THE CLOSET MYSTIC

Magic is the power of creating our own omens —

we utilize living symbols to incur its likeness elsewhere.

There is no prayer God more gladly answers than a prayer for love.

The seed he will send from the heavens is best planted in the fertile soil of patience, however!

The study of archetype teaches us that the gods are beings beyond form brought into form to make themselves known to us, bound by form — they are signposts, gateways, a pointed finger towards the greater reality that those vessels — the forms — contain, which is the spiritual reality they hail from. The spirit is the water, the form is the pitcher. It’s easier for us to drink the spirit if it is placed in a vessel for us to sip from; however, that water can be placed in any number of pitchers or vessels of any number of potential shapes, sizes, and decorations. This is the study of universal archetype as I’ve come to understand it.

There is a reason why art is so commonly indistinguishable from the mystical. It is the imagination that dances the line between these two realms — the crude and the subtle, form and spirit, lower and higher. It is the imagination that is the birthplace of that child born from the union of those aforementioned polarities. That child’s name is archetype. However, we often place too distinct a barrier between our religious mysteries and our more… “secular” forms of art. Both source from the same well, from the same imaginal founts. They are the same beings dressed in different robes. The sacred contained within the secular is like Christ born in a manger — the holiest of holies is often found in the plainest of places (though our arts are anything but — I am merely commenting that there is divinity contained within that which we wouldn’t otherwise consider to contain it).

Though this will become tangential, this is the mystery of the Philosopher’s Stone — some believe that the Philosopher’s Stone is the recognition of the essence of the sacred within all things. It is the priceless contained in the freely available, infinite treasure that is omnipresent, right under our noses, right before our eyes, in this very moment now.

(I clarify that it is in this moment now because, so often, when we are speaking of the sacred, the divine, and the generally inspiring, we place it so far away. It is purely hypothetical, it is elsewhere, it is a mere idea to be entertained, to find brief enjoyment and appreciation for, but rarely do we snap out of our stupor and look right before us to see that it is literally here, in the now. Yes, this very moment is sacred; this very moment has the potential for bliss; every moment you have ever lived or will ever live has the potential for enlightenment, has the potential to be the very best moment of your life, every moment is full of the most sublime and sacred beauty of the universe. We must not place it elsewhere — the time is now and has always been now.)

So, then, the reason why I even began writing this piece, to go back to its original purpose, the idea that made me bolt up and run to my computer, is that when we discuss archetype as being forms that contain the sacred, we often point only to art. We often point only to mythology, to our stories, to print, to paint, to paper. How often, though, do we see the manifest universe as containing divinity? How often do we see ourselves as being able to put ourselves aside — kenosis, self-emptying, to become a receptacle for something higher — to give ourselves up to be overcome by something greater than us? Is this not the nature of inspiration? I am commenting on our ability as humans to, through great work, surrender, and the purifying of the soul, heart, and mind, resemble something similar to archetype. Be mindful that if you believe there is anything to astrology, you do already believe that this is happening — astrology as the basis of character, and astrology as holding the keys for the formation of the personality, necessarily implies that we, too, are living art forms, living receptacles and forms for Spirit to play itself through. We are a pawn for a Divine Idea or higher Hand to express itself through us. 

However, I do believe that we can gradually, through what can be considered the alchemical process, grow to express, and become a living vessel for, ever-higher spiritual potencies. I do believe this has similarities with Jung’s process of individuation, the discovery of the Self, your truest and innermost spiritual signature. Isn’t it fascinating that the goal of some spiritual traditions is in the loss of self, to surrender the I, the ego, and to realize the common unity/community of the Cosmos? Isn’t it fascinating that Jung’s process is seemingly dissimilar, in that instead of losing ourselves, we find ourselves — our truest selves?

Are these different, however? Do we truly know that they are different? Is it possible that we surrender one self to graduate into another self? It reminds me of this mantra I’ve heard in yoga practice: “Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the Self.” It is as if there are many selves to us — some “lower,” some “higher” — and we can lose, and die unto, the lower, to give birth to the higher. I am reminded of motherhood. The creation of life, and birth itself, can be both pleasure and pain — though the process of natural birth is necessarily excruciating. Life cannot be given without pain, without sacrifice. I believe the process of actual, physical birth itself is reminiscent of spiritual rebirth — it is often so extraordinarily hard and painful to die unto our lower self that contains our fears, our pains, our miseries, our sorrows, our ego, our avarice, our limiting beliefs — all that is antithetical to the virtues of that higher and greater Self contained within that sacred vessel of our hearts. However, the love, the joy, the ecstasy found after that painful death that is a birth and birth that is a death! As the Mother falls in love with her child, wiping away the agonies of her labors, so too will we fall in love with the Self that is given birth to after our personal agonies, after the great struggle of our personal Magnum Opus, our Great Work, and tears of pain within the blink of an eye become tears of joy. 

The Ouroboros, what a beautiful symbol, teaching us that the beginning is the end and the end is the beginning. Birth is death and death is birth.

oh, literature —

what are you?

what is this magic

this tingling sensation

feeling the spirit of a book

do you ever pick up a novel

and feel its heartbeat?

do you ever

feel your heartbeats sync?

does it ever speak to you,

beyond

the mere words on the page?

does a book ever feel more alive,

more teeming with vitality

than the supposedly-inanimate

should?

I can feel immortality in these words…

you are a receptacle for spirit.

the library is…

home to seances, channeling divinities,

a liquor store,

inebriating spirits at every turn,

graveyard and maternity ward,

dimensional gateway,

grimoires littering shelves,

spells teeming with potency,

thank you for feeding my mind,

my heart,

my soul.

God bless literature

what a gift it is

to be inspired

to be capable of inspiration,

the spirit vivified

by an idea

with a life

and soul

of its own —

is this not what separates us

from the base nature,

from the merely animal?

inspiration

is our encounter

with divinity.

there is nothing that feeds my soul more.

there is no trait

more attractive.

bring to me, bring to me the inspired,

inspiration gives the spirit wings —

inspiration concretizes the ideal —

inspiration is my North Star,

inspiration is what brings us

from surviving,

to living —

inspiration is the blazing Morningstar

found in novels,

found in the eyes of a true lover,

found in tracing your hands

along the bark of a Great Oak,

found in the hidden realms

of civilizations of bugs

crawling through what to them

is great forests

of grass blades

inspiration

is where we meet God,

in a way that atheists and theists

can agree upon

inspiration is the learning of a language

such that life’s cryptic scribblings

are suddenly intelligible

inspiration

is the beginning, middle, and end

of a meaningful life

and I will fight

till the day I die

to preserve that treasure

oh, heavens, sacred One —

grant me inspiration, feed me that nectar

let my heart pump not merely mortal blood,

but that golden ambrosia,

that makes my veins glow,

visible underneath the surface —

let me find those who glow,

Glow greater than me,

Let me follow them,

let me learn from them

nature, mother,

sing to my sorrow

a lullaby

put her into slumber

~

for she needs her beauty rest

and then when she awakes,

with the new day,

she will be born again,

and then her title

will be joy,

filled to the brim

with possibility,

wonder,

and awe

~

birdsong

whistling wind

rustling leaves,

nurse my pain.

your tears

be a solution of cleansing

let me wipe them away,

taking the stains of the past

too

you bring the nectar and ambrosia

of Olympus

into Hades.

traversing the subterranean

and encountering you

is discovering the Moon

has fallen from the heavens

and graced mankind

I’d tell you,

that I’d follow you into the dark —

but it appears

that the dark

is where we found each other

and I am glad for that —

stars don’t shine

in the daytime.

the contrast accentuates your luster

I allow myself to be so silly

That I’d already write a poem for you

…

But you are a jewel 

amongst the rough.

What a privilege

It is 

to even be in your presence

That in these downtown mines

Around the dull and drab rock

There is a glitter to be found

In your eyes

Those sparkling gems,

Inner radiance pouring forth

From a heart like gold.

Do you know

The other night

I laid down to sleep

And thought about you,

smiling?

I know how absurd this is,

But I cannot help it — 

You remind me

Of real beauty,

That it is a rarity

To be treasured.

You make me feel protective of you,

For I can feel the soft heart of compassion,

Misunderstood

But I see it — 

I feel it — 

And alarm bells go off,

Thinking of this world’s coldness.

Never let this world swallow its warmth — 

Say the word and I’ll protect it.

…

You remind me of the difference,

Between love and lust — 

For in hearing you speak,

I am overcome with the urge

To hold you.

For your vulnerability

Should be cradled.

I want to remind you

How beautiful it is

And undo the words

Of everyone 

who made you think otherwise.

…

To put it plainly,

I have a crush on you — 

You make my head spin,

Like those clock hands,

That somehow sped

Oh too quickly —

Conversation turning its gears

Blindingly fast — 

I want to feel your hands in mine

I want to look in your eyes as you confess

Those secrets held in your heart.

I want to show you love,

And I want to see you shine!

What is this mysterious force

Where my highest fantasy,

Is simply to hug you,

To feel your warmth,

Pointing to that warmth

Carried in your soul?

My hands know what to do — 

If I released my restraint,

They’d tuck your hair

behind your ear…

and the affection they’d give,

would be sign language,

spelling my admiration.

Pagan winds blow

My spirit is a didgeridoo

The whispers of wisdom

Blow into me and I become music

The Holy Breath

Sings into me and through me and I dance in accord in rhythm and in harmony

For I would give my life

For song

And I have!

I wish to dissolve as one part

I wish to take my place in the orchestra

Let me shake the hand of every musician 

Let me place my ear against their instrument

Let me study the movement of their fingers

Let me watch 

let me watch

Ah!

The music of wisdom

If this is like that

And that is like this

Then a life lived in song

Is a life lived in truth

Let all you do 

Contribute

To the great symphony

I wish to find beauty in pain

I wish to witness such beauty

That it is painful

Sanity,

Sanity,

Sanity!

I banish thee!

Can it — 

Can it — 

Can it.

I cannot stand it.

I’ll not hear another word,

Not one more

Come to me

Look at me

I can smell

Your jealousy

For you can see

That I am free

Do you seek

To imprison me?

To restrain me

With your barbed words?

Deadweight in your spittle

In your confining vitriol

SANITY

Its preservation

is the soul’s

Condemnation

Look at the sea

Feel the ever-shifting winds

If I am insane,

Then the elements are too.