The Clearest Sea

 

It's such a loaded, dangerous term: clairvoyance. The art of clear seeing, like water from the rock. Clarity in an opaque world. Many people don't want to believe it's even possible, especially in this numb, excoriated culture. It makes them nervous, I suppose. That certain souls might be able to perceive things through extra-sensory means. Things that some men would rather remain hidden. Because we live in a world of surfaces and secrets, don't we? A world in which the threshold between the sign and the thing signified is becoming increasingly bizarre. We’ve lost touch with the sensations of rain. The sounds and rhythms of the river. And the sea.

But there have always been empaths, intuitives and seers. Those immersed in the inner waters. They’ve been both cherished and hunted all throughout human history. Not only in Yarden's ebb, or the shores of HaGalil. But by the elect of Rome, Greece, and oldest Egypt. These adepts of the gnosis are still invaluable even today. To occult societies, illegal black projects, and private defence contractors alike. We often call them remote viewers now, among other things. Telepaths and telekinetics. Those who can move and manipulate the electromagnetic spectrum in the subtlest of ways. Particles and polarities. Shadows, or light. Because water is indeed our eye, as the siren sang. Most faithful mirror.

These days we craft modern legends around such visionaries. Sensationalised perspectives, often presenting them as heroes or demigods. But reality is far darker and stranger than our fictions will usually allow. Such souls are often haunted. Not just by khemet ghosts, but by both trauma and tragedy. It can be a lonely life, so I'm told. But also one of wonder and incomparable mystery. Water from the rock, as I said. Of Peter or Paul. Simon's bright shadow falling upon the sick, and making them whole. Dear ones, do not fear the Fallen. Their throne is an abomination – and a lie. There is so much they still don't understand. We are wonders. All of us. Children of river and rain, stillness and storm. I myself am only an angel, a father of the lowlands. But my daughter has three faces. She is fate, and the sea. The clearest sea. Just know that I mean every word of this, and that I bid you love and wisdom on this day, my shining solstice miracle. 

The Spirit of the Season

 

A shining moment of birth can become an arena for politics and death in the wrong hands. Like salvation hung upon the tree, crucified between two thieves. Living water flowing from the rock during the resurrection of spring. But instead these are solstice hours, full of hidden depths. A season of both comfort and education. Hope, breaking through into our realm during the darkest time of the year. A new light witnessed by both the humble and the elect. Men often speak of a star existing in that dreamlike space between earth and heaven. Annunciation of the heart's deepest wisdom. We give our hearts to those who genuinely love us, if we're wise, returning the grace and favour in equal measure. From peasant to prince. This coming moment of birth lives mostly in our imaginations now. But, as the shepherds and the magi both recognised, history is only the shadow of things dreamt. And Man has always dreamt of salvation. So, if the star is even more real than our sciences can grasp, then tell me -- what else might be true?

Mirror, Mirror

 

Pride is a strange thing, both literally and figuratively. It can make us fall from great heights, turning angels into demons. Or it can lift us up, providing an expansion of self-worth and a widening of what’s possible. Because there are different kinds of pride, aren't there? There's the ugly kind of vanity that comes with delusion and entitlement. Seeing ourselves as better than others, through some imagined metric that’s in fact an overwhelming aversion to self-knowledge.

I mean, there are actual reasons that vampires hate looking into mirrors. It's not because they cannot reflect, but because the act of self-reflection is terrifying. They don't want to see themselves. They would rather be distracted with endless, shallow novelties. Insight implies growth, of course, and change. Monsters and mercenaries are terrified of that kind of internal evolution. If they never look, they never have to face themselves. Better to keep feeding on the weak with their own eyes firmly closed, right? But that's how the human spirit is corrupted. How the soul darkens, becoming a twisted mockery of itself. Wings of heavenly light slowly burnt away, until eventually a nightmarish, thoughtless creature stands in the angel's place.

Then there's the healthy kind of pride. The satisfaction of a job well done. The true insight that comes with facing your fear, or accomplishing a particularly difficult task. Watching as you slowly develop a skill through dedication and practice. That's the kind of pride that makes us brighter than we were, not darker. When we move through the world with courage, kindness and integrity we are honouring love as the highest language. None of us are perfect or without flaws, but when we can display genuine love for ourselves and others – that’s the true grammar and syntax of the soul. 

What I’m trying to say is that we should be warmed by other people’s successes, not threatened by them. Because those small victories mean the good guys are winning, if only for those brief moments. We remain human in an inhumane environment. We protect what’s important, and honour it. That's when we feel closest to our Maker, and to each other. When we’re moved by another’s good fortune, or their hard-won wisdom. In this way we treat others with the compassion and respect we ourselves hope for. Today as adults, but also back when we were children. We all wanted to be uplifted, delighted and inspired when we were young, didn’t we? Protected, guided and mentored by those who were bigger and stronger than us. That's when our pride is earned, I believe, and genuine. When we're not only unafraid to look ourselves in the mirror, but when we can truly look ourselves in the eye – and like what we see. Because then we don't find vampires or fallen angels reflected back at us. Instead we find heroes and heroines. Imperfect, perhaps. But courageous. And real.