“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

23 September 2008



Day Thirty-Five: Resting Quietly at the Bottom.
"Must the citizen ever for a moment, or in the least degree, resign his conscience to the legislator? Why has every man a conscience, then?" As with all things that exist within a cycle, which is to say all things belonging to the natural world, there is a pause before the turning to another phase or state or station. before the inbreath, the pause. before the crescent moon, the dark. and so i today inhabit the cradle of quiet before emerging into a new light. the cycles are sometimes difficult to manage and its even more difficult to feel not-in-control of ones experience but i am learning that i can however control my actions and emotions regarding these cycles of mine. it is a late lesson but well learned. so i wont push me into false feelings anymore, ill just be curious like the guru says, be curious about the cycles, as one wonders at the phenomenon of breath, day and night, time, and the moon. false feelings are the eternal inbreath, the forever full moon. in further allegory the only constant is the Great Central Heart of Light that feeds the manifold systems of change. the madman philosopher tells me to enjoy this time of being 'blank and clean and empty.' was of use today out in the wider world papering rotundas of praise and circulating myself like some benevolent cell in the body of my job. standing there with a tape dispenser chanting the names of the Goddess in my head, hello beautiful hello beautiful im alright im alright.
"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well." -V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)