Visions in the Mist Over Quinte Bay

Psychic Beginnings

I was no more than 10, sitting on the back steps that led into the old extra room, really a storage shed, tacked onto the farmhouse at Hillshore. In there, we kept our piles of chopped wood for the ancient black cook stove, “Beulah”. It was also the place where Rocket, our large BullMastiff, used to sleep with Patsy, the small black Labrador cross, tucked in near Rocket’s tummy for warmth. Our stolid bodyguard of a cat, Sir Pook of Quinte, would ensconce himself on Rocket’s back and in this fashion the trio would settle in for their night’s sleep. Came the day, however, when Dad tore down the old shed with its step, and we could go directly across the small gulley to the apple orchard. Rocket was allocated his own suite of rooms in the barn for winter, Patsy was given hers, and Sir Pook of Quinte had by then inveigled himself into becoming a House Cat….

But the old steps and shed were still there when I settled in that evening in the late fall after supper. It was almost dark, and a light mist had fallen over the Bay. It was quite usual for me to find an odd spot to ponder things. I was a thoughtful child, very interested in the deeper questions of life. I read everything in my parent’s modest library which included samples of Tolstoy, Hugh MacLennan, Hemingway, Pearl S. Buck, Thomas Costain, John Steinbeck, Maugham and mom’s Best Loved Poems of the American People. The larger ideas about life and death, and what Hannah Arendt called “the life of the mind”, formed my natural habitat.

So as I sat there on the old steps, I was fascinated by the large auras of mist around the trees that lined our Bay waterfront and stood in groups in our apple orchard. I felt a kind of acute awareness, attunement, to those misty apparitions, and as I gazed at them, a series of pictures began to form in my mind. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was going to be the first time I would experience “the teaching pictures”. It would be many years before I experienced this again, in meditation. Later still, I discovered that the pictures would always be there on request, when I gave professional “life readings” whether in person, or far away.

The pictures that evening began with a blackboard, very much like the ones I looked at every day in the one-room country schoolhouse just a mile up the road at Mt. Carmel School – with its 8 grades and 17 students! In the first picture, “someone” had drawn on the board a simple tree, showing deep roots below the earth, and branches fluttering outward ending in leaves. That “someone”, whom I could not see in the picture, held an old-fashioned pointer, gesturing at the tree and using chalk to illustrate Life Cycle of the tree.

First came “Birth”, as the sap running up the trunk in spring, out into the branches, the buds and leaves appearing…and then “Death”, as the fall winds blew all the leaves off. Yet, as they fell, the leaves covered protectively the roots and then provided, as they decayed, nutrients for the roots below. This was the “Rest” part of the cycle.

Then, once again, in the spring, the enriched and life-giving sap would rise again up through the trunk, and this was Rebirth. This, my invisible teacher imparted to me, was how it was throughout all of nature, with nothing ever lost but only changing and reappearing within a cycle which was always a dimension of Life – even death. Above all, I sensed at once that everything in nature was part of everything else, serving a beautiful, simple, highly intelligent purpose within the magnificent Life Cycle.

As I watched, my Teacher then drew a stick-figure of a human being in the corner of the picture, and I sensed, rather than heard, these words: “Now, why would human beings, part of God’s creation too, be an exception to this Great Life Cycle?” Using the pointer again, Teacher pointed to the parallels between the tree’s Life Cycle and those of a human being, showing how we too are born, rise up through ourselves, and out into the self-expression of our branches.

Then, in old age or whenever it is “time”, we drop those leaves, a few at time at first, and then more and more. Finally, when Death comes, the branches are bare; but the leaves are not lost. They are our life experiences, from which wisdom is distilled. As our leaves of life settle on the earth around the roots, they gradually change into the rich “soil” from which – after resting and learning – we start out again.

In our next springtime, the sap rises up through the Old Trunk. Once again the process repeats, as the tree of Self grows larger, stronger, and confident in its place in God’s plan.

As the pictures, and my Teacher, just naturally faded away, I knew for once and for all that we are part of a Great Life Cycle where “death” is just a phase in the cycle, a time of rest, another point on the circle…but most important of all, I knew that all that we do, all that we feel, and all that we learn, travels onward with us as we move through the Great Cycle. Nothing is wasted, nothing is without dignity, nothing is without meaning.

I learned then, and it has stayed with me all my life, that we are cradled by the same great Laws I observed around me that night at Hillshore – spelled out for a child of 10 in the mists over Quinte Bay.

Goddess Voices * Song of Seshat

Welcome all! I have been away for awhile, and am glad so many of you are enjoying my blog, especially the themes of the Sacred Feminine in all Her forms…

For deep within the Temple that is each woman – and each man, if he will hear – the Sacred Feminine sings her Songs of Love and Wisdom. Yet the Temples of the Feminine have been lost through the ages, in a vast valley of tombs heavily guarded by legions of armoured males. When will we hear the Goddess voices? When will the tombs of the Goddesses be opened?

As this Caravan of Centuries rolls onward, the Sacred Feminine remains hidden, a prisoner in heavy veils of silence. Her words and deeds are known to us only through the filters of legend and myth, heavily censored in the holy books and sayings given to us by Man.

Hear, oh Earthkind, the Lord thy God is a Goddess too!

* * * * * *

In the spirit of the above thoughts, let me share with you an enchanting, powerful piece of writing (channelling?) from published fantasy author, mythology scholar and poet,
Charlotte Babb. I have some further links to her work at the end of this post. Charlotte has kindly given me permission to post her “Seshat Lady of the Library” here on Aquarian Reflections.

Seshat Lady of the Library

They have forgotten my name
But I remember
They call me The Female Scribe
As though I was not
The Original One who invented writing at the beginning

Who taught Djeuty to write
That baboon
Not the “Thrice-Great One” Ibis
So revered of the Greeks

Foremost in the Library, indeed
My pupil became my father-spouse-brother
Thus the Moon loses his face and
Nut bears her five children
On the five days added to the year.

And I am divided against myself
the Great and the Small
To hedge their bets
Do they not remember the Letter and the Spirit
The Words and the Meaning?

Forgotten, with no priests to call my name
I teach the pharaoh to face his fate
How to be born of the Mind
How to bear the weight of the Crown and the Eye
How to negotiate with those who come through me

Foremost in the House of Foreigners
I measure his reign by the words of Ra
I record his deeds
Measure his spoils of war
His inundations of the Nile
And the number of hairs on his head

His name is known
Because I have recorded it on my palm leaf
On the Ished Tree of Life
His years are long,
As many as the tadpoles in the flood
Because I have written it so.

Yet he forgets my name, calling me only Mother
Mistress of Builders
I taught my priests to measure the polar star
To find true north when no star pointed the way

The King himself Stretches the Cord
Marking the foundations of temples
To other gods and his tomb
But only with my help

Offerings to me are laid In the foundations
The builders know me
They honor me with the talismans of the tools of their trade
Because I am the one who makes the building stand
In this physical world, and in the unseen world

I am the Lady of the City of Eight,
The Birthplace of the Gods
But in the condominiums of the gods
They forget my name
They don’t remember
Why I wear the leopard skin of the blessed dead
Of the funerary priests
With its markings of the myriad stars of Nut

I am the mother of the dead
The soul passes through my womb
To be born again
I am old, great-grandmother to Isis,
Who lately came to me with her brother-husband
In pieces so that I might Re-Member him

I am the Mother of the Dead
Bearing those who die into the next life
Though she forgets my name
She forgets on whom she called
Though she stole the magical name of Ra
Yet, I know, both his Name and Mine.

The mourner who remembers
But they forget my name and
Why my cartouche is the…
What? A seven-petaled flower?
I am the Lady of the House of Books
They would know that no such flower exists.
If they would read what is in the Library

I am the Right and True flower in the Hand of Ra
The blue lotus of healing
Have they also forgotten the number of months in the year,
My feathered horns?

It is then a marijuana leaf?
Hemp that makes the cord
The pharaoh and his vizier stretch?
No, that cord is leather
But they have forgotten

Yet my builders know how to use
A hempen rope to move the slabs of rock
For I have taught them physics and geometry and engineering
I am the Lady of the Builders
Can my crown then be perhaps
A star, and the horns of the crescent moon
Although they look more like the horns of the Apis bull
Or a bow?

I am She of the Seven Horns, or She who Lays by the Two Horns
Nine is my number, yet
They do not know my name
For I am she who counts the stars
I am she who knows the Secrets
The Lady of Years
The Lady of Fate

I am she who writes the deeds of the world
Recording them forever in my library of wisdom

Many call me by many names
Some call me Oyá, and they bring me nine flowers, the color purple
Some call me lwa Ayizan, the female priest,
Who keeps the tradition with her palm leaves, as I do
Some call me St. Clare of Assisi, who was given a palm branch on Palm Sunday
Saint Therese of Lisieux, The Little Flower, who wrote much and loved flowers.

Golden they call me
Great of Magic
The Lady of Heaven
The Eye of RA—
As if we goddesses were all the same
As if they cannot remember our names

Nit, Au Set, Hat-Hor, Hekt and Wadjet are my sisters,
Makers of Magic: Secret, Hidden, the Mysteries
With Nit the Creatrix and Nekt-Hebt the Death Mother
I am Time, Existence, History, and Memory

Egypt lives because I remember
And I remember
I remember Who I am
I Remember My NAME

My pen is Eternity, my ink is Forever
As long as I remember Your name
You will live

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The above poem by Charlotte Babb has been reproduced here with kind permission from the author. Read Charlotte’s Seshat Lady of the Library at her Goddess Musings, part of her larger website FindAGoddess. Youl’ll find The Crones of Spring on the same page, also by Charlotte Babb.

And, for further background on Seshat, here are some interesting links:

Seshat – Wikipedia writeup

Seshat, Female Scribe

Symbols of Seshat

Seshat and the Blue Water Lily/Lotus of Egypt?

Word Deeds in the Temple

From the Shaman’s perspective, there is an ongoing struggle within each of us, and within each culture, between the Dark and the Light. Language is one of the places where this battle is ongoing. Each time we speak, we send forth psychic energy into the Temple of the World, creating Word Deeds. We are karmically responsible for our Word Deeds, in whatever days may yet be. But even now, as they pass through us into the world, our words – dark or light – burn their images into the walls of the Temples of our Selves.

“The Word is the most powerful tool we have as humans”
From Toltec Shaman Don Miguel Ruiz: The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom, A Toltec Wisdom Book.

In the Beginning Was the Word
God literally created the universe with the “Word” or Logos. This is an immense concept, taught to us in the origins of all the religions and legends of the world. The gift of language – shared by the Creator with Humanity – is an extraordinary gift indeed.

The use of language is an exercise of shamanic power. Poetry, spells, incantations, and mystical rituals all make use of the power of language. But we need to remind ourselves that in the “Practical Shamanism” of our daily lives we are casting spells whether we understand it or not.

The Word Deed
On the spiritual path, one of the first lessons we learn is that thoughts commence the formation of a deed; intentions change the thought to bring it one step closer to the completed deed. Words are the arrows that carry our thoughts and intentions out into the world where they become Word Deeds – psychic energy crystalized in matter.

…They say the Dark is jealous of the Light, and will try to steal from it…

How tempting it is, and what a habit it can become, to use slang, curse words, coarse mocking terms, and the burning acid of sarcasm. These forms of language were created in all cultures to direct the force of spirit against an adversary – to shame, distance, degrade, intimidate, and control others. People never forget – and seldom forgive – these words directed towards them. They leave lasting wounds scarring the fibers of the psyche and soul – manifesting ultimately in the body and life events of those against whom such negative shamanic power is directed. What this means is that we are able to literally “curse” another – whether we believe in “shamanism” or not.

In these moments, the Dark savors its triumph over the Light. And, in the great wisdom and justice of the Law, all that we have sent forth returns one day to our own harbour like a ship that carries the Plague. We will learn, from the grinding schoolroom of life, the bitter lessons that might so easily have been learned in spiritual cultivation. Our tears of anger and self-pity then will be another victory for the Dark over the Light.

So let us take responsibility for how we speak to and about others, as we send forth our Word Deeds into the Temple of the World.

Word Deeds in the Inner Temple
When we use language, creating “our spells” in the world, there is another law at work with an immediate “karmic” effect – another victory for the Dark over the Light. In our own, inner Temple our words pass as arrows of energy through our own beings on their way to our intended target. Harsh, angry, sarcastic, slang, and curse words act as electrical fields burning through our nervous systems, psyches and vocal cords long before they hurtle towards their target in the outer world. Packed with their negative vibrational payload, they sear us as they pass through us, carving harsh images into body, mind and soul. These form the tablets from which our karma will be read, but often karma is swift, as we experience physical and emotional damage from our angry, sarcastic or bitter volley of words.

And when we are alone, within the Temples of our selves, how do we talk to ourselves about ourselves? What words are we using when we "think" – which is silent speech – about our place in our own lives, our place in the world, in God's garden? We need to examine this inner dialogue, for it is "casting a spell" upon us and our lives as surely as if we had secured the assistance of a Shaman high in the mountains of Peru. In the new science of the brain – “neuroplasticity” we learn that as we talk to ourselves, we physically shape and reshape the living images of perception, meaning, and memory within our brain.

We share, with the Creator, the creative power of logos, of language. What does our side of the partnership sound like?

In our conscious Minds, and in our unconscious Minds, do we address ourselves in an ongoing monologue of contempt, disrespect, mockery, despair and disappointment? Or do we speak in calm tones of love, appreciation and creativity to the temples of our bodies, and the gardens of our lives?

©Carol Leigh Rice 2009