Thursday, October 4, 2012

The Young High Priestess

She kneels down before him. She feels so desperate that he can sense how committed she is to transform this weakness. The light reaches for her through a crack in the door and settles upon the right side of her body. She is distracted now by this comfort. He clears his throat to draw her attention. He does not speak but she can hear him in her head. If he would only speak to her heart. But he won't. He hears her in his heart but she does not rest there. He goes out of his way to ensure she is pulled downward.

He says her clothing is too thick. He cannot make out the contours of her body. He tempts her, silently, at every turn. With him it is no use. She can see the wall form before her eyes and no matter how she tries, it cannot be deconstructed. The wall and the mirror are synonymous. She sees clearly their dynamic.

"Let me see you," he whispers. She tells him, "Not without my sword." He tells her to stand and she does so, with presence. He is not pleased with her. He doesn't realize how much power he's thrown her way. He tells her to meet with him at his chamber. She asks for the garden instead. But this does not satisfy him so the chamber it is. "Wear something light," he insists.

The door is open when she arrives. It is a beautiful room with several windows along the sides, sheer curtains and assorted tapestry on the walls, a rug, the most magnificent rug she has ever seen and a bed made for a King and Queen. And she is a Queen but he is not worthy to be her King. She takes a peek outside. The landscape is breathless. The sun is setting on the horizon. She and God share a moment. She gives praise for her blessings.

The cloak she wears feels right. It is royal blue and made of velvet. She does not wish to be seen so uses her long black hair to cover the sides of her face. The hood now is not useful or appropriate here. She is nervous in her waiting but poised in her demeanor. She must not give too much away. That would be perilous in this space, in this room, behind closed doors...with him.

He enters and draws close with sword in hand. "It is not for you to give," she answers. "I have offended thee, I see." He places the sword upon the mantle by the fireplace, something she had failed to notice when she first entered the room. How could she have missed the fireplace? How she longs for that warmth and the sound of the crackling wood as it burns. How she longs for that light, those orange flames that purify her. How she longs to be embraced by this element in all its glory.

He unties her cloak and places it upon a chair. She feels the heat rise in her and in him as he walks away. He draws near. She takes a step back. "Why do you run from me?" She answers, "Because you chase me." He smiles. She dislikes that he knows she yearns for him.

What can she do? The chemistry is larger than themselves. It's Art, as Crowley called it. Two wholes coming together and creating another element entirely. To her, in the silent world of the sacred, he is tender and true. Out there, he is an ass and so very small. She is torn between these two pillars of existence. She must have both feet in but not favor one world over the other, not become attached to either, must learn to live in the space between them, where there is balance, where one is unaffected. But this is harder than she imagined, than she could have ever imagined.

She wants to take her clothes off but she resists. She knows his gaze and touch would reach and awaken a place that has otherwise been inaccessible and dormant in her. The thought alone weighs heavily and a stirring begins. She wants the real, not the transient. She wants to wake up the next morning and know that he is near, not wonder whether he will receive her the day after and the day after that and so on. He keeps her a secret and hidden like she's a High Priestess he needs to protect and guard. A High Priestess needs no protection.

And she is honoured to be revered, to be wanted, to be dreamed of. She feels the phases of the moon press upon her, of this cycle specifically, of this pull towards him. These waters runs deep. And he is just "man." The weight of this sensuality pulls her downward when she knows it would serve her better to move upwards towards the heavens, away from him and his attachment to the earth.

Lack of Essence?

I tended to him because I looked up to him. He was my "guide", my spiritual "mentor." I don't regret any of the things I've done. My actions stemmed from my heart, which grows larger each day. I asked for nothing in return. To give was its own reward.

It was a mistake that I put him up on a pedestal. This is true. In many ways, I was so much farther along than I could have gathered at first. I was a living example of the Work, of what Mr. Gurdjieff spoke about. When I was with my guide, I was with that part of him which Mr. Gurdjieff called "essence." I tried to access this in him at all times. It was a relentless pursuit of mine. I looked for it in his eyes, his voice, his movements, and his words.

Over time, it became more difficult to connect with this. Sometimes, I came to doubt whether I had ever come into contact with this "thing" to begin with. This is when the tears first came, at the onset of this realization, that perhaps I was looking for something that simply wasn't there, that I had been wanting to transform something false into a truth and the futility of this had become so unbearable.

I would have had to admit that I was a fool, that I was stupid, that I had allowed myself to be mislead...well, by myself, in spite of my intuition and dreams that kept telling me something was not right, that all was not what it seemed.

But how? He was my "guide." I wanted him to be that for me and yet I found myself "helping" him. I saw that in myself, this tendency to want to "tend" to him, to show him there was another way he ought to conduct himself, another way he ought to spread the message, another way he could do things, or lead his life along this path. I wanted this because I believed in him, in that some "thing" I clung on to as hard and for as long as I could.

But I am not his wife, not his lover, not really his friend, not his sister, or coworker. I am just a woman in the Work who happened to be in a group, who also happened to volunteer her time to helping herself help him grow and maintain a group. I succeeded in helping with this even though the outcome may suggest otherwise.

I am not to blame for trusting him, for being open and true, for being genuine and sincere. I am not to blame for being honourable. Nonetheless, I cannot make excuses for his behaviour especially when he uses terms in the Work to justify why he is who he is. That kind of hypocrisy simply doesn't sit well with me. As soon as the impression comes, I get a taste of it, its vibration and quality. I cannot escape the truth. I only pretended not to "hear" what was speaking to me loud and clear, with intent and fervor. If anything, I had allowed my heart to take over at the expense of my Self. And because I ignored the messages, I have had to pay a price. And rightfully so.


Jesus and I sit around the table, a rectangular wooden table that seats up to eight people. It's cold outside. The light emanating from the lamps is warm and soft. There's no where I'd rather be than here alone with my Beloved. But we're not alone.

"You are angry with me?" I understand why he asks. I cannot hide anything from him. He welcomes it all like the real ones hassles, no judgment, only compassion and love. I decorate a bowl with some fruit and place it in the center of our space together. "I do not wish to speak. You already see what resides in my heart."

"True, but I also see your need to share with me. And since I am here, you must use me." I sit and pat down my dress, gently grab hold of the table cloth before me and feel the fabric between my fingers, reminds me of my Mother. "I don't understand, Jesus. I don't understand. If I had been alive during your time, I would have held you in my arms. I would have wiped away the blood from your face, your arms, your hands. I would have stayed with you. Like a good woman, a true woman."

"I don't understand my Lord, how some can walk in your name and be so deceitful, how they can twist the truth to serve themselves, how they can say one thing and do the opposite. Help me understand this hypocrisy. I know we all make mistakes. I know we are not perfect. I know we have much to live up to, to work towards. I know there is much to forgive...but..."

"But? You can be open with me."

"I will not be fooled again. The devil can tempt me all he wants. He will fail."

Thursday, January 12, 2012

"Once good friend"

I walked away because you don't see me. I'm not a person. To you, I'm a thing. It's a mathematical certainty and I shouldn't take it personally. It never occurred to me this whole time on the planet that I would ever encounter someone who does not see or value the other in anyway that is clear, honest and true, genuine or sincere. I don't understand how that can be...when the word God rolls off your tongue so easily...when your head and heart reach for the heavens...well, with all that Turning you do. It boggled my mind how you could practice such beautiful things and yet nothing about you ever changed or reflected that which you preached.

You argued that you were just playing a role and nothing more...and it shows...oh, how it shows...the absolute nothingness of it all. That's why I'd always been guarded. Not because there was something wrong with me but because there was definitely something not right about you. I quickly learned what discernment means, how useful and sword like it is with a blade so sharp, it cuts through every thing to get to the truth and can not be tainted by distortion or distraction.

I saw what you are which is not what I had thought...against the hue of the yellow bus passing through. I had to put my head down in my moment of shock when the universe decided it was time for a revelation or perhaps, I had simply been awake to witness the landscape of my reality. And I small you were...dwarf like...sitting in your chair. I could no longer hear your words. They sounded muffled and distant even though you were but three feet away from me. How ironic, that you can make so much noise for such a small man.

You lack substance and I have too much heart. You knew this about me. There was a time I believed you were generous and considerate, compassionate and beautiful...but then I realized you were simply reflecting back to me who I am. After all, it's the mirror you're fascinated with. How convenient for you and destructive to the rest of us. But tell me, doesn't it get tiring...all that acting you do?

How cruel you can be mistaking the iron fist for kindness. You're all personality and nothing more. That's all you'll ever be and become. How sad. So sad. You can't be reached no matter how much you turn or beat on that drum, how many exercises you practice or rituals you engage one will touch your depths because there is no depth to discover, nothing to penetrate or affect, to move and stir. There's no one home. You tell yourself, "Well, we are all asleep. None of us are home." And you are only correct to a point. You are unlike us in that you operate from a false sense of self whereas we, from a true sense of self. You do see how the results change, yes?

Your aim is to escape from yourself, from the reality that is you. I aim to get closer to myself, to know myself. Spiritual practices help me understand this struggle. Your spiritual struggle has become distorted and twisted. You only use the teachings as masks to hide and continue being what you are, to continue making excuses for yourself and your behaviour. You have no desire to change. You want things to remain just as they are and how convenient for you again, that you are able to manipulate words and concepts to convince others you have their best interests at heart. What heart?

I figured you out my "once good friend." Even that had been a role, nothing but a role, an act.