tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60104949287720773002024-03-16T19:52:53.068+01:00Sophia's MirrorContemporary Mysticism through Art, Writing and PoetryEmmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.comBlogger296125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-9465715342290967322024-03-15T22:19:00.001+01:002024-03-15T22:19:38.739+01:00The Flowing Tide<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vwVrLzQD8H8aAkB8iDvKU7Bx4rpvqkevVb10xcYh5rTE2I93FStMeXYpS7WHm60F_FU3QOcesfj_CuN6SFol0n-7gyNovMzss2Vy3LBFR5qVFuM1cf3qBcP7nmSQhDC8WqY6DcKokDbDyG5R9pDx9jnIgfWXlP3Gq0t7Vg4Y4-AbkO5GF9QXXUuHb88/s780/vrouw%20aan%20zee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="780" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vwVrLzQD8H8aAkB8iDvKU7Bx4rpvqkevVb10xcYh5rTE2I93FStMeXYpS7WHm60F_FU3QOcesfj_CuN6SFol0n-7gyNovMzss2Vy3LBFR5qVFuM1cf3qBcP7nmSQhDC8WqY6DcKokDbDyG5R9pDx9jnIgfWXlP3Gq0t7Vg4Y4-AbkO5GF9QXXUuHb88/w400-h398/vrouw%20aan%20zee.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">High and large and dark the sea rose from the horizon, against the white beach. Norderney..'Sei mir gegrüsst, du Ewiges Meer.'</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Why is this so beautiful, so beautiful, that I have to think about it almost every day and it brings tears to my eyes almost every day? I try to fathom it by repeating it, but it doesn't want to be fathomed that way and it flees from me. Small and alone I stand before the sea, before the sky.. I surrender to them, they take me from myself. Sea and sky take over from me. Over the blue waves my eyes anchor deep to the horizon, I am as wide as I see, I reach as far as I meditate.. my indefinable musings are lost in my limitless being -, so compact, small clouds settle into thin mists ..</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: medium;">- <span style="font-family: arial;">Carry van Bruggen, Dutch Author, 1881-1932, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">excerpt from Eva © Querido publishers</span> </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-48396098738849351352024-01-14T12:58:00.002+01:002024-03-06T19:27:08.233+01:00The Essence of Everything<p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQmD-QXhpFquY1fx5bV6Nss_W4XP72iGCKN1yeIqbsHJT2SVKOd9gQL2aJvPz-IqINRRP35gbKiO-LKcxAEnV5SLoIZfQIU71w8jRdfBLMrcPGHQY5gHInjUBYgqSk8_WIenIy2jPLuoRZF6rwBeCamPG7oeAliAF70x23tXEtmE7F3T_Kb-Rd63MpMYE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="1600" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQmD-QXhpFquY1fx5bV6Nss_W4XP72iGCKN1yeIqbsHJT2SVKOd9gQL2aJvPz-IqINRRP35gbKiO-LKcxAEnV5SLoIZfQIU71w8jRdfBLMrcPGHQY5gHInjUBYgqSk8_WIenIy2jPLuoRZF6rwBeCamPG7oeAliAF70x23tXEtmE7F3T_Kb-Rd63MpMYE=w459-h316" width="459" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">In this present state of the world, the necessary component of life on the planet is awareness of wholeness with regard to Nature and ouselves, an awareness with which women are often more familiar and in tune. But women must learn to focus and give priority to what we find valid in our own experience without need to look to the past for justification. The close relationship of a poet or mystic to Nature can be everyone's ordinary relationship, and our culture can change from one of rapism to one of interchange with and appreciation of the beauty and value of the Earth and beyond. One way that men and women can cease splitting ourselves into various parts, even cease dichotomizing being and becoming, is to recognize our androgynous wholeness. The angels are an example. Androgynous, they use their masculine and feminine aspects as suits the situations.</span></span><p></p><p></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It is from our wholeness, our divinity that we can then relate to anyone else and to our world. If I am out of tune with myself, I am out of tune with the universe. The core of relationship is to be at one with oneself and therefore at one with the essence of everything.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Drawn from: Dorothy Maclean:<i> "To hear the angels sing"</i> - an odyssey of co-creation with the Devic Kingdom </span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-77648167694926682992023-11-11T17:43:00.000+01:002023-11-11T17:43:00.683+01:00 When I Was the Forest<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;"> </span></span></div><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kg-8sEOTZReM_gyOE6X6_8mWKZqS9WxA232XuJl-qDFTudr7ivnrhozHfZ8iI-I6MDTw_ewSaBoT000JHCRaFqlNOmkY5DPR8CAERUina0_7HfYs3fRHBtrDtW9DWCvyZsLBG8eanMtfRtQWFjTcVwvTPv_lnDA__p_XQm81EZV3WvVmUSUn52rQvlE/s676/Buddha%20enlagerd2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="559" height="657" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kg-8sEOTZReM_gyOE6X6_8mWKZqS9WxA232XuJl-qDFTudr7ivnrhozHfZ8iI-I6MDTw_ewSaBoT000JHCRaFqlNOmkY5DPR8CAERUina0_7HfYs3fRHBtrDtW9DWCvyZsLBG8eanMtfRtQWFjTcVwvTPv_lnDA__p_XQm81EZV3WvVmUSUn52rQvlE/w543-h657/Buddha%20enlagerd2.JPG" width="543" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">When I Was the Forest</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">When I was the stream, when I was the</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">forest, when I was still the field,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">when I was every hoof, foot,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">fin and wing, when I</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">was the sky</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">itself,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">no one ever asked me did I have a purpose, no one ever</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">wondered was there anything I might need,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">for there was nothing</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">I could not love.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">It was when I left all we once were that</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">the agony began, the fear and questions came,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">and I wept, I wept. And tears</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">I had never known</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">before.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">So I returned to the river, I returned to</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">the mountains. I asked for their hand in marriage again,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">I begged - I begged to wed every object</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">and creature,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">and when they accepted,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">God was ever present in my arms.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">And He did not say,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">“Where have you</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">been?”</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">For then I knew my soul - every soul -</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">has always held</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">Him.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">*</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">– Meister Eckhart (1260 – 1328)</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">*</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">Art: "Sacred Heart" by Odilon Redon</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;">*</span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-64065114992572467032023-10-13T16:09:00.002+02:002023-10-13T16:12:51.980+02:00The Music of Silence<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3DJPDBH6gQWGp5aGwAbPf054JAbzBVO8rTpg8-3hq11NA0T579qj3syOYZKLcc1pYrdcy6pNA0evBRKqVl5TFkA8UUeTXY7mUgwAeEksvD7ZlK4AFUiN4uS0P45q49WFTswzoaX1LEFwzqKmcjZLYyrf9Xqg0SzEjfaxrgfntY2nUralNgejIln2gvj0/s899/beethoven%201820.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="730" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3DJPDBH6gQWGp5aGwAbPf054JAbzBVO8rTpg8-3hq11NA0T579qj3syOYZKLcc1pYrdcy6pNA0evBRKqVl5TFkA8UUeTXY7mUgwAeEksvD7ZlK4AFUiN4uS0P45q49WFTswzoaX1LEFwzqKmcjZLYyrf9Xqg0SzEjfaxrgfntY2nUralNgejIln2gvj0/w520-h640/beethoven%201820.webp" width="520" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">It was the evening of the work’s premier performance. The symphony was very well received, but it was after the second movement had concluded that something remarkable happened. The audience burst into spontaneous cheering and applause, shouting for an immediate encore. But the conductor on his podium did not react.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">An assistant walked onto the stage and carefully turned the conductor around so that he at last could see the ecstatic reaction of his audience. The concert was given on the 8th of December 1813 for an audience of Austro-Bavarian war veterans who had fought the retreating army of Napoleon just five weeks earlier, and Ludwig van Beethoven, who was both the composer of the symphony and its conductor at this special concert performance, was by this time almost totally deaf.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The wishes of the audience were made clear to him, and Beethoven immediately launched into the movement’s requested encore, with the orchestra dutifully and beamingly obliging. Even today, over two centuries after these events, the second movement of Beethoven’s 7th symphony, the allegretto, seems to have a special power to stir the souls of those who hear it, and Beethoven himself felt that it was one of his finest works.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">What we are left to reflect upon is the vision of someone who, through his human will to create, overcame what must surely be the greatest setback for any composer: his loss of hearing. Others have done as much. The great Italian Renaissance artist Titian battled increasing blindness to continue painting, and the American author Helen Keller worked through her own dual handicaps of being both deaf and blind to continue her prolific and successful writing career, and so communicate to others what her creativity required of her.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We all are the children of divine spirits who move with us along our life’s path, even though that path might at first appear to be one which we would not have chosen for ourselves. But our spirits are always there, and all which they ask of us is to trust them, and to know, even in the face of what might seem to us to be ‘unfair’ odds, that we will be given the courage to do that which is required of us. And there always is the music of a blessed musical genius to give us both strength and solace. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3dfdS9bWAp-8f6NryrWrHvYeOtn_mD-Dr3S_Jl2iJmGeBNZsj-9XsSHxqtDsdyF5-VgO9ZjiB_7moU-N0POdwM1nZuD9sdpga0T6jgufebEFBtUBjukDrK0YGAgoPyftP2ykwAp87Y6fV0zewvQW4yiHo2DI0IgkkAoaN6h_bThD_GbWnUO8HeAKJ7g/s120/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="120" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3dfdS9bWAp-8f6NryrWrHvYeOtn_mD-Dr3S_Jl2iJmGeBNZsj-9XsSHxqtDsdyF5-VgO9ZjiB_7moU-N0POdwM1nZuD9sdpga0T6jgufebEFBtUBjukDrK0YGAgoPyftP2ykwAp87Y6fV0zewvQW4yiHo2DI0IgkkAoaN6h_bThD_GbWnUO8HeAKJ7g/s1600/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" width="120" /></a><br /><br /><span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Portrait of Ludwig van Beethoven, created in 1820 by Joseph Karl Stieler, court artist to the Bavarian kings.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-22873426538233938442023-09-09T17:25:00.004+02:002023-09-09T19:27:03.478+02:00 The Red Wolf<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy9MKI4M5zanrv8ealdUr2_LwZ0BDXxsq80n41TSvkPPqkFxiby8SiA9IWFyyzKh0L3-yflPWHuGTm44car9avFDDE9FYtqxAAL2mi0Z0IGPqoHAf87d2iQHAsrB1ZIhG6riaPhTR6F_sVFqaOYtniBK_ynykOmpAoBPBbiEEqE_TTTNsfqRUxeKv6PRk/s500/Little%20Red.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy9MKI4M5zanrv8ealdUr2_LwZ0BDXxsq80n41TSvkPPqkFxiby8SiA9IWFyyzKh0L3-yflPWHuGTm44car9avFDDE9FYtqxAAL2mi0Z0IGPqoHAf87d2iQHAsrB1ZIhG6riaPhTR6F_sVFqaOYtniBK_ynykOmpAoBPBbiEEqE_TTTNsfqRUxeKv6PRk/s16000/Little%20Red.jpeg" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Children go missing all the time.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Sometimes it is faeries who steal them.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Other times, they trust a wolf.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Even in times of war, children are innocent to the true ways of the world. Their mothers are always wiser.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">This is because mothers know that the softest people with the biggest hearts are the ones who held the truest magic of them all: purity of this kind could not be bought from the Gods themselves, and it was the greatest target of the devil-souled.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">When Little Red Riding Hood went missing, a girl so beloved by her mother that she always told her she could be anything she wanted to be, her mother never ever left the place where she had grown up, hoping against hope that the trees, the woods, would one day return her child.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Every day, she stood at the end of the woods, looking into the dark, hoping to find a wisp of her forest-hearted child somewhere within the leave-strewn wild. Every day, she took a step closer to the darkness, hopelessness making her courage steadfast, stronger.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Grief makes unlikely warriors of us all.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">So when she saw the two lamp-like eyes in the dark one day, she was not afraid. Instead she asked, 'Brother wolf, are you the one who has stolen my child from my arms and taken her away?'</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">'Not I' said the wolf before disappearing.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The next day, she took another step closer to the woods she had once searched every inch of and another pair of eyes glowed through the darkness, red like the colour of her child's cloak.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">'Brother wolf, are you the one who pulled my child away from me with just a look?'</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">'Not I,' said the wolf before turning away.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A wolf began to visit her almost every day. And every day she would ask the same question a different way. She found herself getting closer and closer to the heart of the forest and the wolves never ever attacked her. She began to wonder if what the woodcutter had told her was true, that the wolf had eaten her child for supper.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">On the day she reached the heart of the forest, she began to realise that although she had thought she had been here before, this lush, dense part of the wood was a place she had never been. There was something both familiar and unsettling about it, like a place not meant to be seen.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A lair where a thousand lamp-like eyes watched her from the fog and the dark, and even when the fog cleared away and the light came through, she found what she was looking at was enough to make her fall apart. On a throne amongst wolves of all sorts and sizes, a young girl sat. She wore a red wolf's skin on her body and two swords sheathed behind her back.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Slow recognition crept over her face. She ran to the older woman and, after hugging her, finally told her why she had never come home. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">'Dear Mother, I am sorry I never ever came home. The evil woodcutter and his friends were trying to destroy this forest world. When I came through the woods, I happened to hear all of their plans. They saw me listening, followed me to grandmother's, killed her and tried to burn her house down with me in it so they could continue their wicked plans. The wolves came to rescue me, and trained me to be one of them. I am now the Alpha and protect them from the woodcutter and his evil friends. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Her mother promised her that she would never tell another soul where Red Riding Hood was. The secrecy was their only weapon against the woodcutter and his horde. Over and over again, Red Riding Hood and the wolves bravely defended the woods and woodland creatures from extinction. They bravely fought and her mother soon came to live with them and aid them in their battle.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">So when you tell the story of Red Riding Hood, remember this too:</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Her mother told her</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">she would grow up to be</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">anything she wanted to be,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">so she grew up to become</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">the strongest of the strong,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">the strangest of the strange,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">the wildest of the wild,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>the wolf leading the wolves. </span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">***<br /><br />- Nikita Gill; from Fierce Fairy Tales & Other Stories to Stir the Soul. <br /><br />Artist: Marija Jevtic</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span> </span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-87565764188088511312023-08-21T14:28:00.004+02:002023-08-21T14:52:31.650+02:00The Fullness of Days<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #073763;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #073763;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWd0GPhA83sLm6HZsB0-wHmGBnrOSKhKLxF3YkjWBNuPV92lncRtNTz4WhufHkna89tKBuN-X9lQD9aBG16IBOi--SDSd4j4qb-GWsG9vBgrvgMyv0XtZE-bSBwsIKlRXp903O_dRmycG8jJYcEgVmv7PgcTriV52CCbl5wklMkAOowRsKwaSpMrYv40/s1584/Fisherman%20Ole%20Svendsen%20from%20Skagen%201914.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1584" data-original-width="1231" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWd0GPhA83sLm6HZsB0-wHmGBnrOSKhKLxF3YkjWBNuPV92lncRtNTz4WhufHkna89tKBuN-X9lQD9aBG16IBOi--SDSd4j4qb-GWsG9vBgrvgMyv0XtZE-bSBwsIKlRXp903O_dRmycG8jJYcEgVmv7PgcTriV52CCbl5wklMkAOowRsKwaSpMrYv40/w351-h452/Fisherman%20Ole%20Svendsen%20from%20Skagen%201914.png" width="351" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Often days pass when I do not see anyone, days pass when I do not seek to see any person nor speak to him. The days pass quietly and simply. But I take care of the few things that are close to me not through their own fault. I try not to hurt them and wait for dusk to come so that I too can be quiet, lie down and rest from what I have done during the day. That's how life goes. Without great achievements, without anything special, without impressive or famous achievements and contributions to human civilization.</span></span></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span 15.3333px="" style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Because of all of this, my friends see me as worthless, a loser who did nothing important in my life, neither did I achieve the elementary things, nor the basics. Without reason, they say to me, I experienced life stealthily, I lived it in vain, going towards the common fate, death.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span 15.3333px="" style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">But if my friends knew my daily work, maybe they would change their minds, maybe they would even revise their opinions and theory.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Every day in morning I look reverently at the empty sky, I stare tenderly at the trees, regularly caress the wild flowers, listen carefully to the voices of the rivers and let the carefree calls of the birds in the sky soothe my hearing. Then I take care every day how I tread on the earth, not to damage God's insects , not to spoil the order of the gravel that the winds and chance have arranged.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I take care, then, if I meet people, to be compassionate and be disposed to forgive everything, I never fight back, and I leave when I feel I'm growing wearisome - and this happens all the time.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Generally speaking, I try daily to flow between the things and the lives of others without stopping</span></span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> them with my own extravagant wishes, and my own irrational demands that ask for an excessive share of pleasure.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">In the evening I try to spend the night reconciled with everything and above all immersed in that feeling that constitutes the heart of life. The feeling that life is one and is not divided, that it has no small or great things, grand or minuscule but only functional spirits, thoughts, actions and things that all together unceasingly enshrine unity and shape the beautiful body of the unified life.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;"> ***</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span>"Living as a Lighthouse keeper" </span></span><span><span>by Giorgos Kordis</span><br /><br />Art: Michael Peter Ancher, 1849-1927, Danish artist.</span></span></p><p><br /></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-11600868544640212512023-07-28T17:25:00.001+02:002023-07-28T17:25:39.612+02:00 Caoin na Sídhe - Keen of the Sídhe - A Tribute<p><span style="color: #073763;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDp0Xde4wxZCUd4JogqMPzgh5gAQFsifxLxq0sNyNz792_t9Tdghk1ZsWLfJYPXWYr8BiCjBFMBQJ2CcTqMoWBe8IaQ6ePjpinWCeCwRQX8pW4aawFGsek2vLsrlLOypyHXJa-09hIK-mXMJ8PY5AHTrSbKM3bvu7lCl_NBr8MxywlRN_kTpetp4UKwo/s481/Sin%C3%A9ad%20O'Conor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="474" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDp0Xde4wxZCUd4JogqMPzgh5gAQFsifxLxq0sNyNz792_t9Tdghk1ZsWLfJYPXWYr8BiCjBFMBQJ2CcTqMoWBe8IaQ6ePjpinWCeCwRQX8pW4aawFGsek2vLsrlLOypyHXJa-09hIK-mXMJ8PY5AHTrSbKM3bvu7lCl_NBr8MxywlRN_kTpetp4UKwo/w394-h400/Sin%C3%A9ad%20O'Conor.jpg" width="394" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span><p><span style="color: #073763;">The Keen of the Sídhe is heard by those carrying this ancestral lineage for Sídhe beings who are transitioning from Body to Spirit.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">The famous wail or keen of the Banshee holds the tradition that when the people with the blood of the Sídhe are dying, the crying woman of the otherworld will be heard lamenting with the piercing wail of grief. Its said to be an earth shattering sound. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Yesterday morning I could feel the energetics of a massive ball of energy shattering and I heard the wail. It was like a hurricane of sorrow, a roar of the almighty earth and the light of a thousand sun's going dark. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">I thought OK, something major has occurred.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">It was last night when I heard the news of Sinéad moving into the Otherworld and I could see, feel and relate this transition to the energy I heard and felt earlier. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">The Sídhe are powerful transmitters of Sound, Song, Voice and Word. Their Joy and Lament are the same, Earth Shattering Light Codes that bring about Epic changes for those with hearts to hear.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">This Beautiful Otherworldly Bean Sídhe was a major holder on the grid of these Sound Codes. She came to Rock, Dismantle and Shatter the old. She was Fae through and through, She was Original, from the place of the Unknown. Unknown by the human paradigm and tormented and haunted by the human paradigm for expressing these frequencies but FREE in her Sídhe form. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">The wail of the Sídhe as they transition is an accumulation and release of the potent emotion and energy that these sacred keepers of sound have held and contained within the restrictions of their human vessels. Mostly they have held and contained these emotions for their ancestry and the collective. They are Grail keepers, Cauldron holders, Wells of Knowledge with Powerful Voices to help humanity to shift, awaken and evolve. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">When we transition from Body to Spirit there is an intense review period whereby every experience we have come through moves through us, sometimes it's images, feelings, memories etc. The Caoin na Sídhe is this review in Sound. Sinéads release was Epic, the Sound was Immense. May she be FREE now in her Sídhe form and welcomed into the Unconditional Love of her Origin. Resting in Peace, knowing her Sound carried us All.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">All my love to you Shining One, on your journey home, Thank you for your time holding us, </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">❤</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Cáití Caille</span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-24589354430194730522023-07-20T13:43:00.006+02:002023-07-22T16:54:33.077+02:00 The Mirror of Your Soul<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Z-WDL1V6d7CVkW1jnA13vqJUCSSZC9e4CbWcwzezwDZm5EMfstX87t9lX74BYy3zfPFMVY5VvghE_TsmeebPyugAlzaO52wHx_TrbihuY4Aa7CoWqRX4hRRfeMMGxvKAlUcEI7x0vu96p06SsafVZQi9nDMXruG9s74En6CPrzh19YUOHVKtoOE9XHU/s1080/retouched%20photo.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Z-WDL1V6d7CVkW1jnA13vqJUCSSZC9e4CbWcwzezwDZm5EMfstX87t9lX74BYy3zfPFMVY5VvghE_TsmeebPyugAlzaO52wHx_TrbihuY4Aa7CoWqRX4hRRfeMMGxvKAlUcEI7x0vu96p06SsafVZQi9nDMXruG9s74En6CPrzh19YUOHVKtoOE9XHU/w640-h360/retouched%20photo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The Mirror of Your Soul</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In the everlasting heartbeat of life</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">there and even deeper</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">we are one, indivisible,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">inseparable</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Standing on my shore</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">gazing out over my surface</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">you see into the mirror</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">of your own soul</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">You are so weary of the storms</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">that have torn through your life</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">so let my tides carry you</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">to the deepest depths</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">of your existence</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Until you remember once more</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">that you and I are one</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">for you yourself are the ocean</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">and I, your eternal Mother.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60f4xwUSYPplNXdxVBL4mVSKtVJQ-5pSHqAlciPQQltflelGiJ-9ZEbr6IrEiO6NQPbWVHv2wWrCmOMlyO0R-5IRAWF-Y07fJ7wTdIbsa9stGsE_cBVABOVKAzbzL8VGnAt2K4KdGH_Y-Lbl38R9XyMFzhILhIzooMUSMM6eQ9z5jGZnN4fwUD0VHFTU/s120/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="120" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60f4xwUSYPplNXdxVBL4mVSKtVJQ-5pSHqAlciPQQltflelGiJ-9ZEbr6IrEiO6NQPbWVHv2wWrCmOMlyO0R-5IRAWF-Y07fJ7wTdIbsa9stGsE_cBVABOVKAzbzL8VGnAt2K4KdGH_Y-Lbl38R9XyMFzhILhIzooMUSMM6eQ9z5jGZnN4fwUD0VHFTU/s1600/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" width="120" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Image: me at the Oregon Coast near Neskowin, 2016 © Deborah Wright, photographer</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-71446226335321318042023-06-20T23:03:00.001+02:002023-06-20T23:03:31.515+02:00I AM<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDPM2Jlr0xfEfrcGZmhm7k1Bpo3V4pPmGTvDkK_R9Ujb3EtL3xr4Ebi9tDBKL2kGL18_PlcMi77oGA4XW3yD0dbUDOtqtSGzdSR3EoGUexIgJJipU4rxRWViyOHwpYmn9TT1SyJRB_Dn0RcTHltnbWEJPGkDZg7LtoGCl7FwSq39TuHjgoC5PRnjm_0Wk/s450/Jacobs%20Ladder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="353" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDPM2Jlr0xfEfrcGZmhm7k1Bpo3V4pPmGTvDkK_R9Ujb3EtL3xr4Ebi9tDBKL2kGL18_PlcMi77oGA4XW3yD0dbUDOtqtSGzdSR3EoGUexIgJJipU4rxRWViyOHwpYmn9TT1SyJRB_Dn0RcTHltnbWEJPGkDZg7LtoGCl7FwSq39TuHjgoC5PRnjm_0Wk/w502-h640/Jacobs%20Ladder.jpg" width="502" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="color: #351c75;">No longer a spectator but an observer, my perception is my creation. No longer victim but creator, my creation is my act of love. No longer possessed but lover, my act of love is constant recognition.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">I am old and weary, tired of the years.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">Young am I, all wonder.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">The beginning is me, and the end, and everything in between.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">The hand that embraces me in love, is me in gratitude.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">I am.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: arial;">A piece of text that touched me, from the beautiful book by Hans Korteweg: "Many More Years" </span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: arial;">Art: Jacob's Ladder by William Blake</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-40958735460237900482023-06-04T14:56:00.004+02:002023-06-04T15:27:07.801+02:00Chalice<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="color: #351c75;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7f1-MoYSZwDP9GaKRtZHrSrDG2p9CdS7e5N_juOBBwHygp_imch6OoXRpLNk52lt40XUUCkimleAPoeov49SRu4VDBeUNSIB8TQnrqXl6T059dNtEPKjFiROPXK8hN0PFckKcyVK3xmoy0Y1aoqDuBE29tGXUxfSheYozni_UfjooRqRc6BGyEWl/s737/Queen%20Bee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="737" data-original-width="570" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7f1-MoYSZwDP9GaKRtZHrSrDG2p9CdS7e5N_juOBBwHygp_imch6OoXRpLNk52lt40XUUCkimleAPoeov49SRu4VDBeUNSIB8TQnrqXl6T059dNtEPKjFiROPXK8hN0PFckKcyVK3xmoy0Y1aoqDuBE29tGXUxfSheYozni_UfjooRqRc6BGyEWl/w494-h640/Queen%20Bee.jpg" width="494" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">CHALICE</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Purify what remains impure in me</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">that I may be a vessel full of honey</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">for without your help it will remain</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">an unrefined nothing,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">my beekeeper, my queen.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">You show me the path</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">which leads me to your hidden garden</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">winding through the labyrinth of my days.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">For I know that in that blessed place</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">I can work freely,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">and when the sun is high</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">I will kneel down.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">I mirror myself in your sweet source</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">and the honey chalice opens.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Everything becomes light with you,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">everything is renewed,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">at your word the desert will bloom.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">It is what I have longed for,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">what I so long have sought,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">what I have hoped for all my days:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">To become a room</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">among the many rooms </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">in the Mother-house of Love.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GPyWjiCxYFL1O06fCO60yA6V3YB-P1Fm5Bbl94Sw0J3EeIAsvrkebtWjY5KvqkXMVm-DZGJdr2azx7RYK9uxURfSjgMKxNI9uGzkXCgfZkMmEp9JHHa49tqZ6SD1Uz8WBdBGvNTTmom6C05qQzcjKN3Ml7Dz2vWIjrh_4p10RPHvQIiKiIJieY5W/s120/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="120" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GPyWjiCxYFL1O06fCO60yA6V3YB-P1Fm5Bbl94Sw0J3EeIAsvrkebtWjY5KvqkXMVm-DZGJdr2azx7RYK9uxURfSjgMKxNI9uGzkXCgfZkMmEp9JHHa49tqZ6SD1Uz8WBdBGvNTTmom6C05qQzcjKN3Ml7Dz2vWIjrh_4p10RPHvQIiKiIJieY5W/s1600/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" width="120" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Art: Bhramari Devi - Hindu Bee Goddess. A form of Shakti who changed into a bee to fight demons and negativity. Artist: Greg Spalenka</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-21501946343835273942023-05-18T13:24:00.001+02:002023-05-29T15:05:23.751+02:00Ascension Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAv-sEi007j-503lpk5Rx1LfQTOxIKOnfN-WL_xQYrSRQdSDNxRcCbIGVnb3y1PCqLRykenOYjpiW3J1xqdyWJpSMH6_exJsOZgdMiuPsxkw9tQIrmEnKmkfOx_S2O7Qvt31J3shoZ6h9mDqOOx137UYdUa1XBq9jz--f2aTJbeZKylbiehwQpAaV1/s1600/Hemelvaartsdag.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="950" data-original-width="1600" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAv-sEi007j-503lpk5Rx1LfQTOxIKOnfN-WL_xQYrSRQdSDNxRcCbIGVnb3y1PCqLRykenOYjpiW3J1xqdyWJpSMH6_exJsOZgdMiuPsxkw9tQIrmEnKmkfOx_S2O7Qvt31J3shoZ6h9mDqOOx137UYdUa1XBq9jz--f2aTJbeZKylbiehwQpAaV1/w640-h381/Hemelvaartsdag.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="color: #073763;">Ascension Day comes when the season of blossoming is reaching fullness. Trees and plants, stirring upwards in growth, have been touched by the warmth and light from the blue bowl of the sky above and shower forth its blessings in color and scent. The whole of nature reaches upwards towards the heavens.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">The longing of the human soul strives also upward, in unison with nature, seeking the touch of world-warmth from the sun. This mood of ascension attunes all of life to the expanses of the cosmos.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">However closely heaven and earth are aligned, their relationship is not always the same. In this we see the miracle of the seasons - the breathing-in and breathing-out of the great earth soul.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">At the time of the Ascension of Christ, nature celebrates the ascension of the soul of the earth. It can hardly be by chance that the forty days between Easter and Ascension coinside with the season.<br />Every year in the springtime, when the earth breathes out its yearning for the airy spaces above, the mystery of the Ascension of Christ, who is the Spirit of the Earth, is renewed.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">And surely it must be so that as Christ has ascended to glory, in the fullness of time so too will humanity ascend, and be transfigured into what will become our soul's true and ultimate destiny.</span></p><span style="color: #073763;"><span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; display: inline-flex; font-size: 15px; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"></span></span><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZwTdD8LSWcPfEizO4h8aGsZpjA9kCPQqf40dm4ZyWh3tdhpwqASoeRiul2FLkBWcEgEoi8boifjoNujpgI7o29E1_Zsq3i3TQ1FeK7zxV0tskAG9eAsJ4K8v9DTvsVyh92byNIpDS54lK_EBSlfQiar0o9tPNihcB0ZTisAke-vpSqx9WonGkaF6/s120/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="120" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZwTdD8LSWcPfEizO4h8aGsZpjA9kCPQqf40dm4ZyWh3tdhpwqASoeRiul2FLkBWcEgEoi8boifjoNujpgI7o29E1_Zsq3i3TQ1FeK7zxV0tskAG9eAsJ4K8v9DTvsVyh92byNIpDS54lK_EBSlfQiar0o9tPNihcB0ZTisAke-vpSqx9WonGkaF6/s1600/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" width="120" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-54561202962166838542023-05-13T16:28:00.005+02:002023-05-13T17:12:54.148+02:00Your Children Are Not Your Children<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxqy_ZEr9EdCP5wxMgY9tWpzegn51wBOvr39Ne2cPRErAbS17SLbK_IKkCAMFt-4CkVRsFEPzdmIgh9o6OJT4l5UFmTAT7xlk8d7Uj_xwxVfwRYc4SzogwN6OaJvxIdyTnrNFwkNzaDnz6hwkdmFqW5qRn98xyHIWeBuaNQVmcEC2nWwx1HeXfnkB/s568/Bretons-kinderen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="568" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsxqy_ZEr9EdCP5wxMgY9tWpzegn51wBOvr39Ne2cPRErAbS17SLbK_IKkCAMFt-4CkVRsFEPzdmIgh9o6OJT4l5UFmTAT7xlk8d7Uj_xwxVfwRYc4SzogwN6OaJvxIdyTnrNFwkNzaDnz6hwkdmFqW5qRn98xyHIWeBuaNQVmcEC2nWwx1HeXfnkB/s16000/Bretons-kinderen.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="color: #073763;">"Your children are not your children.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself."</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">- Kahlil Gibran</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">A reflection</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">It is only human to be devoted and attached to one's family. To desire a good relationship with one's own children is probably the most genuine desire of any parent. To lose the connection, whether by death or by life, causes suffering. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">To come to peace with this loss is possible..; to lay the suffering to rest is also possible. But it is only possible when to the profoundest depths is understood that love is not an exclusive blessing for one's own loved ones, but that love abounds and permeates everything. Then the heart calms down and the surrender to what is simply follows.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">⚜️⚜️⚜️</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial;">Art: </span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial;">Les enfants de Bretagne by </span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial;">Emil Vernon</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-76975488372989075442023-03-15T11:55:00.000+01:002023-03-15T11:55:08.353+01:00The Sword of Light - Excalibur<p><span style="color: #073763;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DZrA_CcuT1orF79qlbPKft9R-4RKWLelQ63z6w0vGieNFgxKiiT0DcCwceRuRrsHXAgPmdCh0h6WJH9hbk4tZpcC0PvyNxvtfe3pLilnmrKaf0C81cmevpQiGhvX_hfKWS7RlY8ZhEXhAkQcNGQm6u1VDWHihqt9e1Nv7wAVSxgi7G9iDBjNMHeT/s850/Lady%20of%20the%20Lake%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DZrA_CcuT1orF79qlbPKft9R-4RKWLelQ63z6w0vGieNFgxKiiT0DcCwceRuRrsHXAgPmdCh0h6WJH9hbk4tZpcC0PvyNxvtfe3pLilnmrKaf0C81cmevpQiGhvX_hfKWS7RlY8ZhEXhAkQcNGQm6u1VDWHihqt9e1Nv7wAVSxgi7G9iDBjNMHeT/s16000/Lady%20of%20the%20Lake%202.jpg" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">The Sword of Light - Excalibur, is a gift from the inner Feminine power called the Lady of the Lake.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Merlin, Arthur's druid-like counselor, who act as mediator between the world of the court and the realm of the Otherworld, takes the young king to meet with the Lady.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Arthur rows out onto the lake to receive the sword from the Lady. This is a moment of great significance: up through the deep feminine waters of the lake, a portal to the inner realms, the Lady raises the Sword, the masculine symbol of power for the new Sun King of the outer world. It emerges from the underworld like the first ray of the rising sun from beneath the horizon.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">So does the goddess bless the king with the gift of Excalibur, a weapon of the Light with which to rule his kingdom. Inner and outer worlds come together to forge a sacred contract of divine kingship with the goddess of the land.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">But the young king shows signs of the fatal dominance of masculine over feminine values, which will pervade his reign. Merlin asks him which he prefers: sword or scabbard (holder). Arthur, whom we can imagine brandishing the flashing blade in delight, replies that, of course he likes the sword best.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Merlin points out that the scabbard, clearly a feminine symbol, is more precious than the sword itself, because it magically protects the wearer's life. Merlin's advice comes from experience born of age that recognizes the deeper wisdom of the power that conserves life rather than destroying it.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">But the young king's choice of sword over scabbard hints at the imbalance that contains the seeds of destruction for Logres, King Arthur's realm in the Matter of Britain, and the end of all hopes for a Golden Age of peace.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">- Excerpt from Grail Alchemy; 'Swords of Light and Darkness', by Mara Freeman</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Art: Sir John Lavery Triptych – ‘Madonna of the Lakes’<br /><br /></span><br /></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-23808962476818001782023-01-26T14:41:00.003+01:002023-01-26T20:12:59.666+01:00Tuccia and the Basket<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLkjoj_pZ2o6k9PQWes5UPzX8mA58qARaMLXavtyL-6hYDvU9VpMwaYwfmqGP82SC_CklLe1euyIWE6LZ-PRsxw8Ffnm0MItjoaC1feEOlJDW0h2j-STqrwMQzUUenZlBxrXq-Ick9VF2u6tzPf5K1ILeU1eWy-fMo7cRGQyBhFMpqI7Sco7H-sjN/s616/Tuccia%20en%20de%20zeef%20gevuld%20met%20water.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="616" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLkjoj_pZ2o6k9PQWes5UPzX8mA58qARaMLXavtyL-6hYDvU9VpMwaYwfmqGP82SC_CklLe1euyIWE6LZ-PRsxw8Ffnm0MItjoaC1feEOlJDW0h2j-STqrwMQzUUenZlBxrXq-Ick9VF2u6tzPf5K1ILeU1eWy-fMo7cRGQyBhFMpqI7Sco7H-sjN/w400-h265/Tuccia%20en%20de%20zeef%20gevuld%20met%20water.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuccia showing the sieve with water. <br />Art: Giovanni Batista Benaschi</td></tr></tbody></table><br />One of the most popular and enduring goddesses in Ancient Rome was Vesta, goddess of the hearth, and it was – and in so many houses still is – the cozy hearth fire which is regarded as the central focus of family life. Vesta’s popularity endured into early Christian times, and even today her name survives (although rather commercially!) as a brand name on boxes of matches.<div><br /><p>The temple in Rome bearing the name of the goddess was served only by those dedicated women who were chaste of body and pure of spirit: the Vestal Virgins, and it is the story of one of them which has become legend. In the 3rd century B.C. the Vestal Virgin Tuccia found herself accused of being less than the pure one which her services in the temple of the goddess demanded of her.</p><p><br /></p><p>From one deceitful mouth to another the false and ugly rumours about Tuccia quickly spread, and the poor young woman saw herself being threatened with expulsion, and separated from the temple – and from the goddess – to which she had chosen to dedicate her life. What must she do against these cruel and baseless claims? How must she show that she was as fully worthy to serve the goddess as she ever was?</p><p><br /></p><p>Rather than protest her innocence with words of denial Tuccia chose to keep her silence. In so many situations actions can speak louder than any words, and Tuccia’s action in her own situation was to pick up a woven wicker basket. The basket was used as a sieve, and its base was a loose open weave with many holes. She carried the sieve down to the banks of the Tiber and, silently asking a blessing from her patron goddess, dipped the sieve into the flowing waters.</p><p><br /></p><p>The sieve held. With the wicker basket full to the brim Tuccia carefully and dutifully walked back to the temple to offer the water as a libation to the goddess. Not a drop of the Tiber’s water was spilled, and all who saw her actions were silent and astonished. They knew that only the most pure of heart, only one who was the most deserving of Vesta’s blessings, could perform such a modest miracle. And it was this that was the clear conclusion of all those who witnessed Tuccia’s feat.</p><p><br /></p><p>How many of us have at some time suffered through injustice? How many have, like Tuccia, been forced to show that they are not guilty of the accusations against them? Sometimes words of protest are not enough, but what then? We might not manage Tuccia’s small miracle, but to remain pure of heart, to be true to ourselves even in the storm, can also be enough. That… and perhaps also to remember that small miracles can, and do, sometimes happen.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRxrJ1WLZ9ca43SsAwDVkzDMMSCVQUGg2mM1jpZZCEJVtJGFtUp1zWEqjWY3u4WN7FXwKMKYKnhGPy__DzRORhNysMQMxGQpA6ym-gICklVU92JX9p_bH4SxBQq4KqxkQ9y6EQQI4Ly0y4u4GSwjZQlOP_IxBm4dslhyiKu36ctMJAlMjpiqBmYP4/s120/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="120" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRxrJ1WLZ9ca43SsAwDVkzDMMSCVQUGg2mM1jpZZCEJVtJGFtUp1zWEqjWY3u4WN7FXwKMKYKnhGPy__DzRORhNysMQMxGQpA6ym-gICklVU92JX9p_bH4SxBQq4KqxkQ9y6EQQI4Ly0y4u4GSwjZQlOP_IxBm4dslhyiKu36ctMJAlMjpiqBmYP4/s1600/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" width="120" /></a></div><div><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></i></span></span></p></div>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-50531648170383669952023-01-05T17:01:00.013+01:002023-01-26T15:14:10.860+01:00Life? Or Theatre? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80freLinRLRRKFuQSyprOopp_aliAyq17A_Za0BIYtJYyECAwKI3vcp33XfgJY-RPLT-FUBwtqMuZsI8p27BlcBFboKpkK9Ta5bYJwU1PRiWsOmjLfpvJ2JUMPOZ3Wa3Snfc9jKQF3DCyg8B4rKXyVq9GvXJeFq1jkIUOuXAOUvEZJBgMBA2bJdvc/s550/550x550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80freLinRLRRKFuQSyprOopp_aliAyq17A_Za0BIYtJYyECAwKI3vcp33XfgJY-RPLT-FUBwtqMuZsI8p27BlcBFboKpkK9Ta5bYJwU1PRiWsOmjLfpvJ2JUMPOZ3Wa3Snfc9jKQF3DCyg8B4rKXyVq9GvXJeFq1jkIUOuXAOUvEZJBgMBA2bJdvc/s320/550x550.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="color: #073763;">Charlotte Salomon (1917-1943) was a German-Jewish artist. As a young girl she lived relatively carefree until the National Socialist takeover of power in 1933. In spite of this radical political change she was almost able to complete a course at the Berlin art academy. In January 1939 Charlotte fled Berlin and travelled to her grandparents in the south of France, who had already left Nazi Germany when the National Socialists took control. In 1940, after the outbreak of World War II, her grandmother committed suicide. Only then did Charlotte learn that her mother had also taken her own life in 1926.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">The twenty four year-old Charlotte assimilated this turbulent family history and her experiences as a Jew in Berlin in an extraordinary way. In her anguish she resurrected her memories of her former lover, the singing teacher Alfred Wolfsohn (1896-1962). Among other things, he told her that in order to love life fully, one may have to embrace and understand its opposite – death. She decided to save herself with the help of his ideas and to undertake "something totally insanely special" as an alternative to suicide. She withdrew completely and began to paint in an unprecedented explosion of creative activity to ward off mental disintegration. And along the way she recreated her life. She used everything she had in her: her artistry, her visual and musical memory, her insight into the personalities of her relatives, her intellectual faculties, her humor and the inspiration she drew from her love for Wolfsohn.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">In a unique interplay of art forms, Charlotte Salomon depicted her life in an artwork of almost eight hundred gouache watercolor paintings with overlaid sheets full of texts and musical references. In it she introduces herself and the people around her with assumed and grandly-resounding stage names as the protagonists in a musical theater play (a ‘Singspiel’). She mercilessly scrutinizes their lives in an ingenious game veering between fact and fiction, leaving her viewers with the question of what they are actually seeing: is this life itself – or merely theatre?</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">As Nazi aggression escalated, the Berlin-born Jewish artist Charlotte Salomon sensed the end was near. She wrapped over 800 of her paintings in brown paper and handed them to a friend with the words "Take good care of it, it's my whole life". Miraculously, the gouaches survived.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Charlotte Salomon died in October 1943 in Auschwitz at the age of 26.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span><span style="color: #073763;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIam0hwucNgBHpzK-CWE3h1kEIoWo46hKXWEJM8FXmDMeICB1YLJ8tCN4Q1PwsLcMYq2afmg8WDI1TUOsyTrNefKKj5_3d-3OPGgruR8zZNj3DhT-RiBWCDWkeeVVkGMniYA72z5dhXA6wLQLieVa-PXFuIwQbcpNoLm6iuZR_zF-L7o6oyUAOLjJY/s355/Charlotte_Salomon_painting_in_the_garden_about_1939.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="266" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIam0hwucNgBHpzK-CWE3h1kEIoWo46hKXWEJM8FXmDMeICB1YLJ8tCN4Q1PwsLcMYq2afmg8WDI1TUOsyTrNefKKj5_3d-3OPGgruR8zZNj3DhT-RiBWCDWkeeVVkGMniYA72z5dhXA6wLQLieVa-PXFuIwQbcpNoLm6iuZR_zF-L7o6oyUAOLjJY/w150-h200/Charlotte_Salomon_painting_in_the_garden_about_1939.jpg" width="150" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;">1939, painting in the garden at the Côte d'Azur, France</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">After the Second World War her father and his wife discovered Life? Or Theatre? in the South of France. They donated it to the Jewish Historical Museum in 1971.</span></p><p><i><span style="color: #073763;"> "And she saw with awakened eyes all the beauty around her, saw the sea, felt the sun and knew: she must disappear from the human surface for a while and make every sacrifice to create her world anew from the depths."</span></i></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnQCGhZ4m0w_yny9DOy_3-hAMHJDjlWvbxs1EN8y5OPynt052VqSjJQuqRdXIFCM-MU5JjVGRXZwyP1rby3qf5DrDd3nzRW5UnvXrVDzIQaKzwfqAazOxBN79RaFVSHhCdKWpCvJZXfT-A9WMFzsu2shcly_cagahRqtZ_-4WTp_SXDl1UWR0MY2-/s1200/Charlotte-Salomon-Joods%20Historisch%20Museum.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1200" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnQCGhZ4m0w_yny9DOy_3-hAMHJDjlWvbxs1EN8y5OPynt052VqSjJQuqRdXIFCM-MU5JjVGRXZwyP1rby3qf5DrDd3nzRW5UnvXrVDzIQaKzwfqAazOxBN79RaFVSHhCdKWpCvJZXfT-A9WMFzsu2shcly_cagahRqtZ_-4WTp_SXDl1UWR0MY2-/s320/Charlotte-Salomon-Joods%20Historisch%20Museum.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgKaVUwrBtGb24zdKrmHe9AWVCmvr0yRIKejntSs_87DJqWzbTSvAGVb_PKYa45ksVdWEK25SHZh8M4-rm-8_Yzz2xWMnv6qAAtUZ8TOmfGbLA-JYNVXmZVvOa4Xw2fJ7W-pAgArgxK2Z2Wqa29969_zU4guAiJ3PApP_seLswGdJfoHtd7un76LIt/s1200/All%20the%20works%20are%20on%20loan%20from%20the%20Jewish%20Historical%20Museum,%20Amsterdam%20copyright%20of%20Charlotte%20Salomon%20Foundation.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgKaVUwrBtGb24zdKrmHe9AWVCmvr0yRIKejntSs_87DJqWzbTSvAGVb_PKYa45ksVdWEK25SHZh8M4-rm-8_Yzz2xWMnv6qAAtUZ8TOmfGbLA-JYNVXmZVvOa4Xw2fJ7W-pAgArgxK2Z2Wqa29969_zU4guAiJ3PApP_seLswGdJfoHtd7un76LIt/s320/All%20the%20works%20are%20on%20loan%20from%20the%20Jewish%20Historical%20Museum,%20Amsterdam%20copyright%20of%20Charlotte%20Salomon%20Foundation.jpg" width="256" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsED089X6b0Oq6ZWrGB_Eks_HYvf18dfMiNjyra9kwAPglas4S9w0z6cs23P0oU-31HseU8TyXvZ9JYmEowGZaPRKsvkNQ3MCxVSRb7TOvoyOmMwjjOlwoyCvdfIWQToKcS3DW-MOerLpg9ZcClZtPOCUVNCthwtJHCOysFQeihnsyQtRaEs99dX5D/s120/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="120" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsED089X6b0Oq6ZWrGB_Eks_HYvf18dfMiNjyra9kwAPglas4S9w0z6cs23P0oU-31HseU8TyXvZ9JYmEowGZaPRKsvkNQ3MCxVSRb7TOvoyOmMwjjOlwoyCvdfIWQToKcS3DW-MOerLpg9ZcClZtPOCUVNCthwtJHCOysFQeihnsyQtRaEs99dX5D/s1600/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" width="120" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial;">All the works are in the Jewish Historical Museum in Amsterdam. </span></p><p><br /></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-28249055046376107032022-12-25T15:00:00.000+01:002022-12-25T15:00:09.751+01:00Holy Nights<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6tEPZHiaRdH1JRXoeTTHfNqYLQCd9q0IvYUlmMWhbiFnKwW4cL_lxffJcKKMDXYLRsiiSw9-IyQa-XgRbOoRxdtgqRu5rIqjOfRL0QLIh6nYPNYP17Igq2FfIecyXBdctIui4NxC2p0AxEUM9Vzl_9t4USp7zDzczV_2-eVClyu_2S-DpV6eMcTF/s600/4%20angels%20holding%20the%20Four%20Winds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6tEPZHiaRdH1JRXoeTTHfNqYLQCd9q0IvYUlmMWhbiFnKwW4cL_lxffJcKKMDXYLRsiiSw9-IyQa-XgRbOoRxdtgqRu5rIqjOfRL0QLIh6nYPNYP17Igq2FfIecyXBdctIui4NxC2p0AxEUM9Vzl_9t4USp7zDzczV_2-eVClyu_2S-DpV6eMcTF/s16000/4%20angels%20holding%20the%20Four%20Winds.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">In the darkness of the winter night, when the great breath of the Earth Mother finds its greatest point of inhalation, man is offered the grace to touch magic as well as wonder. In the pause between her powerful inhalation and exhalation, there is a point of rest. This still point has long been known as the Holy Nights. Christmas Eve is the first of these Holy Nights, twelve in number.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">In these blessed nights, the angels circle around the world as in a great cosmic dance. They long to speak to listening human hearts. Down through the ages, the "listeners" on earth have heard the choir of angels; they have received messages of Peace and Love. </span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">May we all be the "listening ones" during these Holy Nights.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Peace to you, my readers, Deep Peace.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP1bQFjVYb3qRc5VyGwTREYGzz3lk6DAebFl7T5DErAVqe1mJHJyIfps9wAtwAAocgIStNwp49qVc9mBUELGlxmyvzc9wPDbZ6BE5h8t_a5CvZiYqTKmZ149M5WQhHkI2LsR7VP6Kg0pWeXuLui-QDA5eigQjvpoAm_GU7AowhyJfjGVjt7PrRlv26/s120/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="120" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP1bQFjVYb3qRc5VyGwTREYGzz3lk6DAebFl7T5DErAVqe1mJHJyIfps9wAtwAAocgIStNwp49qVc9mBUELGlxmyvzc9wPDbZ6BE5h8t_a5CvZiYqTKmZ149M5WQhHkI2LsR7VP6Kg0pWeXuLui-QDA5eigQjvpoAm_GU7AowhyJfjGVjt7PrRlv26/s1600/%C3%82%C2%A9emma%20signature.png" width="120" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-27031899636452500552022-09-28T13:14:00.004+02:002022-09-28T13:50:27.498+02:00When Autumn Yellows All The Leaves<p><span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnFheDaQ3_gnwM3avf_NjKgV8NlhUH3veS3-QjG_wMIS3Ja11n9jscm84vKn-3ThjaZDQmob6z1KYgXVEy4oPXUdM8mjAK5ynU_CnI9PLZ3_jJEVpI3Z-XWz9WB1ASPXT1EJD-WZQ7Pwhz-e68Q33wa-IC2Y5iWCTcDofz56hAUK7sLeeFMy3sKVYI/s1336/Vita_sackville-west.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1336" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnFheDaQ3_gnwM3avf_NjKgV8NlhUH3veS3-QjG_wMIS3Ja11n9jscm84vKn-3ThjaZDQmob6z1KYgXVEy4oPXUdM8mjAK5ynU_CnI9PLZ3_jJEVpI3Z-XWz9WB1ASPXT1EJD-WZQ7Pwhz-e68Q33wa-IC2Y5iWCTcDofz56hAUK7sLeeFMy3sKVYI/w479-h640/Vita_sackville-west.jpg" width="479" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">I must not tell how dear you are to me.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">It is unknown, a secret from myself</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Who should know best. I would not if I could</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Expose the meaning of such a mystery</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">I loved you then, when love was Spring, and May.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Eternity is here and now, I thought;</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">The pure and perfect moment briefly caught</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">As in your arms, but still a child, I lay.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Loved you when summer deepened into June</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">And those fair, wild, ideal dreams of youth</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Were true yet dangerous and half unreal</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">As when Endymion kissed the mateless moon.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">But now when autumn yellows all the leaves</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">And thirty seasons mellow our long love,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">How rooted, how secure, how strong, how rich,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">How full the barn that holds our garnered sheaves!</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQaRd33k3vsOQsIdw0deTMzYkxhn8hRUj-GLKqJSC4IUXpny2JXR429HsUn8A-isjFbq3LKaYmbiqVgsn4dVQgVvFuUDLypZpNqvv6zPShD-7hUfUnL6ti2-ZzcG5xTm9vCey8zIceeIHzeOP2T1gsFNx9vafheq6LHaiGVCUGQhCQvoq65RoYaeZ/s1200/1200px-Vita_Sackville-West_Signature.svg.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="1200" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQaRd33k3vsOQsIdw0deTMzYkxhn8hRUj-GLKqJSC4IUXpny2JXR429HsUn8A-isjFbq3LKaYmbiqVgsn4dVQgVvFuUDLypZpNqvv6zPShD-7hUfUnL6ti2-ZzcG5xTm9vCey8zIceeIHzeOP2T1gsFNx9vafheq6LHaiGVCUGQhCQvoq65RoYaeZ/s320/1200px-Vita_Sackville-West_Signature.svg.png" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">- Vita Sackville-West, poem to her husband Harold Nicholson. From: "Portrait of a Marriage" by Nigel Nicholson</span></p><div><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: arial;">Portrait: <i>Vita with red hat</i> by William Strang (1859-1921)</span></div><div><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-2329510989814294092022-07-09T15:43:00.006+02:002022-07-09T16:14:33.946+02:00Maria Sabina, Shaman and Visionary<p><span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9d6OSeRXFSt_izBWxc6D7JONFk82zOeE8rjeeyk5fWUyrePjJkjSSV5OCk7OJH8EG7QHxhytEmKbFY5N9R9_gJvBqUWMP6dB-6TukCbcAcQ3AtQJuEwu8OJ8YLtoGcmw7VzZxABIFeVKWRKty2SUXSuEFDhQ6oqIwhBtbNlQt0zOt-kJ253UOA5S/s300/Maria%20Sabina%20mooi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="195" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9d6OSeRXFSt_izBWxc6D7JONFk82zOeE8rjeeyk5fWUyrePjJkjSSV5OCk7OJH8EG7QHxhytEmKbFY5N9R9_gJvBqUWMP6dB-6TukCbcAcQ3AtQJuEwu8OJ8YLtoGcmw7VzZxABIFeVKWRKty2SUXSuEFDhQ6oqIwhBtbNlQt0zOt-kJ253UOA5S/w416-h640/Maria%20Sabina%20mooi.jpg" width="416" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">"There is a world beyond ours; a world that is far away, nearby and invisible. And that is where God lives, where the dead live, the spirits and the saints, a world where everything has already happened and everything is known. That world talks. It has a language of its own. I report what it says."</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">These are the words of Maria Sabina, a Mexican Mazatec shamanic healer of the last century. </span><span style="color: #351c75;">A shaman and visionary - not a poet in any ordinary sense - Maria Sabina lived out her life in the Oaxacan mountain village of Huautla de Jimenez, and yet her words, always sung or spoken, have carried far and wide, a principal instance and a powerful reminder of how poetry can arise in a context far removed from literature as such. Seeking cures through language - with the help of Psilocybe mushrooms, said to be the source of language itself - she was, as Henry Munn describes her, 'a genius who emerges from the soil of the communal, religious-therapeutic folk poetry of a native Mexican campesino people."<br /></span><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">But Maria Sabina did not herself consider her chants in such a way: she was as humble in her approach to her healing as she was dedicated, and her life, which was hard enough, was devoted to her healing practices. </span><span style="color: #351c75;">"I don't know in what year I was born, but my mother, Maria Concepción, told me that it was in the morning of the day they celebrate the Virgin Magdalene, there in Rio Santiago. None of my ancestors knew their age.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">"The sacred mushroom, the teo-nanácatl, takes me by the hand and brings me to the world where everything is known. It is they, the sacred mushrooms, that speak in a way I can understand. I ask them, and they answer me. When I return from the trip that I have taken with them, I tell what they have told me and what they have shown me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">"I was four years old when my father died and used to go into the forest with my sister to pasture the beasts. We were very hungry, but we knew that there were mushrooms and that the mushrooms were our friends. The mushroom was in my family as a parent, a protector, a friend. But then I did not know yet how to distinguish the sacred mushrooms as el derrumbe, San Isidro, pajaritos, or from those who were not. My grandmother told me everything with pleasure because she saw that I was destined to become the priestress of the teo-nanácatl. </span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">"The mushroom is similar to your soul. It takes you where your soul wants to go. And not all souls are the same. Many people of the sierra have taken it and are taking it, but not everybody enters into the world where everything is known. The secrets the mushrooms reveal to me are enclosed in a big Book that they showed me and that is found in a region very far away from their world, a great Book. They gave it to me when my sister Ana Maria fell ill. I took many, many more mushrooms than I had ever taken before: thirty plus thirty. I loved my sister and was ready to do anything, even to make a long trip, just to save her. I was sitting in front of her with my body, but my soul was entering the world of the teo-nanácatl and was seeing the same landscape that it had seen many other times, the landscapes that it had never seen because the great number of mushrooms had taken me into the deepest of the depths of that world. </span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">A duende, a spirit, came toward me. He asked a strange question: "But what do you wish to become, you, Maria Sabina?" </span><span style="color: #351c75;">I answered him, without knowing, that I wished to be a saint. Then the spirit smiled, and immediately he had in his hands something that he did not have before, and it was a big Book with many written pages. </span><span style="color: #351c75;">"Here," he said. "I am giving you this Book so that you can do your work better and help people who need help and know the secrets of the world where everything is known. "</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">"I thumbed through the leaves of the Book, many written pages, and I thought that unfortunately I did not know how to read. Suddenly I realized that I was reading and understood all that was written in the Book and that I became as though richer, wiser, and in that one moment I learned millions of things.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">"I learned and learned. </span><span style="color: #351c75;">When I came to myself I was there, sitting in front of my sister. I looked for the herbs that the Book had indicated to me, and I did exactly what I had learned from the Book. </span><span style="color: #351c75;">And my sister Ana Maria got well.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">"I didn't need to see the Book again because I had learned everything that was inside it. But I again saw the spirit that gave it to me and other spirits and other landscapes; and I saw, close by, the sun and the moon because the more you go inside the world of the teo-nanácatl, the more things are seen. And you also see our past and our future, which are there together as a single thing already achieved, already happened. I saw the entire life of my son Aurelio and his death and the face and the name of the man who was going to kill him because everything had already been accomplished, and it was useless for me to say to my son that he should look out, because there was nothing to say. </span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">"Millions of things I saw and I knew. I knew and saw God: an immense clock that ticks, the spheres that go slowly around inside the stars, the earth, the entire universe, the day and the night, the cry and the smile, the happiness and the pain. He who knows to the end the secrets of the teo-nanácatl can even see that infinite clockwork."</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;">Excerpts from: 'María Sabina: Her Life and Chants', by Álvaro Estrada. Translation and commentaries by Henry Munn, with a retrospective essay by R. Gordon Wasson and a preface by Jerome Rothenberg. Published by Ross-Ericson, Inc., 1981.</span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5edaAhZFOeuDQGmYU0ca1BqfmEDzavc-kxzsrtsr8VejhmvFe4rrZchYAofPTtunJVPwfROPuUtW3aKcRw3yvhJAOpGHvQrfHsnJ1vptUprKtn2RndssAdQVl3U9lR0c4_niBzRoRqHodDHuJWZNxpSDuwRzAEVyPTyyhetC-94N3-PFxItkBMYV/s499/Maria%20Sabina%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="330" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5edaAhZFOeuDQGmYU0ca1BqfmEDzavc-kxzsrtsr8VejhmvFe4rrZchYAofPTtunJVPwfROPuUtW3aKcRw3yvhJAOpGHvQrfHsnJ1vptUprKtn2RndssAdQVl3U9lR0c4_niBzRoRqHodDHuJWZNxpSDuwRzAEVyPTyyhetC-94N3-PFxItkBMYV/w265-h400/Maria%20Sabina%20cover.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-88500587694698982742022-06-14T16:01:00.004+02:002022-06-14T16:29:06.017+02:00Between Christ and Ishtar <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPK3h_CQve_w4jqVJS2_fWVIUKIiLF4BnGcYRyiAMt_wCxViQMoQ86MDQ_wSyS_ibOXagARJAFacTgQyJpcebnJnAHCk8XwUk4gOEj6Aagw9UYZPIOtEYVfcc0GO5zDQov3zA7ImfO4vEYuD8a8anUhhN-DYcIMIdcJ7mIT_HoNxuFc81rS5OG-4PE/s853/Broken%20wing.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="581" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPK3h_CQve_w4jqVJS2_fWVIUKIiLF4BnGcYRyiAMt_wCxViQMoQ86MDQ_wSyS_ibOXagARJAFacTgQyJpcebnJnAHCk8XwUk4gOEj6Aagw9UYZPIOtEYVfcc0GO5zDQov3zA7ImfO4vEYuD8a8anUhhN-DYcIMIdcJ7mIT_HoNxuFc81rS5OG-4PE/w436-h640/Broken%20wing.PNG" width="436" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span><p><span style="color: #073763;">In the midst of the gardens and hills which connect the city of Beirut with Lebanon there is a small temple, very ancient, dug out of white rock, surrounded by olive, almond, and willow trees. Although this temple is a half mile from the main highway, at the time of my story very few people interested in relics and ancient ruins had visited it. It was one of many interesting places hidden and forgotten in Lebanon. Due to its seclusion, it had become a haven for worshippers and a shrine for lonely lovers.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">As one enters this temple he sees on the wall at the east side an old Phoenician picture, carved in the rock depicting Ishtar, goddess of love and beauty, sitting on her throne, surrounded by seven nude virgins standing in different posses. The first one carries a torch; the second, a guitar; the third, a censer; the fourth a jug of wine; the fifth, a branch of roses; the sixth, a wreath of laurel; the seventh, a bow and arrow; and all of them look at Ishtar reverently.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">On the second wall there is another picture, more modern than the first one, symbolizing Christ nailed to the cross, and at His side stand His sorrowful mother and Mary Magdalene and two other women weeping. This Byzantine picture shows that it was carved in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">On the west side wall there are two round transits through which the sun's rays enter the temple and strike the pictures and make them look as if they were painted with gold water color. In the middle of the temple there is a square marble with old paintings on its sides, some of which can hardly be seen under the petrified lumps of blood which show that the ancient people offered sacrifices on this rock and poured perfume, wine, and oil upon it.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">There is nothing else in that little temple except deep silence, revealing to the living the secrets of the goddess and speaking worldlessly of past generations and the evolution of religions. Such a sight carries the poet to a world far away from the one in which he dwells and convinces the philosopher that men were born religious; they felt a need for that which they could not see and drew symbols, the meaning of which divulged their hidden secrets and their desires in life and death.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">In that unknown temple, I met Selma once every month and spent the hours with her, looking at those strange pictures, thinking of the crucified Christ and pondering upon the young Phoenician men and women who lived, loved and worshipped beauty in the person of Ishtar by burning incense before her statue and pouring perfume on her shrine, people for whom nothing is left to speak except the name, repeated by the march of time before the face of Eternity.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">It is hard to write down in words the memories of those hours when I met Selma - those heavenly hours, filled with pain, happiness, sorrow, hope, and misery.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">We met secretly in the old temple, remembering the old days, discussing our present, fearing our future, and gradually bringing out the hidden secrets in the depths of our hearts and complaining to each other of our misery and suffering, trying to console ourselves with imaginary hopes and sorrowful dreams. Every now and then we would become calm and wipe our tears and start smiling, forgetting everything except Love; we embraced each other until our hearts melted; then Selma would print a pure kiss on my forehead and fill my heart with ecstasy; I would return the kiss as she bent her ivory neck while her cheeks became gently red like the first ray of dawn on the forehead of hills. We silently looked at the distant horizon where the clouds were colored with the orange ray of sunset.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Our conversation was not limited to love; every now and then we drifted on to current topics and exchanged ideas. During the course of conversation Selma spoke of woman's place in society, the imprint that the past generation had left on her character, the relationship between husband and wife, and the spiritual diseases and corruption which threatened married life. I remember her saying: "The poets and writers are trying to understand the reality of woman, but up to this day they have not understood the hidden secrets of her heart, because they look upon her from behind the sexual veil and see nothing but externals; they look upon her through the magnifying glass of hatefulness and find nothing except weakness and submission."</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">On another occasion she said, pointing to the carved pictures on the walls of the temple, "In the heart of this rock there are two symbols depicting the essence of a woman's desires and revealing the hidden secrets of her soul, moving between love and sorrow—between affection and sacrifice, between Ishtar sitting on the throne and Mary standing by the cross. The man buys glory and reputation, but the woman pays the price."</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">No one knew about our secret meetings except God and the flock of birds which flew over the temple. Selma used to come in her carriage to a place named Pasha park and from there she walked to the temple, where she found me anxiously waiting for her.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">We feared not the observer's eyes, neither did our consciences bother us; the spirit which is purified by fire and washed by tears is higher than what the people call shame and disgrace; it is free from the laws of slavery and old customs against the affections of the human heart. That spirit can proudly stand unashamed before the throne of God.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Human society has yielded for seventy centuries to corrupted laws until it cannot understand the meaning of the superior and eternal laws. A man's eyes have become accustomed to the dim light of candles and cannot see the sunlight. Spiritual disease is inherited from one generation to another until it has become a part of people, who look upon it, not as a disease, but as a natural gift, showered by God upon Adam. If those people found someone free from the germs of this disease, they would think of him with shame and disgrace.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Those who think evil of Selma Karamy because she left her husband's home and met me in the temple are the diseased and weak-minded kind who look upon the healthy and sound as rebels. They are like insects crawling in the dark for fear of being stepped upon by the passer-by.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">The oppressed prisoner, who can break away from his jail and does not do so, is a coward. Selma, an innocent and oppressed prisoner, was unable to free herself from slavery. Was she to blame because she looked through the jail window upon the green fields and spacious sky? Will the people count her as being untruthful to her husband because she came from his home to sit by me between Christ and Ishtar? Let the people say what they please; Selma had passed the marshes which submerge other spirits and had landed in a world that could not be reached by the howling of wolves and rattling of snakes. People may say what they want about me, for the spirit who has seen the specter of death cannot be scared by the faces of thieves; the soldier who has seen the swords glittering over his head and streams of blood under his feet does not care about rocks thrown at him by the children on the streets.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span>Kahlil Gibran - from The Broken Wings</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-51745993131998491752022-05-13T16:08:00.007+02:002022-05-15T23:03:20.441+02:00Where Is Baubo Now?<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZ3LzryV7QdifgoX7oRHOgGsDo6cPEUaW7kBBh1hmcXSYFo9ySh9WQ0yMzu0EEyj3WJu5-UtelJQ1JGECTsSstJBZIdR9Dr0cenVvqO0RGYWTOsR1ZmRdnKavWGmBKn9fMa0PJdeiuNvidV0P2ftvI-pKi3YeKwcKOX4edgatOFOq7hAKftU5H1P5/s568/Thesmophoria_568.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="568" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZ3LzryV7QdifgoX7oRHOgGsDo6cPEUaW7kBBh1hmcXSYFo9ySh9WQ0yMzu0EEyj3WJu5-UtelJQ1JGECTsSstJBZIdR9Dr0cenVvqO0RGYWTOsR1ZmRdnKavWGmBKn9fMa0PJdeiuNvidV0P2ftvI-pKi3YeKwcKOX4edgatOFOq7hAKftU5H1P5/s16000/Thesmophoria_568.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">The seasonal rituals of ancient Goddess religions, based on the cycles of death and rebirth in Nature, offer a very different perspective from current patriarchal religious and scientific traditions. The ancient myths offer us stories of eternally returning, of renewable creative experience, personally and collectively.</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">On my first day in Athens I took the bus to Elefsina, a town about 18 kilometres northwest of the city. The bus moved slowly with the traffic along the ancient Sacred Way where people once walked in procession to celebrate the Eleusinian Mysteries. No one really knows what happened in the initiation rituals based on Persephone’s descent and return from the Underworld, but the rites were celebrated for thousands of years and were thought to keep the world in balance.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">Today the Sacred Way is surrounded by urban development, and Elefsina is a major industrial area. Yet I could still imagine the sacred procession winding from Athens to Eleusis: initiates swinging leafy branches, singing, chanting, and shouting obscenities in commemoration of Baubo, the mysterious Greek Goddess who was bawdy, fun-loving and sexually liberated. Baubo – a ‘daughter’ of the ancient Mother Goddess, Cybele – was celebrated for consoling Demeter with ribald jesting when the goddess was mourning the loss of Persephone.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">The modern and ancient exist side by side in Greece – a caleidoscope of images and impressions spanning millennia. It is easy to assume that modern life represents the pinnacle of civilisation, yet where is Baubo now?</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">Baubo has been degraded into over-sexualised images of women and girls. The obscenities that were once shouted in sacred play are now directed at women as aggression, hostility and violence. We have lost Baubo and so many of the myths and rituals that can connect us to ourselves, each other, and the world.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">At the core of the Eleusinian Mysteries was the myth of Demeter and her daughter, Persephone. The maiden Persephone was picking flowers when she was seized by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Demeter searched but could not find her daughter. In her distress, she stopped tending the Earth. Crops failed, bringing famine and suffering. Zeus intervened and sent Hermes to retrieve Persephone from the Underworld. Mother and daughter were reunited, and the land flourished again. Each year the cycle repeated, Persephone descending and returning, symbolising the changing seasons and the eternal return.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">It seems likely that the Eleusinian Mysteries involved initiates in symbolic enactment of Persephone’s journey. Symbolic enactment invites engagement and suggests a possibility of transformation. It can also be confusing and frustrating. Symbols are not static – the meaning of a symbol changes from person to person and across time and place. Enactment ensures that the experience is alive in the moment, and ritual enactment ensures a safe place to engage the mysteries.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">There remains a mystery about what exactly took place at the Demeter Sanctuary at Eleusis, but it seems likely that the ancients incorporated symbol and enactment in an initiation process. Initiation always involves a crossing – from one stage to the next, from one identity to another. We like to think we can choose our crossings, but life has a way of choosing for us, and we are devastated by loss, shocked by betrayal, left anxious and fearful of change. The Eleusinian Mysteries offered the ancients a map for the journey.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">Imagine yourself as an initiate. You may become Demeter, grieving unbearable loss and withdrawing from the world. Or perhaps you are Persephone, your life abruptly changed by forces outside your control. As you walk the path of initiation, guided by story and by those who have gone before, you encounter the Underworld of your own psyche and you are transformed.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">Symbolic enactment takes us into and beyond our fears. We cross thresholds and return with sovereignty over ourselves. Persephone returns to the upper world, and she is also Queen of the Underworld.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">In the modern world, we engage symbols through expressing our creativity, working with dreams, and attending depth psychotherapy. Just imagine how it would be to wake one morning knowing that today you will walk in procession from the city to a sanctuary by the sea, chanting and singing, shouting obscenities to Baubo, who laughs loudly and shouts right back. Imagine that today you will make offerings to Goddess and be guided through a ritual enactment of one of the great teaching stories, descending and returning transformed. Imagine…</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">I caught that bus to Elefsina to walk the marble paths of Demeter’s sanctuary. The seasonal rituals of ancient goddess religions, based on the cycles of death and rebirth in Nature, offer a very different perspective from current patriarchal religious and scientific traditions. The ancient myths offer us stories of eternally returning, of renewable creative experience, personally and collectively. I caught that bus to Elefsina to visit one of the places where the stories were born.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;">- Dr Kaalii Cargill was on Goddess pilgrimage in Greece in 2015. Her PhD research explored ancient women’s mysteries. </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zy9d78jDikaylQBkEDX2dNyBckK21rRkgIMNJm8GQTAN769__jC5G6KhNBxYKFluOaNYW5vy5JkcpyiOpRMMvE7fd3zeRMoVWI6pmNOHR3DFSJtPPUJIxd-bbdHODEglXfrIC4acGZaQCImL0Z6AZKXL3hxyELjOykY8T9eGNwZ1BlbUBeptYV4F/s337/baubo1%20(1)%20Greece.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="244" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zy9d78jDikaylQBkEDX2dNyBckK21rRkgIMNJm8GQTAN769__jC5G6KhNBxYKFluOaNYW5vy5JkcpyiOpRMMvE7fd3zeRMoVWI6pmNOHR3DFSJtPPUJIxd-bbdHODEglXfrIC4acGZaQCImL0Z6AZKXL3hxyELjOykY8T9eGNwZ1BlbUBeptYV4F/w145-h200/baubo1%20(1)%20Greece.jpg" width="145" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; text-align: left;">Top Image </span><span style="color: #073763; text-align: left;">by Francis Davis Millet</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone. </i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; text-align: left;">Bottom of page image: Baubo</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-50805256120865575982022-04-04T17:47:00.006+02:002022-04-04T17:49:53.387+02:00Barcarole<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzAKfUUis_734U_t6IoFW-ZK19FOrcbKXUrOmNEubJk9STLDhbB779kyoOdbHjVm3PW7FEh-MQCvVOz-7trBYkpIKMjICpr2H1YFEqqqX6KGLfQPZoQwqabK5Hh0Ku0RQnZCi-5wjdvpBdCNx0zp_Y157yJvcVnpJsCJFnBfyOgHYe4JObTn19hIp/s800/cKARA%2009%20Dreaming.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="616" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzAKfUUis_734U_t6IoFW-ZK19FOrcbKXUrOmNEubJk9STLDhbB779kyoOdbHjVm3PW7FEh-MQCvVOz-7trBYkpIKMjICpr2H1YFEqqqX6KGLfQPZoQwqabK5Hh0Ku0RQnZCi-5wjdvpBdCNx0zp_Y157yJvcVnpJsCJFnBfyOgHYe4JObTn19hIp/w493-h640/cKARA%2009%20Dreaming.jpg" width="493" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;">Let us go to the shore;</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;">there the waves will kiss our feet</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;">With mysterious sadness</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;">the stars will shine down on us.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;">*</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"> Aleksey Pleshcheyevo. </span><span style="color: #073763;">1825-1893</span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;">Artwork "Dreaming" by Victoria Kalaichi, <br />Ukrainian artist </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;">*</span></div><p></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-89291370929347415062022-03-23T19:01:00.001+01:002022-04-07T22:01:30.033+02:00Prayer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGNwFJuOL_FOns0bsCvNSYy3kHiV4bp89wQLihhMZARCPPF-DptvrvGpOtoZOdoumImC43iSWKL2ToaSGtYhXXg4MhWZMV_OxYhGzWI4czEU9FFDPEbCr1fxEx1j0OmIXCLcPULTTCnbJ_6IPfA10KV0m-CGjiAY0XwKJH27feEqh2mhJtKJzQry7j/s369/b4ce486ed13f00223e281c92bd876ac2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="358" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGNwFJuOL_FOns0bsCvNSYy3kHiV4bp89wQLihhMZARCPPF-DptvrvGpOtoZOdoumImC43iSWKL2ToaSGtYhXXg4MhWZMV_OxYhGzWI4czEU9FFDPEbCr1fxEx1j0OmIXCLcPULTTCnbJ_6IPfA10KV0m-CGjiAY0XwKJH27feEqh2mhJtKJzQry7j/w388-h400/b4ce486ed13f00223e281c92bd876ac2.jpg" width="388" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="color: #073763;">You can not reach all suffering humanity all the time.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">You can hold all souls as whole in your heart, </span><span style="color: #073763;">not just their horrors and losses.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">This is the stronger prayer:</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Wholeness despite holes through and through.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Hold all the injured as whole,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">and on the torn red beribboned slingshot</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">of your heart...</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">aim, draw back hard, harder</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">and release all your holiest and most healing thoughts </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">to fly across all divides,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">to fly across all big waters,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">to vault across all insanities...</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Bid the holy to fly - and to land at this moment</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">in exactly the places most needed.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Souls sense being fiercely prayed for,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">on, over, with, daily.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Knowing that someone</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">who knows you not</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">is nonetheless praying,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">pouring will and strength into you, </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">for you, into and for those you pray for:</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">This is inestimable medicine for the soul.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Continue then and tend</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">to the poor in spirit,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">the poor in soul,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">the poor in health,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">the poor in want,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">right before you:</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">the ailing kin, the street man,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">the road mother, the broken friend,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">the innocent child, the torn,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">the wondering, the wandering.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">I tell you,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">those who would care across the ocean only,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">and not care for those they can wash</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">who are standing right before them,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">are not fully caring yet.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">I know you understand this:</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">That we desperately</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">want all humanity to not hurt...</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">and that this is one of the worthiest</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">prayers we know.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Thus, we bend to tend, </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">in whatever ways we are called,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">to those within our reach - </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">wherever that reach reaches...</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">for there are times</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">when Creator has no hands,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">only ours...</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Thus, in this tending, we keep the greatest</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">blood contract with Creator,</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">with our Holy Mother, </span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">our souls have ever signed...</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">So may it be for thee</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">so may it be for me</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">And so may it be for us all.</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Aymen</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Aymen</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Aymen</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">And with oceanic love...</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Excerpt from: Untie the Strong Woman - "Remembering Our Billions" - by Clarissa Pinkola Estés</span></p><p><span style="color: #073763;">Painting: "Ukrainian Praying Woman" by Fedir Krychevsky</span></p><p><br /></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-3509257513981311982022-03-03T19:13:00.001+01:002022-03-03T19:18:40.107+01:00 The Child-Angel<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguKdcVFrBc7KB3JsxOjyk9z_5PJfpVdo9zkrBdTqgGG-HFvUUhTW83Bn2hoBrdVbasDICHLKJHgXZnFlfxFmopqsbdOE5VLAIa0Jo5gn-odLKQQrugbQVaxE3gRhM-KM1EHAaVldSiACNjaHsoyzB2j9p6P8nVXE6_E73ddBNvEBvg-EvEL8_DcMdV=s600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #073763;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="600" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguKdcVFrBc7KB3JsxOjyk9z_5PJfpVdo9zkrBdTqgGG-HFvUUhTW83Bn2hoBrdVbasDICHLKJHgXZnFlfxFmopqsbdOE5VLAIa0Jo5gn-odLKQQrugbQVaxE3gRhM-KM1EHAaVldSiACNjaHsoyzB2j9p6P8nVXE6_E73ddBNvEBvg-EvEL8_DcMdV=w400-h399" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;">They clamour and fight, they doubt and despair, they know no end to their wrangling.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;">Let your life come amongst them like a flame of light, my child, unflickering and pure, and delight them into silence.</span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;">They are cruel in their greed and their envy, their words are like hidden knives thirsting for blood.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;">Go and stand amidst their scowling hearts, my child, and let your gentle eyes fall upon them like the forgiving peace of the evening over the strife of the day.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;">Let them see your face, my child, and thus know the meaning of all things; let them love you and thus love each other.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;">Come and take your seat in the bosom of the limitless, my child. At sunrise open and raise your heart like a blossoming flower, and at sunset bend your head and in silence complete the worship of the day.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br /></i></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Rabindranath Tagore</span></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIauPsY_bkBXM9K2ptM5QAI_9SobeEkqMNjGmRaPrj6mH1e52qKfFy-S_02p0IviVgUvlCItPVMY75cpwr14Seky7o1geI80lJ2eZX554W3qZCUtwjNRySSNbBGUX3gX6tzpzpQux82pjmxF6zz-lzXMehDohUImvJyTmqGfKvWikiPYbfAGsPw7S3=s250" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="250" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIauPsY_bkBXM9K2ptM5QAI_9SobeEkqMNjGmRaPrj6mH1e52qKfFy-S_02p0IviVgUvlCItPVMY75cpwr14Seky7o1geI80lJ2eZX554W3qZCUtwjNRySSNbBGUX3gX6tzpzpQux82pjmxF6zz-lzXMehDohUImvJyTmqGfKvWikiPYbfAGsPw7S3=w200-h159" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #073763;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Art: "Hope" by J. Kirk Richards</span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></div>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-39646144017767844892022-02-24T22:31:00.003+01:002022-02-24T22:31:33.865+01:00Peace<div class="separator"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: inherit;">I WILL WRITE </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">PEACE </span></div><div><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: inherit;">ON YOUR WINGS </span></div><div><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: inherit;">AND </span></div><div><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: inherit;">YOU WILL FLY </span></div><div><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: inherit;">ALL OVER THE WORLD</span></div></div><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjT_RwWlEVHd3IEx2qCDwnUXKGKGh6XRR0bCT4qXJDxGVNG1pCsYmHpKLekCUTro5tCtbCJ6tvVAWqBgBc-cl4K5w5dgjs2f0mXPQlP4xB5FKq0MiVWVTqZC8vcvAlw18UDfUK8Nisw_y_sb2cV54CgudC7Xu1OECs7YxTT9BRu82-DTZviYtjWr3eC=w640-h480" width="640" /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;">PEACE<br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiD5qVxQK7OqxEPZB-X2ZNJ-zFtFmYUr8i7bwGPg1Mxa6pCtvuNqUa9_236wFdupEplctXuFaecymB_h6G0W0Yzvry1pTbUJfW4kZvWugLUcgEB36NVdfRNf0-4jo2KGjTIfl3iVJtoh8Kra-uhcF5Yg9Ai_1m-nCrQShD0a61AGbH2yugKfbupe7q8=s50" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="49" data-original-width="50" height="49" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiD5qVxQK7OqxEPZB-X2ZNJ-zFtFmYUr8i7bwGPg1Mxa6pCtvuNqUa9_236wFdupEplctXuFaecymB_h6G0W0Yzvry1pTbUJfW4kZvWugLUcgEB36NVdfRNf0-4jo2KGjTIfl3iVJtoh8Kra-uhcF5Yg9Ai_1m-nCrQShD0a61AGbH2yugKfbupe7q8" width="50" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6010494928772077300.post-36109412818012702522022-02-09T17:17:00.001+01:002024-01-27T16:34:05.269+01:00Counterpoint<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNu-C2n9AqjIJ10sSSShWF-4TvYzVM4WGhr7MyZFft8GVlz99hDmd9WFOyhRPDSLuB1T-aKYehnBE0pBS5KNwIL499_67-UMSw6sjboddGrQwFhEkNLaplDYQ4mJu6KIAFILPW0Ak1A4Ti-4iBaOQERXmyafhyYlfbazzBvOKLObuKYOx61JDyqbeL=s1348" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1348" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNu-C2n9AqjIJ10sSSShWF-4TvYzVM4WGhr7MyZFft8GVlz99hDmd9WFOyhRPDSLuB1T-aKYehnBE0pBS5KNwIL499_67-UMSw6sjboddGrQwFhEkNLaplDYQ4mJu6KIAFILPW0Ak1A4Ti-4iBaOQERXmyafhyYlfbazzBvOKLObuKYOx61JDyqbeL=w400-h249" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Counterpoint</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">The others they talk</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">oh, they chatter</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">so much, so much</span><span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">to tame</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">their fear</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">In my cocoon</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">I may seem trapped</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">but I merely seek shelter</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">to listen to the voices of birds</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">spin their magic songlines</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">and the shrieks of ravens</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">in my Eden</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">shrieks that rip open my</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">oldest scars</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">The moon knows my every scar</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">and she has turned them into poetry</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">flutter flutter</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">go my wings</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">in the gossamer spinning</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">of the muses in my head</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">Euterpe and Erato</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">my very own muses</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">They like to dance</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">until the moon gives way</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">and they, like dust motes</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">in a pathway of moonlight,</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">finally unwind</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">in the swaying cradle</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #351c75;">of my poem.<br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZEURNuzzr1zwZ53gRt0s_6lGzuS2bKAvwP_OSBL-HB6b_jv04U9gSp-OMpcxuhDYECtcFQirCw8D_mmV86rMuY9qZPyEF-J0vE1_G9KDxckmLfxK2mYq5DqXaiNbABGoes258Yp84w78m7wAFHv7TtgUPgccQXvgB1Uew9Haq_dD-Y7Iv8fharStJ=s120" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="120" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZEURNuzzr1zwZ53gRt0s_6lGzuS2bKAvwP_OSBL-HB6b_jv04U9gSp-OMpcxuhDYECtcFQirCw8D_mmV86rMuY9qZPyEF-J0vE1_G9KDxckmLfxK2mYq5DqXaiNbABGoes258Yp84w78m7wAFHv7TtgUPgccQXvgB1Uew9Haq_dD-Y7Iv8fharStJ" width="120" /></span></a></div><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: arial;">Artwork by Victoria Pettella</span></p>Emmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11344595922514131573noreply@blogger.com0