Nothing marks transitions better than birthdays and the beginning of a new year. Of course these are modern markers of a somewhat artificial nature considering that a new year was formerly celebrated at spring equinox. We’ve lost that connection to our place in the universe. Our rhythms feel artificial. Few honor the cycles of the seasons, the phases of the moon, the farming cycle, or our own interconnectedness to everything. We act as spoiled children in the garden of paradise still. And in my own garden of paradise, the Serpent has been spotted again.
Transition time once more. A powerful solstice revealed much and portends more. The cycle of the seasons for illumination has come round again. Yet at every still moment tears stream down my face without content or judgment. Everything has broken. There is a rift in the space time continuum. There is a rent in the veil. The rawness and tenderness of a body whose muscles have been stripped from the bone is a time of being buried deep within the earth to let the meat rot and fertilize the soil. Die before you die is the chorus to the mystery school song.
Just outside the realm of intellect is a knowing – an informing companion. Yet even a mystic cannot control the process. The pain, sadness, and loneliness weigh heavily. There is no illusion when confronted directly with Truth. Waiting in the void with no sense of time, passage, or movement. One knows. One waits. One feels.