Monday, November 16, 2009

When the Veil is Thin...

Thu, November 1, 2007
I floated in that strange and liquid place between sleeping and wakefulness, that place where deep magic can happen. That place where the conscious mind is not willing to let go completely- staying on duty enough to keep the body from sliding all the way into sleep, but fluidly making room for the subconscious to slide on in. And so it does, wielding a silver sword to sweep away the cobwebs of perceived reality to introduce the truth, as slippery and unreal as it may seem. Many times I have ridden here in this plane, and have had spells whispered in my ears, only to wake with the sound of a bell, or even the clear sound of my name being called... from within the mind.... not from without. This is the place where my magic solidifies; this is the place one tries to achieve in meditation, or with drugs. It is a place that is always available, should you know how to go there.

I floated there, on the night when the veil between the worlds is the thinnest, when the mind is most capable of connecting to other planes and piercing through to the truth. The thoughts came and went, ebbed and flowed, as I searched deeper and deeper into the rich loam of the lower parts of my mind- the place that feels the way that the earth smells when it is buried under decaying autumn leaves. Whispers in the mind, spells and visions floating past, but this is not what I came here for. I rooted deeper, pushing aside curled fronds of imagination until I brushed up against the disquiet, the rummaging in the underbrush that would not be still. Crouching there, I waited to see what would emerge. Still there were whispers caressing my ears, brushing my third eye; I sat still, waiting, that loam smell in my nose- in my mind.
what is it?
Ahhh... yes. Fear, it crouches there, tucked under the rotting leaves, waiting for the right times to sneak out and insinuate itself into the daily routine. I sat in the dirt and spoke softly to it, as if it were a frightened bird, uncomprehending except for the tone of my voice (spirt-heart) as to what my intentions are. Grown fat, it has, in the past years; given many reasons to glut itself as it hides, waiting. Touch this; rough- dirt- dark- trembling... it knows me and I it, but where do we part, where do we end? Then as I crouch I realize the error in this- and this is the magic; there is no separation. Fear is part of who we are, sitting with love and courage and hate and all the finer emotions that run the gamut over the years of our lives. Fear is not unlike the snake- as, or more, afraid of you as you are of it. To be handled with care, but handled frequently so as to not let it get too feral.

Sharp scent (sound? feeling?), and my head comes up. I merge into wakefulness and then the subconscious wins again, and I slide back down into the inbetween. What if you are worth infinitely more than you believe, and yet are never allowed to know this? That is what we all face. The dirt on my knees, then, keeps me humble. Would we rupture if we knew? That must be it; it would be impossible to dive fully into the dirty, earthy, scrumptious human experience if we knew we were all angels. If we knew we were all embodiment of light, and yet captured into the flesh in order to experience all the range of emotion, touch, smell and sound... and more than just that. I function in daily life, doing what needs to be done while my mind soars through the sky, runs through the forest and flows in the streams. And yet here, in this plane in which I sat, I am the spirit that lingers in the trees when I have gone home. The longing then, to return to this, becomes strong and I understand what it means to fully live and fully heal. The relaxation then is suddenly deep as the cool hands of my own light (being?) touch my (skin? soul?) and I understand I have crossed over, finally, into acceptance of the change of the season and the change of the pace I have been keeping.

When I do return, do wake, my senses are sharp. The forest mind lingers, because I have seen what lies beneath the leaves in my own lush and deep being. I can never fully know what I experienced in that plane... it is difficult even now to capture what took place in that hour and a half; yet, I feel more deeply seated, as I did years ago when I practiced magic almost daily. There now lies a patience in my heart that was not there for many many months- the franticness that took hold in the late spring with my loss has lessened its grip on me. I have gone deep and caressed the wounds there, though briefly; spoke the magic over the rifts and asked it to be still. I may now do what needs to be done, and gladly.

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