Feminist Frame – for Samantha
I have no time for women
who stay thin for their men
for the approval of shop clerks
for the images offerd by Vogue
for the dark envy of their friends
for the torturing maintenance of
a body
they might have had a fifteen
for the stifling despair of growing
larger
and wondering if they’ll be despised.
I have no time for women
who spend their lives counting calories
munching greens like dull spring
cows
women who waste away their lives
thin sticks of despair
quietly haunted
unripened
afraid to become something
beyond a thin body frame.
Thin women
turning into whispers
lingering
between grim lives
serving themselves up as images
for the greedy eyes of others
Shadow women
who repress their sublimity
deny their codes of power
become martyrs to the cause of slavery.
Quiet termites
hidden from daylight
inventing the architecture of destruction.
The women I have time for
are clear and unbounded
centred in their struggle of becoming
embracing the nourishment of days.
Whether fat or thin
their aim is to occupy space
serving up their passion
to be themselves
their ultimate appetite
their great hunger
is to be more
more always
themselves.
What is an Oracle?
In antiquity, an Oracle was
a place or ritual through which deities were consulted through the medium
of a priestess for advice or prophecy to receive a“ divine announcement”.(1)
Today, using the oracular power of ancient systems creates the kind of
personal power we need to become sovereign, self-determining, discerning
cartographers of our own life.(2) When we use oracles for guidance we no
longer depend on the status quo but take our lead from the energy of authentic
knowing available in the deep mirror of the Self.(3) We create
links from our own strands of knowing consciousness to the ancient strands
of collective consciousness.
In this paper, I will describe
three different oracles, the Tarot, the Viking Runes and the I Ching. I
will discuss their origins and modes of application to the art of divining
and focus on their generative role as tools for self-development and personal
transformation.
What are Oracles for?
Oracles answer our questions and calm our doubts by facilitating our seeing into the patterns of self/life/Self. By working with oracles, we learn to activate skilful will and discern our potential futures among present choices and decisions. Oracles teach us that life does not necessarily “happen” to us, but rather we make it “happen” through our conscious/ unconscious choice making.
We begin the work by getting in touch with the knowing Self. Using ancient oracles as tools for seeing more clearly, we can make contact with our innate essence. The Latin word mirari, from which our word for mirror derives, means to look in wonder. Oracles, as instruments of wonder, function as mirrors precisely because they reflect the ways we connect to the wonder in our lives. This inner knowledge assists us in anchoring useful structures for developing our true human potential and midwifing a more conscious humanity. In these challenging times, the feminine ray holds sway; there is an urgent need for all of us to re-balance our personal power and work more consciously on personal transformation.
By garnering personal power, we can discover and recover new ways of being while more clearly understanding the radical discontinuity of our lives within the context of emergent new forms. In these changing times, personal sovereignty is an important new paradigm within which I learn to read my own life and determine its the shape by making autonomous, informed choices. I become a change agent as I learn to wield the freedom of self- actualization. I determine how to sculpt my life by unchaining myself from outdated traditions and expectations.
This work is fully represented in the Tarot card of the Hierophant (VI) where the pressure of conventional, (patriarchal-dominator type) morality stands between us and our true feelings and beliefs. Our work, in these changing times, is to remain awake and use our awareness to increase our developmental ability to expand our spiritual sensoria. In this sense, I define spirituality as the conscious and intentional actualization of personal power and vision, within the context of community.
The Work of Oracles
How do oracles contribute to focussing personal sovereignty and community awareness? When we turn to an oracle, we are attempting to get a picture of the true now by glimpsing the subjectively interpreted energy patterns that inform our life. We consult oracles because life is flow and change and the arbitrary patterns of its complex flux are beyond the range of our ordinary conscious abilities and immediate understanding.
Yet, everything happens in the true present. Oracles provide us with a way of momentarily stopping the flow so we can glimpse the shape of the momentary pattern. It is like freezing the frame of a movie. Operating through chance, oracles reveal our synchronous connection to motifs influencing our life: this holonomic perspective is very ancient. A formal description of the holographic universe is found in the 2nd century Buddhist Avatamska Sutra:
In the heaven of Indra there is said to be a network of pearls, so arranged that if you look at one you see all the others reflected in it, and if you move in any part of it, you set off the sound of bells that ring through every part of the network, through every part of reality. In the same way each person, each object in the world is not merely itself but involves every other person and object and, in fact, on one level is every other person an object.
Article:
Writing Rituals
by Isabella Colalillo Kates
©l999
Ideas arrive like lightning. I scrawl
them down on any scrap of paper -- envelopes are my favourite---squeezing
tiny words into corners, around edges; whatever it takes to get it all
down. Rough drafts travel with me, go into to do folders, patiently wait
for me to revisit, polish, shape and knead them into elegance. Like rain
on a wet pavement these first drafts represent the captured body of the
idea, the energy of the mental brainstorm.
The editing stages bring me to a
series of repeatable rituals.
Editing is performance the way the first drafts are early rehearsals. For a performance we dress up, become careful about our movements: Put on a different awareness. So too with editing. Editing rituals create new forms cocooned in a kind of sacred time and space. As I read over the first draft--scribbled hastily, weary of waiting, I feel a hum of excitement in my belly, a dancing feeling in my hands. I run around gathering friendly pens, pencils, reams of scrap paper--everything I need to create.
Like an old friend, my early drafts demand quality time, conscious, attentive time. I clear a physical space--often the kitchen table, (wooden, round, peachy salmon) where the soothing, watery sound of the turtle tank acts like white noise enhancing concentration. In spring and summer, I like my outside garden table, (metal, round, green and purple) surrounded by gentle wind and greenery. Sometimes my bed: I arrange cushions and my portable lap desk near the flowering plants by the window-- geraniums, orchids, the double red hibiscus blooms always a surprise. I love sunlight or tempered lamplight.
Before settling in with the manuscript I prepare tea--Ceylon brown with honey--in a large enough bowl so I still have a sip or two after an hour of concentrated work. I never answer the phone. I hide from people. After reading the first draft, my hand, almost immediately begins to scribble a second draft, using one of the blue, pink, green or magenta ink pens—it is always a pen that flows easily, allowing pen and mind to be in synch--marking changes, deleting, adding words re-shaping phrases, reconnecting as I work with earlier drafts. As the work progresses, I carefully number each new draft. Final drafts accompany me to the computer-- the final ritual.
Before sitting down to write, I consciously organize everything -- my outer workspace needs to be attractive-- not Zen, but harmonious, uncluttered; my inner space relaxed, calm, nourishing. Above all I need quiet, so I can hear the symphonic innerflow of words, ideas, changes. While writing, I may stop to sip tea (in the wild old days, it used to be coffee and burning cigarettes). Each sip purposefully extending the mindspace. The pause serves to connect me to the inner flow of sculpting changes.
Someone once told me that good writing sounds like good speaking-- I spend protracted time with changing drafts to achieve this effortless form; stop only when I’m mentally tired. Sometimes I write for only a few hours, sometimes more than four or five without a break. In this altered state, I can’t understand what someone is saying to me: a speaker is like a dim shadow in my awareness. Usually it takes several minutes for me to hear and understand what the voice might be saying and for me to acknowledge its separate presence. More often than not, I fail to acknowledge a speaker and later, during a sip stop, I recall that someone tried to speak to me.
I always craft drafts with a pen. This low-tech act connects mind, hand, imagination and ideas in a way that the computer keyboard can’t. At least not for me. The sensual flow of ink on paper, the scripting shape of my own energy shaping letters and words thrills me. In these early manuscripts (literally: hand written) I see and feel the written word in all its glorious messiness and idiosyncratic beauty. Handwritten manuscripts go into carefully titled, coloured folders that in time accompany me on the final ritual at the computer desk.
While polishing early drafts, I may sit yoga posture on my bed (cross-legged, back bent slightly forward to the page), or if in my kitchen, I chose my rocking chair. Yes, now that I think about it, the rocking chair is my favorite writing chair.
The Dream Master
by Isabella C. Katz
©1992
I
Night was falling. Da-Avid
looked up from the Dreamcards lying on the tabletop, their roundness reflected
in the polished amber wood of the desk. His serene face contemplated the
coming Hour of Silence. From the west window of his hilltop house he could
see the night's slow fingers peeling away the orange light from the city
and pushing it into the tree crested hills. Cupolas, rooftops and turrets
were bronzed in fiery light. Da-Avid's brooding eyes drank in the twilight
splendour. Even in these times signalling new Troubles, sunsets always
lifted up his soul. Suddenly, the shrill shriek of a trumpet sounded from
the closest minaret followed by a mad pealing of bells announcing the beginning
of the Hour of Silence. The whole city stopped to contemplate, before moving
into evening activities: a very ancient practice of the city of Tropis.
Da-Avid stood in a tall thin silhouette against the falling light. Only a slight, unconscious twitch on his cheek betrayed the deeper play of tension buffeting the sea of his mind. He turned away as the dying rays hit the windowpanes. Returning to his cards he began to shuffle them absent-mindedly in preparation for his hour of contemplation. A card slipped through his fingers, and as he bent over to retrieve it, he felt the gentle ripple of a scented breeze around his ears. A nebulous face floated through the thickening shadows --a shedè spirit. As she came near, her smiling lips transformed into a grimace: eyes wild with terror. The apparition vanished, replaced by a shimmering blue moth. Da-Avid turned on a lamp and the moth became a note of music filling the room with a strange melody. A lulling drowsiness brought on by the bizarre chimeras overcame him.
An abrupt knock at the door of his study startled him. He straightened his shoulders and coughed as if caught in a compromising moment. Who could it be? How could his servants think of disturbing him during the Hour of Silence? A quiver of annoyance crossed his face as he opened the door. In the hallway a short, balding man bowed from the waist like a dancer about to begin a dance. The intruder was dressed in a forest green body suit with a loose, dark jacket held at the waist by a thick, leather belt. Loops of rough rope hung from his right hip on a silver belt hook. His gray climbing boots were made of some kind of synthetic skin. Da-Avid's penetrating stare did not faze him. The stranger’s blue eyes flickered like lanterns into the deepening shadows. Da-Avid felt an uneasy queasiness and thought of summoning his servants to have the intruder removed. How did he get past security?
Danger danced around the stranger
though he didn’t feel dangerous. And there was something familiar in the
man's glance. What was it? Something known, now forgotten. A troubling
fog straddled Da-Avid’s mind. Like an animal blinded by sunlight, he groped
in the core of his consciousness. Why did this hapless man seem so damn
familiar? Where did he know him from.?...A dream perhaps? And
just as he was about to close in on the thread of memory, a dejà-vu
overpowered his thoughts dissolving as quickly as it had come. Da-Avid
grappled with a renewed sense of confusion. Outwardly, he continued to
scan the ominous visitor, searching for signs of his mission. He called
on his training as Dream Master to penetrate the man’s psyche.
"Help me!" shrieked the wretched
creature, cold eyes glowing a deep sea blue.
Story: The
Two Kings
by Isabella Colalillo Kates
©l996
(Why magazine Winter 1997)
For many years, Esarhaddon, the king of Assyria waged war on King Laile’s kingdom. Eventually his stronger armies pillaged and burned all of Laile’s cities taking many prisoners, including the king. Esarhaddon had them put into cages and sent to his darkest dungeons.
One night, Esarhaddon lay in bed thinking of how he would execute Laile, when he heard a soft rustling. Before him stood an old man with a long white beard and gentle eyes.
“You’re thinking about killing Laile.”
“Yes, but I can’t decide the best
way to do it.”
“But you are Laile.”
“That’s not true, said Esarhaddon,
“I am myself and Laile is Laile.”
“You and Laile are one and same
person; it only seems that you and he are different.
“Seems? How can that be when I am
here in my comfortable bed surrounded by obedient slaves while Laile sits
in a cage waiting to die.”
“You can’t destroy his life.”
“And what of the thousand warriors
I‘ve killed? They’re dead and I am alive. I can destroy life!”
“How do you know they are not still
alive?”
“Because I saw them tortured and
die. Nothing happened to me.”
“This too seems true to you; in
fact, you tortured yourself not them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Would you like to understand?”
“I would,” said Esarhaddon.
The old man beckoned. Esarhaddon walked over to a large basin of water.
“Now, he said, holding a jug of water,
“when I start pouring this water submerge your head in the basin.”
Esarhaddon did so, and the old man
began slowly pouring water over the king’s head. No sooner was Esarhaddon’s
head underwater than he felt he was someone else. As the other man,
he saw himself on a luxurious bed. A beautiful woman whom he knew
was his wife, though he’d never before seen her, was telling him to get
up.
“My dear husband Laile, you’ve overslept.
Rise quickly and go to the princes who wait to speak with you.”
At once, Esarhaddon understood he
was Laile and wondered why he hadn’t known this before.
He dressed and went to the great
hall to meet the princes. The oldest prince began to speak about the wicked
king Esarhaddon; urging Laile to wage war to revenge, his vile neighbour’s
many affronts.
Disagreeing, Laile ordered emissaries to be sent to the evil king with offers of peace. After a month, his ambassador returned with missing noses and ears and a message that the same thing would happen to Laile unless he sent Esarhaddon a large tribute of precious metals and rare cypress wood, at once. Laile took counsel with his princes and decided to wage war against his heartless neighbour.
Leading his troops, Laile rode out to meet Esarhaddon’s army. On the eighth day, Laile’s warriors fought bravely but were soon overcome by Esarhaddon’s larger forces. A wounded Laile was taken prisoner. After a long march he arrived in Nineveh and was put in a cage. He suffered more from his powerless rage than his wounds and hunger. Stubbornly, he resolved to deprive his enemy of the joy of watching his pain and humiliation. Day after day, silently awaiting his own execution, he watched as friends and relatives were led to death.
One morning, executioners bound his hands and took him out to the gory execution site. He saw the bloodstained stakes where his friends’ bodies had been impaled. When they stripped him and lifted up his scrawny body towards the sharp stake he cried out for mercy despite his resolve to die courageously.
A frightened Esarhaddon lifted his
head out of the water, “This is impossible; I am not Laile. This is only
a dream!”
“You are both Laile and Esarhaddon”,
repeated the old man, still pouring out water.
“Oh how long I have suffered!” wailed
Esarhaddon
“Long? You have only been
underwater for a few minutes,” said the old man. “Look, there is still
water in my jug.”
Esarhaddon’s eyes filled with terror.
“Do you understand now? asked the old man. “The warriors you killed and Laile are you, and you are them. You thought life was in you alone but I have shown you the thin veil of delusion. Whenever you did evil to others, human or beast, you hurt yourself. Life is one and is in everything. You are only a small particle of this one life and can only make life better by loving others. Those you have slain have simply disappeared from before your eyes. You don’t have the power to destroy life, only its forms. And you can’t prolong your own life at the expense of others, for life has neither time nor space. The life of one moment and the life of a thousand years are one. So, all life, seen and unseen is one: All else is illusion.”
Then the old man vanished.
In the morning, Esarhaddon freed
Laile and the other prisoners. The next day, after handing over his kingdom
to his daughter, he went to the wilderness to meditate on his experience.
The end
Image is
by Nicholas Roerich
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