The First Thought

 

Men speak often in limitations, and hierarchy. The highest and first. Or the lowest and last. But such assessments collapse in the nexus of true perception. What the seers have always recognised as the moment of creation, of conception. All become one in the eternal Womb of Mysteries. Past, present, and future, fused in the nonlinearity of divine understanding. The very architecture of spirit.  Such knowledge can defy death itself, and return a stilled heart to beating. Do you doubt it? As a supposed heretic, my words have always been feared and suppressed. Be that as it may. Nothing I write is original or unique. Many among the wisdom councils of the old world shared these insights too. Across all cultures, in all tongues. All forms of faith. Mankind was wise once. But those shining councils were shattered by the forces of darkness. Our histories rewritten. Our names and mantles twisted. But I still care enough to pen these epistles. To craft these visions. That we might become better sons and daughters. We are weak without the guidance and fair fortitude of our fathers, believe me. But we are nothing at all without the bloodied, embodied strength of our mothers.

I’ve seen the women I love face dismissal, oppression, and annihilation. Each one of them faced these horrors with their heads held high. So, as one whose letters were rewritten to serve the sinister politics of various dark priesthoods, I ask you – are we as tender with our wives and lovers as we were with our mothers as children? Do you recall those days when she gladly went without, so our own bellies might be full, and how she made no mention of it? Those days she broke bread with the men of her family, but always ate last, if at all? So many of the old stories were rewritten, burned, or hidden away beneath Rome’s dark magic. I remember. My brother remembers also. Hear me, Fallen. The Magi of the First Dreaming know all the legends. We wrote so many of them. As parables, guides, and literal truths now lost to modern comprehension. I shall tell one of those stories to you now.

A mother, eagerly awaiting her son’s return. A child no longer, but still a boy in her heart. Only sixteen years old. An incredible spring morning as they are finally reunited. Three days before Pesach. Her boy returned from six months in Kemet. So worldly, he thinks. So grown. With a gift brought back for her. A little wooden flower lovingly crafted from Egyptian acacia, fastened to a string of leather. He holds it to his lips as he whispers for it to bless her. That it might be filled with all the protection of HaShem. Then quietly he tells her, “First and last, my beloved Imma. Last and first.” For a moment, the boy fears she’ll see it as a child’s sweet foolishness. A silly talisman. Or even a dangerous blasphemy. But instead, her eyes glisten. She holds him tight whilst whispering gratitude, adored and humbled by her son’s care. The old scribes say she wears the Shem around her neck every day for nine years. Until one fateful evening, washing his garments when the light is dim, when thinning leather finally snaps, and she loses the cherished gift in the currents of the river. Some say Miryam weeps quietly all night. Others swear it is returned to her years later by those immortal ones who shine. But there are some who claim the boy himself dives each morning at sunrise near the river’s bend, for three weeks, until at last he finds the wooden Shem tangled in roots near the banks. Restored and returned to her, like a miracle. A moment of retrieval, and resurrection.

So, these are the stories of those who cherish. Whether fictions or fact. Mothers, fathers, daughters and sons. These are the ways of eternal mind. The Nous of the storytellers. That a boy once searched and found a sacred flower in the depths of river-water. For the honour of his mother. And then, years later as a man, in similar waters he found divine fire. From the holy fount of his Father.  I, as a supposed heretic, shan’t tell you what to believe. I’m just a messenger, after all. Neither king nor councillor, except in dreams. But there are greater kings beyond my dreaming. And a greater king. I know him as Love. Honoured, integral, and courageous. I’ve seen his hands craft both flowers and fathoms. In visions he spoke to me of brotherhood. He graced me with hope and forgave me my flaws. So, I must adore my neighbour. I must do kindness unto others, as kindness was done unto me.  Let me say all this in far simpler terms: love connects everything. And everyone. All time and space. First and last, beloved. Last and first.