Our birth is a question vast beings are asking; Our life is the eloquence of our guileless reply.
Category / Poetry
For the Good of My Angel
Dionysius the Areopagite in the 4th century pointed to nine distinct choirs of angels, each a level miraculously incomprehensible to the stage of Being just below it. And the guardian angels are only but the ‘lowest’ and closest to the humans of these nine…
Comfort Zone
World As Aroma
Molt
Root Chakra Malfunction
Tashmina’s Private Stroll
Etched In Every Cell
Tristan’s Insight
Paracelsus was the last natural healer, revered and loved by the common folk of many places in the late Middle Ages. Outcast and demonized because he did not undergo a traditional academic medical education, instead he wandered about from a young age observing the capacities of wild plants and earth substances via direct spiritual perception. He knew that poison and remedy were the same substance, differentiated only by a matter of dosage, and discerned the correct dose and preparations as if ‘demonically’.
Birthdays
This short reflection is four years old, already. But that season of the year has rolled round once more, and I’ve always liked the way this one turned out…
