Friday, 17 October 2008

This Wild Love

As I travelled back into London I was bringing the dislocated parts of myself together. Where would I find my Secret Garden in this city?

I arrive to the grand Arch and gateway of Paddington train Station. Made of metal, stone, wood. Fuelled with water and fire filled with sweat, steam and burning coal.

I remember my lost garden where upon plunging my hands into the black earth I was stung by a sleeping bumble bee. The devil had stolen my hands and I longed to feel the earth in my hands. Smell the soil under my nails seeking the crevasses, lines, creases, cracks and sores.

I smile to myself as I wish to find another platform 9 and 3/4. Perhaps if I squeeze myself small. Bound tight forgetting my full woman's body with her feet size 8 and her hands full and hairy [if seen on certain nights if lucky!] I say to myself ~ No that won't work. Never did work. Trying to believe those false words that pushed my skin and bones into a shape convenient. Manageable and tamed. Hair neatly shaved, cut, bleached and trimmed. A wild mad woman me...nah...that wasn't me....

I walk the concrete and stone ground unaware of whose bones lie underneath my feet. The skulls buried that once held life flowing with moment after moment after.

I remember the caresses of my lost love. As his fingers traced my contours that tracked pathways inside this heavy head.

The landscape of London constantly changing. Buildings going replaced with new. But the roads, streets, paths, lanes remain the same. They follow the same map. They keep the same names.

I feel lost. Landmarks holding memories going. A city of ghosts.

Yesterday I walked paths with a new friend - paths thick from shared laughter, tears, arguments, hello's and goodbyes, screams of joy and sorrow, songs sung with gusto from bellies full and strained from throats torn with liquid fire.

We walk over the bridge from the north to south. Deep in conversation. My words building hands lost to the devil.
My words grow to a new rhythm. My words build life. Creeping, running, stamping, tip toeing, jumping, leaping, crawling over the eyes, ears, mouth of London.

As I write this a group of young men/boys and women/girls are screaming, shouting and running, some with bikes, some with hoods up have chosen to bang my dustbin. It is an old style metal dustbin bright shiny and new and makes a wonderful loud sound. Crashing into the night. They have sharpened the sleepy dark night and man lit street. They reclaim this street as their own. The darkness creeping closer.

In their screams I hear a desire and longing to share the excitement of being alive. Bare and naked. No wonder ~ I think ~ they sometimes hide their faces. Theirs is a sound of hope. Singing with tongues that don't lie. The river runs loud in their veins. Some may call this ugly but I call this beauty. This wild love. These are forked tongues that cannot lie.

Now the street is empty and quiet. I understand the desire to walk bare foot in the city.

Saturday, 4 October 2008

The Black Sun

Adam McLean via

"We all have the capacity to experience the numinous, that which connects us with transcendent dimensions of reality that are beyond the ego and ordinary states of consciousness. When we are stuck in any arene of life, we can tap into inner realms that may guide us toward change and growth, toward new adaptations that are life serving, even life saving at times. These realms may include experience of the chthonic regions of the alchemists, of all world religions, and of the pagan dieties. And certainly not all contact with the numinous is pleasant or easy. For in contact with the numinous we encounter the opposites as well ~ the heavenly and hellish, the celestial and demonic, inner darkness, and processes of enlightenment. With such experience of the numinous may come activation in the psyche of unique guiding and protecting forces. Then we have the chance of discovering a fruitful relationship with psyche and psychoid. As we learn the way of the religious or transcendent function, life's very crises can bring us toward renewal.
Authentic relationship with darkness and unknowing usually brings about a shamanic death (the alchemical nigredo). It is not for the faint~hearted, and it's way beyond the ego's fantasies, attachments, or ideas of grandeur. It includes experiences of 'hell', as well as 'heaven', as we attempt to find optimal relationship with the flame. Jung found that a victory for the Self always included a defeat for the ego, an experience we are sure to have is seeking alchemical renewal.
Relating with this part of the psyche usually means that we must encounter feeling lost, bereft, or simply unable to go on the way we have been living. If we turn toward the psyche and psychoid during these spiritual crisis, we may find honest, humble way to discover this source of renewal. Crisis contains a fire capable of clearing the attitudes that blind us to mysteries, if we will but allow the reality of our inner death to the old ways. The dark night of the soul may then bring us into contact with the inner light that expands our mortal lives through connection with the eternal essence dwelling in each of us.
The need to be in contact with mystery, unknowningness, and darkness is as crucial to the soul's life as any gains in consciousness. What are gains in consciousness worth if we lose our rooting in the chaotic unknown, the erotic wilderness of the psyche that brings renewal of consciousness in the first place? Without experiential roots in the wilderness of psyche, we lose connection with the original living spirit that is the healer, the uniter of opposites of which Jung and the alchemists spoke."
Pregnant Darkness ~ Alchemy and the Rebirth of Consciousness by Monika Wikman. p xix~xx