Last night was going to be the night I make my next formal attempt to scale the Holy Mountain. Self work that I thought was going to be just a couple nights of wishful thinking and patting myself on the back for being so daring and explorative had turned into weeks of rescuing my shattered and forgotten soul pieces from the past, present, and implied threats from the future.
I had forgotten all about ascending the Holy Mountain, to be honest, as another desire arose with the recovered pieces to take priority over the expression of pride I had mistaken for progress.
Unity. Continue reading “Spirit Journal: 2017-04-15.01”
I understand now that neither Will nor Knowledge will get me past the flames. The answer is Desire and the lust must be for Union.
If I give up, nothing really changes. This is a Bastard Path anyway and none of this is “real”.
If I persist, if I ascend the Holy Mountain past that point, I will be altered yet again, and by a process that terrifies me.
I haven’t decided yet.
I brushed my hair backwards after washing it last night. After years of setting the pinch-short afro to orient forward, while discussing certain events with Dter, I brushed it backwards and set it without realizing what I had done. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2017-01-12.01”
I usually avoid listening/watching recordings of rituals, because historically, such recordings make me feel… uncomfortable. Maybe I pick up on spiritual echoes that ring me like a tuning fork. Maybe the years of shit I have survived and intentionally forgotten resonate in the mental caverns where my fear lairs. Maybe my lack of self-esteem made me feel dirty for watching undoubtedly genuine experiences that I did not have a right to observe, even though they were released explicitly to be observed.
I took a risk, and listened to an audio recording of a specific ritual that was published explicitly to be listened to at minimum, and to participate along with as standard. (What the fuck is time to spirits, amirite?)
Spoiler: I came out okay. Invigorated, even. Continue reading “Journal: 2017-01-05.02”
Spirits: You need to learn The Thing.
Ancestors: The Thing is a good way to interface with us.
Random Divination: The Thing is mutually pluggable with you.
Rummer John: You know what would help? The Thing.
OG: I’m inserting myself into your life explicitly to participate with The Thing.
Friends: We could see you being all in The Thing.
Me: There is no one to help me into the pool. I don’t know how to find The Thing, how to learn The Thing, or who I could scrape trust to even begin to learn The Thing. And even if I could begin with The Thing, what the hell am I going to do with it?
Fam: Hey Keri, what’s this shit on me?
Me: It looks like The Thing, smells like The Thing, and tastes like The Thing. If only I knew The Thing and could directly help deal with this shit.
Once upon a Christian faith, I was the hand-drummer for the church band. Couldn’t swing a drumstick without hitting myself in the eye, but I could make a djembe weep. The church band did not seek adding a hand drum as part of the permanent set, viewing such instruments with a barely concealed suspicion. (It didn’t help that the former hand-drummer floated an ego about her skill that make the djembe look small.) But faith moves mountains, the congos and djembe moved people, and the pastors were quick to capitalize on that. Continue reading “Dream Journal: The Drum Waits”
Doing some light reading and coming across multiple references to St. Cyprian again. While I expect to find references with that book and that author, it has been a crescendo of unexpected references this past month to the point where I am about ready to defenestrate the next person, place, or thing, that makes another reference. “That shit is all fine and good”, I mutter, “but I’m fucking apostate. Doesn’t that disqualify me?” Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2016-12-03.01”
I don’t know where it came from. Don’t know what bundle it fell from. Don’t know whose hand had cut it. Don’t know what plant had sprung it. Don’t know why it was there.
But there it was, in the middle of the hall, right in the middle of my path where I had walked not even five minutes before without the obstruction being present.
It wasn’t much of an obstruction.
Just a stick, really.
The length of my hand from tip of the middle finger to a few knuckle lengths past the wrist. As thin as my pinky and just as (not) straight.
One end had been cleanly cut through a knot in the branch not too long before I found it. The other end had been snapped in between sprouts of twigs.
Just a cast off stick that fit so very neatly and playfully in my hand.
I had picked it up with initial intention to discard it because some of the residents are light enough and uncoordinated enough that stepping on the stick posed a very real hazard. But as I carried it down the hall towards the first available trashcan (in the bathroom), I found my heading altered into my office. Where I promptly placed the stick in my purse.
Don’t know why.
I guess we’ll see.
Hail Mary, Queen of Heaven.
Holy Light, cloaked with stars.
Sustaining Love that warms fading embers.
Hail Mary, Queen of Sorrow.
Holy Tears that purify the waters.
Mourning hands washing my heart clean.
Hail Mary, Queen of Hope.
Holy Mother, holding my hand.
Sweet encouragement lifting me with the sunrise.
“Om mani padme hum.”
Sometimes on my meditations, I slip sideways instead of staying in my own head. I’m still not able to hold position with a completely “empty” mind as my thoughts run off in every conceivable (and inconceivable) direction immediately. Focusing on the breath does help, but focusing on a mantra brings my attention to a singular point.
For a while at least. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2016-11-19.01”