posted February 24, 2006 11:28 AM         

thanks for sharing that, it's a beautiful way to explain soul mates on all levels. ...

posted February 24, 2006 12:18 PM         

I just finished his "Messages From The Masters".

I really liked the accounts of the patient's regression experiences,
but he editorializes a lot,
and I find his philosophies rather thin;
just a jumble of cliches and platitudes.

He should stick to what he's best at.
The world needs M.D.s and Ph.Ds to come forward and lend this stuff credibility.
When he lapses into new agey proselytism,
he scares away a solid portion of his audience.
There are plenty of authors who are highly capable, and specialized, in the art of comprehending and explaining metaphysical truths beautifully and concisely.
He should leave the philosophy to them,
and present his evidence unadorned;
then it might receive the serious attention it deserves.

Just my (unerring) opinion.

posted February 24, 2006 12:56 PM         

"...Before we continue any further, I think it's advisable to go back
a bit. Six months to be more or less exact. I think it's important to
give a picture of that first meeting, inasmuch as it precipitated
everything that came after. Much of it is still fresh in my mind, so I
think that my depiction will not be very far from the truth. In any
case, I will do my best to remember it as accurately as I can,
eschewing all unnecessary embellishment, and supplying everything of
the least importance. I'll begin with her; at the beginning.

She took the last stool and, turning parallel to the bar, propped the
corrugated soles of her boots on the rung of the stool beside her, so
that her knees provided both a convenient perch for her notebook,
which she removed tenderly from one pocket, and a discreet screen
between herself and the rest of the room.

Most people could not have avoided the conspicousness of such a
position, especially in so upscale a place as this; but with her it
was something different. Her manner was charismatic, both cheerful and
unassuming. Even setting herself in a kind of subtle opposition to
them, and notwithstanding the admittedly, confessedly, finer, more
delicate material of which she was made, still, she somehow managed to
blend seamlessly in with the rest of the crowd. Peering over the top
of her junior-sized notebook, biting the pen-cap in place of an
unprotected lower lip, she studied them each in turn, a look of
charming and unobtrusive curiosity on her very pretty, though strong,
young face. If she managed to catch their eyes, she just smiled
good-naturedly and went back to the page. The people didn't seem to
mind it a bit, but, rather, many of them appeared even flattered by
the attentions of so kind and beautiful a biographer as this.

When the bartender set down another glass of red wine, lowering it
crane-like, with palm acting as canopy, onto the countertop, she gave
him an amused look, head inclined almost entirely to one side, pensive
with admiration, as if to say, "even your most menial actions contain
a sublimity all their own," and her eyes continued to follow him
affectionately down the long length of the bar. Then, like an
in-breath pending an out-breath, they hung distractedly upon the ether, awaiting the prosaic transmutation of the muse, and fell lavishly back to the page, where her pen had already begun dutifully shaping the words.

Her hair was somewhat longer than shoulder length. Dirty blonde and
loose, and peppered with one or two tightly woven braids, it fell
uniformly enough until reaching the exaggerated shoulders of her black
winter coat, where it broke like water; scattered itself generously
among the folds. Her complexion was soft, more pale than pink, and
this lent her youthful countenance a gravity, a solemnity, already
suggested by the strong pronunciation of her brow and the sharp,
clever cut of her nose; - all of which might easily have become
alarming, had the general effect not been so artfully tempered by the
gentle ardor of her eyes and the childlike joie de vivre, which
communicated itself both subtly and effortlessly through the image of
all her multifarious aspects. Her lips were the sole heiresses and
proprietresses of a certain, exquisite shade of pink, much coveted,
and unsusceptible to the charms of reproduction. She had artist's
hands, which, though small, were thin and long and remarkably
well-proportioned. The fingers seemed barely to touch the objects of
their interest, and always moved with a touching, unconscious grace,
as if in response to some mysterious and dulcet invitation.

I was standing in the glass anteroom when I saw her; opposite the bar,
studying her fugitive profile, much obscured by the golden curtain of
her hair. At first, I was struck by the fact of a girl, a pretty girl,
sitting unescorted, and as comfortably as if she'd been curled up at
home in bed, writing in a notebook. Then I began to absorb something
altogether more of her. She was acutely sensitive; at least as acutely
sensitive to beauty and goodness as I myself was to ugliness and vice
- as though we were two sides of the same coin. Whereas I could only
distinguish what it was that I did not like, here was someone capable
of seeing, almost exclusively, it seemed, only what she most desired
to see. It seemed to me a fated meeting. This girl, I thought, might
be my salvation - provided I did not succeed in damning her first.

Having, at length, exhausted the aesthetic fertility of the room, she
turned her eyes toward me. I had been gazing pensively, abstractedly
at her just prior to this sudden development, and, when she
immediately caught my eyes, there seemed to be nothing left to do but
flounder innocently in the headlights. There was a flash of pleasant
surprise, then a mysterious kind of recognition, and genuine kindness
in her gaze. But, here was something strange. Her eyes, a lighter
blue, retained the same tenderness, the same intelligence, the same
sober emotionality, with none of the timid "modesty" of my own. In
beholding her there, I had unwittingly assumed the expression peculiar
to her; the beauty which she instinctively and habitually observed in
the outer world I had managed to glimpse in the luminous mirror of her
manner and her eyes, and, so, reflect, if only briefly, with my own.
It was as if I were looking into a mirror and, for the first time in
remembered history, finding myself looking back with a semblance of
admiration, respect, even affection. It was exhilarating.

For several incredible seconds, our eyes exchanged intimacies. Some
barely perceptible inflection in her gaze found instant compliment in
mine, and mine in hers. This subtle, yet sensational interplay went on
for a few brief moments, each of us responding instinctively to the
tacit ministrations of the other, revealing our common sensibilities;
the many and variegated aspects of our identities that found rapport.
At last, there was a suggestion of feminine warmth in her gaze.

I wasn't prepared for it; I looked away.

Maybe it was just humility, or the honest, albeit discouraging,
appraisal of my own worth, but I blushed, I crumbled, I looked away;
at the air, my clothes, my shoes, the landscape of the floor. She just
giggled. It seemed light-hearted, forgiving, and almost ironical in
nature, - as though she too had been impressed by the encounter, and
couldn't help but find comic the ensuing melodrama of my crippling
insecurity, - like the laughter of a child, effected by the clumsy and
desperate scrapings of an adorable puppy-dog.

Anyway, I was with my parents - waiting for them - and I couldn't go
back, though I would have liked to, and even felt that perhaps my
honor was somehow at stake. After shuffling awkwardly into the corner,
by the outside door, where she could no longer see me, and hanging my
head in a moment of silent shame, I hurried into the street and into
the back of a waiting car. I tried to look out the rear window, to
catch a last lingering glimpse of her, but it was plastered over with
snow and ice. And all I could make out was the fracturing penumbra of
an overhanging traffic light.

That's how I remember it. I apologize if I was a little verbose or
gaudy with my prose, but I'm no writer and I don't pretend to be. If
it resembles bad poetry, I have no excuse, but to say that the moment
struck me as poetic and that is how I thought to depict it. If I
failed, I failed, but I would rather fail in the depiction of the
extravagant truth, than succeed with some sparse and infertile
fiction. I just wanted to put it down, get it out of my head, and if I
can share it with you, dear reader, and if it pleases you to hear it,
that's more than I can hope. But, to resume our prior thread..."

posted February 24, 2006 12:59 PM         

I've been pretty unhappy and really disoriented by transiting Neptune, which is finally easing off a square to my Sun, but closing in again on my Venus, Midheaven and Uranus. I dont feel real, I dont know who I am, or where I fit. I gave up several bad habits after meeting Maya. I was really hopeful and optimistic about reinventing myself and changing my life. It was amazing how quickly I was able to get on track, with her support and encouragment. So plain was her devotion, that it took me totally by surprise when she cut off contact with me almost 2 months ago.

For the most part, I dont know how to feel. I'm a bit indignant with her for turning me out of her life so utterly, and with so little warning, but I'm trying to be understanding of how she must have been feeling. There was so much ambiguity in the relationship, so much I wasnt sure about (I haven't been myself in over a year thanks to Neptune) and I needed more time with her, but she got to me. I can't pretend that she didnt get to me.

I've never known anyone to be so tender, so gentle and sweet, and it seemed to me she had more romantic imagination in her pinky toe than most people have in their heart of hearts. She brought a very real spirit of magic into my life that wasnt there before, and isnt there now. She has this friendly, sunny vibrancy to her, and she's so cute and charming, you cant help but be taken in, and practically slayed by her every other moment you're with her. Just when you think she might be manic, she slows down to acknowledge your mortal misgivings, speaks to you in the most grounded, matter of fact, tone of voice, and assures you that, whatever it is, she has already considered it, and here's how it breaks down, so, you see, there's simply no reason to worry.

She's extremely sensible and intuitive. Part of the inadequacy I feel, is the suspicion that she left because I wasnt intuitive and evolved enough to grasp in time what was, to her, the plain truth of who we are and how we fit together. Maybe she was my soul mate, and I wasnt up to the challenge of knowing her. Or maybe she tried to rush me. Maybe we didnt really fit at all.

Now I may never know. And thats also disorienting; not knowing how to view the relationship. Was it the best or worst thing that almost happened to me? Is there something I could have or should have done or said? Do I know myself well enough to know who's right for me? Its just surreal, not knowing about her, and always wondering what might have been. And missing her.

posted February 24, 2006 01:01 PM         

Here, in the card of the King of Cups, we meet the active, dynamic dimension of water, which overtly seeks to form relationships and even to guide and help others. This is embodied in the mythic figure of Orpheus, the singer, who was both priest and healer, yet whose own story is sad and lonely although he brought comfort to his fellows. Orpheus was the son of the Thracian King Oeagrus and the Muse Calliope, and he was the most famous poet and musician who ever lived. Apollo presented him with a lyre and the Muses taught him its use, so that he not only enchanted the wild beasts, but made even the trees and rocks move from their places to follow the sound of his music. He joined the Argoanauts on their quest for the Golden Fleece, and his music helped them to overcome many difficulties. On his return, he married Eurydice, and settled in Thrace.

But his life was not destined to be happy. One day a man tried to assault Eurydice in the valley of the River Peneius, and she trod on a serpent as she fled and died of its bite. But Orpheus boldly descended into the underworld, hoping to fetch her back. He not only charmed the ferryman Charon, the three-headed dog, Cerberus and the three Judges of the Dead with his plaintive music, but temporarily suspended the tortures of the damned, and so far soothed the dark heart of Hades that he won leave to restore Eurydice to the upper world. But Hades made one condition: that Orpheus might not look behind him until she was safely back in the light of the sun. Eurydice followed Orpheus up through the dark passages, guided by the sound of his lyre. But at the last moment he lost his trust, and looked back to see whether she was still there, and so he lost her forever.

After this Orpheus took up the role of a priest, teaching the mysteries and preaching the evil of sacrificial murder to the men of Thrace. But the god Dionysos grew jealous of him because his fame spread and men began to worship him as though he were divine. The god set his mad maenads upon Orpheus, and they tore him to pieces in their frenzy. The Muses tearfully collected his limbs and buried them at the foot of Mount Olympus, where the nightingales now sing more sweetly than anywhere else in the world.

Orpheus, the King of Cups, is an image of the wounded healer, the figure who through compassion and empathy can heal others yet who cannot heal his own hurt in the realm of the heart. In many ways he is the ancient equivalent of many modern social workers and psychotherapists-- the individual who longs to be in touch with the world of feeling, and tries constantly to help others to relate, yet who sometimes lacks trust in his or her own personal life and therfore cannot ultimately achieve the fulfililng relationship which is so desired. The King of Cups places human relationship and human love above everything, and will go to great lengths to initiate and preserve this emotional contact. Yet he remains curiously uncomfortable, and must keep looking back to see whether what he has initiated is still behind him, still intact. Thus he often loses the very thing which he most desires. This figure is deeply paradoxical, as though the element of water-- which is in many ways an image of the feminine world of feeling--sits uncomfortably with the masculine and dynamic image of the King. The two are awkward together, and create a strange ambivalence. The King of Cups is a moody and sensitive figure, and often gifted with great depth of feeling and a rare gift at communicating that feeling to affect and influence others. But this is the relationship of performer to audience. He himself never quite relinquishes control. It is for this reason that Dionysos' maenads, the crowd of ecstatic women who follow in the god's train, dismember him, for in a sense he must first be powerless and metaphorically torn to pieces before he can be something other than the wise counsellor to other people's pain. Orpheus himself has no real fulfillment in life, having forfeited his own chance of personal happiness thorugh his mistrust of Hades' word. This in itself tells us a good deal about the King of Cups, for although he may initiate relationship and talk constantly of it, he does not ultimately trust the world of the unconscious, which he cannot see. Thus he is enthroned near the water, but cannot submerge himself in it, for he fears the drowning which letting go to another might entail.

When the King of Cups appears in a spread, it is time for the individual to experience this amivalent side of himself or herself--the gifted counsellor and healer who can empathize with and help others, yet who cannot quite trust life enough to take its course. It is characteristc that many of those in the helping professions choose such a vocation because they have been wounded though personal relationships, often those with the parents, and thus they form relationships where they remain ultimately in control and cannot be that deeply hurt again. Although this kind of dynamic may contribute a great deal to others, one cheats oneself. If the King of Cups enters the individuals's life in the form of a person who embodies these qualities, then this may be taken as an indication that it is time to meet this dimension of oneself.

posted February 25, 2006 04:14 PM         

You've been missed.

Hi, Li(s)a!

posted February 25, 2006 10:42 PM         

You dont think it went awry?

Perhaps you're right.

Perhaps it was all that it was ever meant to be,
and all that it ever could have been.

posted February 26, 2006 12:08 AM         

and I think that because you allowed her to remain that way, a part of her beauty will always reside in you to help you grow toward the vision of salvation you saw in her eyes.
It was everything that you felt it was... and always will be.

posted February 26, 2006 09:48 AM         

Thank you.

Its a truly beautiful thought.

And I think you must be right.

She sparked something,
she re-lit my heart's flame,
and I'll continue to carry a torch,
if not for her, then, as you said,
for the vision of salvation I glimpsed in her eyes.

Even that one look from her was enough to bring hope back into my life.

I may be doomed to eventual disappointment,
but I'm determined not to miss another chance ("to dance along the light of day").

posted February 26, 2006 11:32 PM         

I read a book series when I was a child about a group of friends, adventurers, who each followed thier own paths. The character that always stuck most in my mind was Raistlin, an intelligent and deep young man who found power in the study of magic. Raistlin studied magic with a bitter heart, and the series followed him throughout his life as he grew in power. For each level of power, there was a price. He eventually came to a point where his acquisition of power without reverence cost him his eyes. His pupils were replaced with black hourglasses. From then on when he looked upon anything, he would see it dying. He continued to try to grow in magic away from the Source, choosing not to join with God, but to BECOME his own separate "god," filling himself with the Knowledge of the Black Robes.
As he progressed toward his goal he had to walk past his brother, a physically but not mentally strong warrior who had always protected him, and eventually step over the fallen white priestess who had loved him. The "true" power was within his grasp and he could not stop. He got what he wanted, to become a god... and he finally separated himself from God/The Universe (OneSong) completely. The final book ends as he finds himself completely and utterly alone... with only the vastness of deep dark nothing/void all around him making him feel smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller...
I have met a handful of very intelligent men in my life who have described their vision in a similar way, and it always reminds me of this character.
I think the key lies in soaking up the beauty of nature and life rather than immersing the self in art/music/literature that speaks to the soul about the ugliest aspects of humanity. There is magic and beauty in a vegetable garden... and there is magic and beauty in the path you have taken up to this point. It all works towards good, whether it be in this life or the next... If you want it this life, you will have it.
And as my "Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy"'s entry for today quotes:

"If the only prayer you say in your life is 'thank you,' that would be enough."

posted February 27, 2006 06:50 AM         

I think I've read the first book of this series years ago. Didn't come across the other books in time or something, so I didn't find out what happened to them. It looked that Raistlin was going to that direction. Sad, really. Even more sad that isn't just in the books.

posted February 28, 2006 12:20 AM         

And I want to clarify that I wasn't directing the last part specifically to HSC. His entire encounter reminded me of a past encounter of my own...