanity: magister. Ramana and other sages relate to this, in each soul they see. The “grade” is omnipresent, for it is our true Self, and it is mostly unnoticed.
It is a remarkable thing to creep into the embodied arena through that tiny little door and fall into the storms, milk and wiped slate of babyhood. Our deepest privacy is what we no longer remember, because our memory’s data base rests on learning to read. Before literacy, there is usually an awakening contact with the tribe of past lives, their fruition in this one – the magic of childhood.
The magi move with ease, when their bodies have grown up through the dramas of puberty and infancy. Hold this impression: the magister in me through a string of births: the oak inside the acorn: the presence of the magister in every time and place, is a lode star: I keep returning to talk about it.
My writing in the mornings consists of: spiritual contact, study and psychology – the daily application – for instance, tales of the garden at Alum Way reflect for me in their textures and patterns of leaves, the contact of the deep. They do, because there is love going on there – enough to much amuse the magister: enough to ground the settlement: enough to reflect the law. Human love is a servant to the transpersonal. Instinctively, it makes me work hard and develops my dedication.
Yesterday I sowed the first grass seeds along the edge of the garden where the rubbish dump used to be – I knelt and stroked them into the earth. The man came along at that moment and teased. In the evening we watch Grand Designs, following persons who build their dream mansions, and all the problems of construction, relationship and planning – a roof which turns out to be too high, etc. And look at me! My Grand Design in reverse, removed a mountain, and I end up not high on the roof but hands and knees on the ground, like this – smile.
Ramana used to say, when you dig a well, or realise your Self, all you do is remove what isn’t there. All that stuff blocking it is space. For much of my life I fantasised Capricornly about building or creating some big thing bare handedly – it turns out to be this space, and it gives me confidence at various levels. Only with our hands touching earth do we realise the heavenly motions.
Yesterday I also painted both gates green – a brighter park-bench Venus green which the man bought and finds more cheerful: his instinctive signal to the Zombies (neighbours) – my green is bigger than yours – and re-organised the back “subconscious” wild garden, moved the tip-rubbish to the other side of its entrance, sorted out the woodpile/long lovely privet poles for fencing, and raked up the man’s grass trimmings. The Zombies were busy trimming the elderflower tree by the street – they have plans for their little front garden; with their fear of the man, they use their back garden less. I do not have the social skill to speak to them at present, but I enjoyed the feeling of them working near me: the Meerkat – who has turned blonde – sweeping up leaf-litter by the bins. The man’s way with the Zombies is now quite sensible – keep distance: aloof courtesy.
Now yesterday – my insights from the garden clearance begin to dew – I jotted that it doesn’t matter to be wrong or mistaken. The magi too are constantly adjusting focus: like one who draws. The fixed fear of making mistakes is egotistic.
I saw when dozing the other day, an image of the Victoria Falls – there are pictures of them in Prof Cox’s universe book, a magical place of rainbows falling (of course) on himself – the fast moving flood tosses turbulent white. On the brink, bushy islands or trees part the vast spill. I saw this too from a distance, like teeth and gaps, or silhouettes, and imagined myself caught on one of those tree-clumps between the thundering waters: identifying. I flit like a butterfly by an abyss – cliffs of fall. The subconscious distils to me the image. The dark places where the trees cling to rock, along the wide white bite of the falls, shocked and awoke me. Jung says “unconscious” material floats to the surface and shocks the dreamer.
Similarly: the patches of the finite – vibrant bodylife, and its moods and dreaming cityscapes – are pasted on the infinite. They – the silhouettes – are on a plane merged with the grey Infinite, yet distinct, like threads of oil on water. For some reason the silhouette being not tilted but resting in the plane, pleases me.
I swim in your silhouette, your shadow on the grass – a little pool. Circles – pennies – of the soul that can lie a little overlapping one another as vesica pisces without invasion, are a tender discovery. I don’t think it is possible in a relationship’s early stages to venture this, because too many karmic defences and compulsions are being processed. In the early stages there is infatuation and quite a lot of psychic rape.
Lay the coins – the shadow discs of the soul – together, move their edges over one another, then back. The fish where circles overlap, is a fluid oval, and from it the Angel or the Child rises. Relationship – as spiritual practice – is a field where the shadow discs quiver together like leaves in the breeze. It is whimsical or it is conscious. The clean parting is as important as the merging. That is why the Lovers’ hebrew emblem is ZAIN the sword whose tip parts the ways. It applies to partnership and to the binary relationship within my self.
(“And” is VAV, the Hierophant. This is because the hebrew letter VAV means a hook or nail – something that joins things together or bridges souls – and even signifies the grammatical conjunction “and”.)
The shadow discs lie in the field, deep blue with night. One may look into the other, and empathise, withdraw, empathise. To speak is not necessary. They throb.
Yesterday was not really optimum for planting grass, with the Moon in last quarter. However my incentive to carry through, was strong – the Moon in Capricorn, and Mercury, Venus and Mars in Taurus. 21 May, my daughter’s birthday, is also for me, a moment of the Magi; they reveal their face. The gardens – all earth, with some timber piles, a few new shrubs and garlanded with trees – are a beauteous space in readiness, an invitation. This week is also the man and my 5th anniversary. There is a curious and welcome spiritual relaxation – take it or leave it – with things. Removal of anxiety is truth.
But see: keep clearing: pause in the inward turned writing, which is on a daily base repetitive, and be silent; hear and see. The world was rumoured to come to an end, yesterday.
The gardens are a lens, responding also to my meetings with Jung and Master R at a plain round table in a secret garden by a hedge. At Alum Way, I am busy in the garden: here at home I see and rest in it.
Thus the coins overlap and part. They are pentacles. The pentacle is a yantra of the bare soft earth, that I tread level in a circle with my feet, for planting. Pentacles are stars, five-petal flowers, and seals of Solomon; pentacles are magic rings. My ideas of circles of grass in squares of ground should not be applied too literally. The magic gestures are in my writing: the material and the plans are his. I watered everything yestereve copiously with Marion’s hose: but it rained a little anyway, in the night, and now the wind sings in a bright sky with leaves.
The rainbow waters of Victory descend through my flute. This is Fall – the endless falling of the Light. Light loves gravity. Light is also gravity – curved as space around the spheres. Gravity is endless and everywhere – the falling. In some parts among the stars, it condenses locally and vorticises to black holes – the birth of stars. Black holes are old collapsed stars. Their singular rebirth shines through the other side of the spangled cloth. Stars are infinite, even though they die. I am infinite, even though I die. I see above the clouds: my face is every where. Is gravity the speed of light?
The lesson of the brown pennies lying in the field, is when I see into your dark with you; I rest with your reality; it is a mystery how we touch.
In the day, the sparkle in your face breaks mine in a smile: your eyes as bright and dark as a child; your bravery in the battle field: your cock and your crisp wit like toast: your deep voice and will power in your chest and throat: your brown impulsive hands: your flaws: your broken teeth and smokers cough: your unfettered expression of your vulnerability: your emotional zest.
It is wise to keep distinct, my depth perceptions and the surface pools. They marry and entwine in time – it is the hourglass of the stars. Where I live as a membrane or sounding board, it is unwise to define too much. The circles on the water expand, contract, change shape to rods and amoebic globes, disappear and reform; the five mobile islands where Hokhmah dips his hand.
Ah! a thought while blowing out the candle: my present drift away from esoteric groups and ritual is because I am being assisted by the nature Devas whom I honour in the garden. I’m glad to be reminded of the Devas. This clarifies much, and puts the adventure in context. The Devas spell out things of life very clearly, and dispel hobnobbing.
Aquariel – an angel of the waters and of the air through the woods of life.
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