September

As fields of green grass, cover my feet, I place nine rows of nine candles…surrounding a circle of nine candles not unlike the wheels of a bicycle. Flowers grow from the center, and more grow from the adjacent rows of nine for all paths congregate at the center. And the act of lighting these candles is enough to move the very fabric of the universe and all who conspire in that endeavor… they are sacred to my eyes and in the name of love for all who travel this road.

For many love and mindfulness arrive courtesy of September, the ninth month, the month of Virgo, the virgin queen. She is the month of shine courtesy of Vulcan, the god of fire and the forge. Vulcan may be at fault for the abundance of fire on earth in September… from the hearth to natural disasters such as volcanoes and the fires of industry, but most of all Volcans real work is burning off all the negative aspects of personalities and egos of humankind. We see this when Isis disguised as a maid takes a child into the hearth and holds it to the fire.

One must do diligence in this kind of work. Whether chasing angels in Appalachia, lighting St. Elmo’s fire on the open seas or painting the rainbow, one must be quick as Pan and stealth as Mercury. Still, other jobs require a special lightness to the touch and an understanding of symbols like Om with the silent syllable or Shiva dancing in a circle of flames. Everything points to something else and that is the true magic.   

So I am mindful of the sacred order of things in the cosmos, heaven, and earth. I feel like a thief in the night except I’m leaving more than I came with. Again that is the trick as I am the true jester bringing one to a deeper understanding of themselves by way of the true sorcery at the threshold of silliness which lies dormant within each of us until we wake it up with the keys to our imagination pressed firmly in our hands.

©jc2019-9

Dreams, the River and You

Sacred River, A Meditation  
The sun settling silently on the big muddy, grandfather of all rivers as thoughts come and go and we mourn and celebrate all that life offers. My sacred river, churning and turning the secrets of all born to its code. But someone forgot to tell the river that it’s secrets were not to be entrusted with the likes of ordinary men. So the Mississippi flows south on the compass of life, an open oyster for all the world to behold the failures and successes of untold thousands waiting to be witnessed… all in good time… all in good time.

The Mystic is Nine

“Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic” -Van Morrison

Find something, anything, which is so encompassing that in a given block of time it enthralls you to get lost together in unconsciousness. Such things are beyond space and time, it is bliss and one only questions the indignities of why when not doing this transcendent work. Indeed others drown in the waters the mystic swims in.

*Image by Pixabay

©jc2019-9 Happy New Year, ask and the numbers shall guide you.

  

Arianrhod

We began our romance deep within the confines of a world we conjured from the depths of our harmonious souls; a land of green pastures, thick forest; days of bright sunlight; afternoons of gentle rains and at nightfall, a celestial array whose radiance was only diminished by the luminosity emanating from my beloved. Call it Eden, Shangri-La, or Valhalla; we were its only inhabitants and the sole owners of all we felt for each other. The moat around our paradise was deep with swift currents, the bridge drawn and tied up, and no one dared to trespass who might take it away, for we were otherworldly and human prowess ceased to have any power here.