The spiral & meander.

Like the labyrinthine passage through a cave, the spiral and meander symbolize the sacred way of approach to a dimension invisible to human senses. They are found inscribed on the goddess figurines as well as on or around the images of animals carved on antler, stone and bone, and also on the walls of caves. 

The earliest known spiral is one where a spiral of dots on mammoth-ivory winds round seven times towards or out of a central hole. The seven-fold spiral design appears highly deliberate, and the number seven, recalling the seven strata notched round the head of the Goddess of Willendorf, gains in possible significance. On the other side, serpents wind across the buckle like waves of water. Gertrude Levy, an archeologist, wrote that spirals are the most frequent decorative motif on Magdalenian ceremonial wands. The spiral form is found in the eddying of water, sea shells, the intestines, the spider's web, and the whirling galaxies of space.

Both water and serpent are closely associated with the spiral, as they are with the meander and labyrinth. The labyrinth winds like a serpent or like a serpentine movement of water through the womb of earth, which is the cave. The oldest meander known is engraved on a bone that is 135,000 years old, from Pech de l'Aze in the Dordogne. All these form an enduring constellation of images related to the figure of the goddess. They symbolize the intricate pathway that connects the visible world to the invisible, of the kind that the souls of the dead would have taken to re-enter the womb of the Mother.

Figures of Goddesses, images of the moon, the crescent horns of bison and bull, the bird, serpent, fish and wild animals, the chevrons of water of birds' wings, the meander, labyrinth, and spiral--all these reappear in the myths and images of later ages. Together they point to a culture with a highly developed mythology that wove together all these elements in stories long since lost to us, but whose traces may still linger in the enchanting convolutions of fairy tales. The miraculous survival of these images of the Mother Goddess throughout 20,000 years is a testament to a surprisingly unified culture--or at the very least, a common nexus of belief--lasting for a much longer time than their successors, images of the Father God. 

Our assumptions about human nature, in particular our beliefs about the capacity of human beings to live in harmony with the rest of nature and to shape a peaceful world, are crucial to whether or not we can actually create a better way of being. 

If we hold that human beings are and always have been primarily hunters and warriors, then we are more likely to overlook evidence to the contrary and conclude warlike aggression is innate. No evidence has been found that Paleolithic people fought each other. It is then moving to discover that our Paleolithic ancestors have something to teach us, specifically about the way we have misinterpreted their art, and so their lives, by pressing them into a world view belonging to this century. 

The two misconceptions are interestingly related. Firstly, the goddess figurines were originally classified as erotic or pornographic art, a conception that would be unthinkable if the feminine principle were recognized as sacred, or to speak colloquially, if "God" were a Mother as well as a Father--that is to say, if our image of the deity contained both feminine and masculine dimensions. Secondly, many stick and line forms engraved in stone and bone and painted on the walls of caves were assumed to be weapons for hunting or male signs, but, on closer examination, proved to be plants, leaves, branches, and trees. 

Significantly, both the symbolic potentiality of the birth-giving female figure and the myriad forms of vegetative life have been excluded, for the last 3,000 years, from the categories of the sacred. 

Paleolithic art and the sacredness of the feminine principle bespeaks psychic traditions we must understand if we are to know not only what humans were and are but also what we must become. 

Catharsis.

I drove by my childhood home today. I haven't driven by there in over 20 years. The haunting of my soul could not bear to feel its essence. There is a new family living there now, but the porch that my father built still stands strong. 

The porch that my father built over 34 years ago still stands strong. 

There are things that are built by our loved ones that never leave us. 

On the way to my old childhood home I drove past the location where my father's vehicle struck a culvert and then got flung over 200 feet. 

The ditch where my father was slung face down into the water; where his face full of broken bones rested for at least an hour before he was found. He couldn't move but, I imagine his will to live kept him breathing even though we later found out he would have remained in a vegetative state. 

My father was even more of a fighter than I ended up becoming.

He was only thirty five years old then. A father of four. I was the youngest, and the only girl. A nine year old at the time. 

My heart sunk into my gut when I passed that place in the sand that took my world away from me. I grew to hate crying about a year or so after that terrible day.

FLASHBACKS

I remember the smile on his face most of all. 

I remember the sound of his voice because it was very deep, like the sound of rushing waters far beneath the earth. 

I remember how he would always rebel against my mom's pious ways. She was so quiet and he was mouthy like I grew to be. 

I remember how my mom wanted him to go to church with her. And, he said, no, let's have our family service here. He would take his guitar and my mom would play the piano. We four kids would sing my parent's favorite hymns. 

I remember the puppet shows we would make as children and how we would put on a show after our home-grown church services. 

I remember how he never let his family man status from letting him be unique. I remember the sound of the cherry bomb pipes he put on my mom's station wagon.

I remember his dark eyes, dark hair, and his bright face.

I remember how he would weld things; he even made us a 100-foot television tower in our backyard. 

I remember how he would hand-sew dresses for me to wear and craft purses from leather. 

I remember the fudge he would make every Christmas.

I remember the time he tried to grow a banana tree in our back yard and failed miserably. Then, he got a cow and that cow ended up being struck by lightning.

I remember how he never stopped trying something new.

I remember that although we grew up poor, he never put himself first, always last.

I remember the night I last heard his voice. We had state-wide school testing the next day. He told me the dreams he had for me. How he envisioned me one day making a big difference. 

I remember being woken up in the middle of the night by his best friend.

I remember being told to get dressed because there had been an accident and we needed to go to the hospital that my father was airlifted to over 40 miles away.

I remember the incredible silence and agony on that drive. I remember the apple my dad's best friend & his wife gave me to eat.

I remember the hospital reception room. I wasn't allowed to go into the ICU. 

He was being kept alive on ventilators, I later found out.

I remember how long it felt to wait until my mom finally emerged. 

I remember knowing instinctively that it was the end when I first saw her face. That was when I first learned to trust my intuition. Within the seed of tragedy, who I was to become was born.

I remember wanting to die. I remember not knowing why. 

I remember the days following. My grandmother, aunts, uncles, mom, brothers. My god, it hurt like hell. 

What is hell other than being alive yet suffocating from emotional pain.

I remember walking to his casket at the funeral. Being told not to touch his face or his chest. I did not understand what it meant when they said his face would sink in if I touched it.

I remember feeling the first sting of hate at that very moment. I wanted to hit the funeral man. I hated him. 

I remember seeing my father's hands. They were without even a scratch. So, I held that in my final goodbye.

I remember running out of the funeral home. I remember first learning to scream on the inside at that moment.

I remember returning to school and the principal called me into the office to give me the fourth grade yearbook my father had been paying $1 at a time for me to have. 

I remember coming home every day after school and screaming inside my room, banging my head and hands on the wall. 

I remember the torture of it all. 

I remember that the moment I lost my father, I first understood how cruel the world could be. How God took from me what should have stayed forever.

I remember seeing inside my tears the first glimpse of what I perceived as falsehood. 

And, inside the most tragic moment of my life, I swore to learn what truth meant to me. 

It became the seed of my father. The seed of Truth, of the love of a father for his daughter, became my destiny. 

He told me that he believed in me. 

I will never let him down. Because, I swore on my father's memories, that inside my dedication to Truth was his very spirit. 

Random thoughts.

Some days the world just really grates on my nerves. It becomes overwhelmingly gloomy and my patience runs thin. I think to myself: is this it? I mean, what exactly are we doing as humans on this planet?

I've always felt deeper than others who seemed to be always walking around with the ides of bliss in their eyes. My eyes always bemoaned a sort of perplexed juxtaposition. Even before I really swallowed the harshest dose of suffering in my life when I was nine years old... I always felt a tinge of unease about the world around me.

I wonder to myself what exactly my purpose was of incarnating in this lifetime. Surely, it must have been to soothe some karmic recompense in a former life. My suffering has reminded me of that along the way.

I really have no clear point in this particular blog entry. 

Anyway, I'm growing weary of this world. Maybe it's because I'm half way through my life, but that's only if I live past my 80th year. 

I see suffering everywhere these days. Looking into the eyes of others stuck in these repeating patterns of tragedies. They all seem so unhappy deep down inside. Only the psychopaths seem giddy these days, unmoved by the constancy of collective tragedy.

This kingdom we live in is one of tragedy. 

Will it ever change?

Jesus posed as the son-lover of the goddess. (Part 1)

For thousands of years there existed the sacred ritual focused on the myth of the Mother Goddess and her son-lover. In the Christian tradition that became solidified hundreds of years after Jesus' death, Mary was elevated to the ancient role of the Goddess. Strangely, the perennial mythic images of the dying, resurrected God also gathered around the figure of Jesus. This coincidence has made it impossible for many to distinguish between myth and reality.

With the exception of Dumuzi's lament in Sumeria, Jesus took on the first role of the "son-lover" whose voice has been transmitted via written scriptures. You can also see this ancient myth played out in the bridegroom's song in the biblical Song of Songs. However, it's in the story of Jesus that the "son-God" first teaches the meaning of his sacrifice, and it is also the first time that the son-God takes the sacrifice upon himself willingly. In the tradition that preceded him for thousands of years, the son-lovers
 of the goddess of earlier times were not shown as consenting to their death or understanding it. Thus, in the story of the son-lover, or bridegroom, of Jesus we see a clear leap of consciousness to another level.

The question bemoans us to understand the parallels between Christianity and religious beliefs many thousands of years older than itself. We must also seek to understand why and how this myth came to surround itself in the life of someone called Jesus, who was a profound Messenger for humanity. Christians say it is because Jesus was the Son of God. However, one must know that this same story existed prior to Jesus in the story of Dumuzi in Sumeria, of Tammuz in Babylonia, of Attis in Phrygia, of Dionysus and Adonis of the Greeks, and of Horus or Osiris of the Egyptians. If one is not wholly aware of the existences of these ancient myths of the Goddess and her son-God as lover, then one cannot fully understand the similarities found within the Christian story that was formed to package the life of Jesus into this same cultural belief system.

Let's examine some similarities:

The cross upon which Christ hangs was often shown in early Christianity as two branches of a living tree. Often the tree was shown with all but the essential branches cut back to the stem, rendering the cross as the ever living Tree of Life. Let us review the symbolism of the Tree of Life to point out the universality of this image. Once the epiphany of the Mother Goddess came into the human psyche, the dramas of the Tree of Life followed within the cultural evolution of humanity. Trees were shown as giving birth to Gods and heroic redeemers. Then the gods began to be shown as embodied in the tree's rising sap and the dynamic and renewing phases of its growth. Dumuzi of Sumeria, the son-lover of Inanna, was called the "Son of the Abyss: Lord of the Tree of Life." In Egypt, the sun god was born variously from the heavenly cow, Hathor, the female body of Nut, the sky goddess, or from the highest branches of the tree of Isis. The brother-husband of Isis, Osiris, who as the setting sun, became the lord of the underworld, was reborn from a tree.

Additionally, there was a tree for Queen Maya to lean against when she gave birth to the Buddha. It was also beneath the boddhi tree that the mature Buddha sat until he reached enlightenment. In Ancient Greece, the myrtle tree gave birth to Adonis, who was the lover of Aphrodite. Adonis was also known as the God of regeneration, whose death and resurrection were mourned yearly in the springtime. In Persia & Rome, Mithras was the sun God who came forth from a tree (or sometimes a cave) and the winter solstice as the Sol Invictus. This title naturally fell to Jesus, who was "born" at the same time. Imaginal trees surround the life of Jesus as well. His earthly father was a carpenter, a fashioner of the cut tree. Furthermore, in the Rig Veda, the architect of the universe, Tvastri, is imagined as a carpenter, who fashions the world into being.

Doctrinally, the symbolism of the cross in the Christian Faith dismisses any reference to its universality as a symbol for believers of many creeds. In the Christian doctrine, the cross as the Tree of Life is positioned symbolically as counter to the Tree of Knowledge. This symbolism in the Christian doctrine purports that the cross is the image of final redemption of the original Fall of mankind. In art Christ was also shown as hanging on a tree of grapes, which linked his sacrifice with that of the dismembered God of the Greeks, Dionysus. This symbolism doctrinally linked itself to his statement: "I am the vine, ye are the branches" (John 15:5)

Sometimes as in the Byzantine mosaic on the Church of San Clemente, the death and resurrection of Christ are portrayed as one image. In this artistic representation, the spiraling Tree of Life takes back into itself the body of Jesus, the trunk of the tree serving as the cross upon which Christ hangs surrounded by doves. The Tree of Life in this imagery both contains and transforms the cross of its central branches, and the drama is one where the Lord of the Tree of Life is cut down for the birth of all.

In this you will find the symbolism of the Christian tradition of Palm Sunday and Ash Wednesday ynsince the ashes placed on the foreheads of the faithful are the embers of last year's palm leaves, which have been blessed with holy water and the sign of the cross. This ceremony symbolically revives the life-force of the Tree of Life. The mass of Palm Sunday, which begins the Holy Week that ends in the resurrection of Christ at Easter, begins with a consecration of branches of Palm and olive, not the customary bread and wine. In fact, the whole aspect of the Holy Week in Christian tradition takes on the character of a Mystery drama, in which the events of the "passion" of Christ are re-enacted every year. This is the exact same ritual as was done in the Mysteries of Attis at Rome, or the Mystery of Osiris, which culminated in the raising of the wooden pillar of the Tree of Life, a symbol of resurrection: "Osiris is risen," the people cried!

into the veins of time

fading moonlight kisses my saddened eyes
whispering into me a truth that burns
into my flaming heart
How do I?
silent harmonies whisper
into my soul that yearns

take me on a journey
behind the veil of I
am constantly seeking
Mercy, upon me

The case for Compassion.

All that is ill within humanity derives from a lack of love. All that is wrong with humanity is somewhere associated with love. Humans are either not able to love, or are not able to receive love. People have forgotten how to share their being. That's a great cause of misery. This inability to fully love or to receive love creates all sorts of complexes inside. 

Wounds inside us can surface in many ways. They can become physical illness, they can become spiritual illness---but deep down humanity suffers from a lack of love. Just as food and water is needed for the body, love is needed for the soul. Our bodies cannot survive without food, and our souls cannot survive without love. 

What, then, is compassion? Compassion is a pure form of love. Sex is the lowest form of love, compassion the highest form of love. In sex the contact is basically physical; in compassion the contact is basically spiritual. In love, compassion and sex are mixed, the physical and the spiritual are mixed. Love, for most, is the middle point between compassion and sex.

Compassion is also one of the highest forms of energy. In fact, the word "compassion" is quite beautiful: half of it is "passion"--so I think of compassion as refined passion. 

Most people today equate sex with love. However, in sex, you use the other in many ways, you reduce the other to a means, you reduce the other to a thing, a commodity. That's why in unrefined sexual relationships people begin to feel a sort of reduction spiritually. Nowadays, people have allowed themselves to be reduced to a commodity, a thing. This inherently strips away a person's true freedom. The more you are treated as a person, the more you are free. The more you are treated as a thing, a commodity, the less free you truly are. 

In Love, there is gratitude, there is deep gratefulness. You know that the other is not a thing, a commodity. You know that the other has a grandeur, a soul, an individuality. In Love you give total freedom to the other. Of course, it's a give and take. 

In Compassion, you simply give. There is no idea in your mind to get anything in return--you simply share, you simply give. Not that nothing comes to you! A millionfold your compassion is returned, but that is merely a natural consequence. 

In love you are thankful because the other has given something to you. In compassion you are thankful because the other has taken something from you. In compassion you have energy that you are willingly giving, and you are thankful they are receptive of that energy. 

Compassion is the highest form of love. 

When a flower has bloomed, it has to release its fragrance to the winds. It is natural! It is not a bargain, it is not a business, it is not a commodity to be traded--it is simply natural. The flower is full of fragrance. If the flower keeps the fragrance to itself then the flower will be in deep anguish. The greatest anguish in life is when you cannot express, when you cannot communicate, when you cannot share. 

Be like the flower. Bloom. Share. Be compassionate. Be Love. 

My spirit cannot be enslaved.

I don't succumb to the animal magic rituals found within manmade laws. I don't bind myself to the blood rituals of ancient Rome. I will not bind my soul to murderous regimes whose aim has always been worldwide dominion and the enslavement of populations. My spirit they cannot enslave nor control. There is NO TRUTH in human or animal sacrifice. May the veil be removed so that humanity can once and for all be set free from these fear-based, dominion-oriented cults. 

Vice Into Virtue.

Let us remember that there are seven vices that we must transmute into wisdom and love:

Avarice is transformed into hope and altruism.

Laziness is transmuted into prudent diligence.

Lust is transmuted into the chastity and charity of the Spirit.

Pride must be transmuted into faith and into the humility.

Anger is transmuted into the marvelous force of love.

Envy is transmuted into philanthropy and happiness for others.

Gluttony is transmuted into temperance.