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skepticaloccultist · 4 years

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The Mirror of the Landscape

I thought I would offer this article on landscape magic from the first issue of FOLKWITCH as a public offering this Solstice. May the sun burn bright and the bonfires burn brighter on the hills of your ancestors.

"The Mirror of the Landscape" Eldred Wormwood

The realm of the witch is defined by their interactions with that natural world in which they exist. From the dawn of mankind’s attempts to harness the power of magic we have relied on the subtle web of our interactions with the world “beyond the veil.” That mirror of the landscape in which we read our fortunes and prophecy our circumstance.

Yet little direct attention has been paid to the role that the landscape plays in the practice of witchcraft in the annals of so called occult scholarship. Much has been said about the how of practical magic and ritual, but very rarely do we hear of the why or where.

The landscape, that terrain in which you exist every moment of the day. From the dew covered foggy mountain bottoms to the industrial park urban sprawl the landscape surrounds us. It is the plane of reality in which we live.

You bleed into the ground. Feed the soil with your sweat and tears. Drink from the well that fills from its water table, your body becomes one with the place you inhabit. The landscape and the body are part of the system, the inextricable network of interrelated particles that make up evolving life on earth.

Most humans, mundanes without the perception to see the world for what it is, simply go about the actions of living life in survival mode. Take what they need, give what they must, eat, sleep and eventually die. But the witch sees the world at a resolution differently than most, looks at those shadows that others ignore, sees the light through the trees as more than random, holds on to the language of pattern.

The witch reads the world like a book of secrets, the landscape a story of evolving ideas that we grasp and understand. The clouds like a language, the whisper of the wind through trees, the way that puddles of rain reflect the sky - a signal we come to understand.

Your nose knows the way it seems, a deep sensor of quantum mechanics it feels like a finger into the cloud of potentiality that is the future, guiding you through the fog of possibility until you reach your goal along the path. The nose knows, if only you could speak its subtle language.

Mankind has always existed in the landscape, even in our futile attempts to control it. We are primates, who lived among forests and grass plains so recently that rivers remember when there were no cities. We are part of the natural world, whether we realize it or not. The witch is merely aware of this fact, and that knowledge creates an open state of knowing.

The landscape itself is a sound system, filled with the reverberations of not merely the events that have unfolded in this river of time, but the echos of other rivers descending in a swirling madness of never and always, meting out punishment when needed to teach the seeker a lesson in humility.

The mass of forms on the surface of the earth create chambers that capture the sounds and energies created by living things. These echos are the ancestors, speaking across the illusion of time to teach us the way toward the future. The beat in the echo of space like a drum in a forest, like a stolen P A in a Detroit warehouse.

From the time before written words we had strove to gain a foothold in this primordial state. Abrahamic religions even cite our fall from this world of perception, though go on to ban anyone who would seek it out for themselves.

In the ancient Greek Magical Papyri it is documented our relationship with the spirits who inhabit this physical world around us. While they rarely have corporeal bodies these spirits wield incredible power over the forces of the natural world.

These ‘genius loci’ tend to a static place, inhabiting features in the landscape full of energy. Rivers & streams, mountain valleys, ancient forests, those places where the nexus of being affords them a comfortable habitat.

Yet even in the urban world that we have carved they have evolved to function. Certain forms of building, areas of great human traffic like crossroads, material places we have created for sometimes other reasons that the abode of these spirits have come over time to find ‘genius loci’ of their own. Instead of teeth of thorn and stone they bare teeth of glass and steel.

Not all seekers can walk a path of pure natural landscape. Many are stuck in the sprawl of urban decay, watching ruins of man’s 1970s bad design decisions be polished into glass and steel turds of prefabricated corporate enclaves. Startup incubator hellscapes that shine in the rain like a b set on the Blade Runner story board artwork.

The city is haunted by these corridors of steel, the shades that stalk the streets are those of the dead homeless, of working girls and deranged ex bankers tossed out of their office after breaking down in a fit of anti- capitalist rage and destroying the spreadsheets through which mankind must continually consume.

We work our magic at these crossroads of manmade forms, concrete covered in tar and piss, the smell of car exhaust thick like incense of copal, the steel and glass become an altar at which we sacrifice lives to the deities of consumption and avarice.

In the 1950s a group of modern thinkers created the philosophical genre of psychogeography. The Situationists, primarily under the influence of Guy Debord, outline this critical analysis of the landscape in a series of articles published in the “Internationale Situationniste”.

Debord would publish his seminal work “Theory of the Dérive” originally in Les Lèvres Nues #9 (November 1956). In this short piece he outlines a form of practical divinatory landscape magic (though he does not make reference to magic directly) he dubs “dérive” which translates roughly as “drifting”.

“The ecological analysis of the absolute or relative character of fissures in the urban network, of the role of microclimates, of distinct neighborhoods with no relation to administrative boundaries, and above all of the dominating action of centers of attraction, must be utilized and completed by psychogeographical methods. The objective passional terrain of the dérive must be defined in accordance both with its own logic and with its relations with social morphology.” - Guy Debord, “Theory of the Dérive”

While Debord was primarily preoccupied with the urban environment, these ideas being born out of creative theories of the urban dwelling surrealists and eventually the situationists, they hark back to various forms of wandering and coming to know one’s environment through intimate journey common in rural areas throughout history. The “riding” of Scotland, the “walkabout” of the Australian native tribes, many cultures have a prescribed method of coming to know oneself via the land. Yet rarely do these cultural ideas of landscape exploration delve into the nature of the landscape in any scientific way.

The witch walks as well among the ruins of capitalism as we do the forest floor. We smell the stench of mankind’s death lingering on the horizon, a literal forest fire shouting in hisses and belches “I can’t breathe.” But even the urban witch needs time out away from the designed landscapes of man’s continual betrayal.

Out of the city, into the remaining forests and plains, to the mountains and beaches bereft of human indignities. Here we recharge ourselves, listen at the lectern of that parliament of birds, meditate in that complex drone of bees in a flower covered field. The wind through various trees speaking to us in a tongue we have always known but have no name for, only the sounds that tell us things we have always wondered but were simply afraid to ask.

This is the sabbat, this return to nature. This is the revelry for which we must escape even the most dreary urban existence, this soil from which our blood is fed, these waters to cleanse our spirit in preparation for the journey we must take along the path.

The “land” is itself the surface of the Earth’s crust, an area created by the shifting of the tectonic plates. This thin skin of cooled material harbors and incredibly diverse ecosystem. Yet it is not just above the soil that life lives. Deep into the earth we find an enormous quantity of complex lifeforms existing at depths we have only recently come to understand.

That earth, a particle itself screaming through naked space. A vehicle we inhabit, a space station ringing out dub frequencies into the cosmos. The electromagnetic field of the sun, its orbiting particles/planets shifting over the empty space in the radiant aura of that star at the center of the solar system.

When we look up into space we see nothing more than particles. Screaming suns that ring out just like every atom in your body. Interrelated electromagnetic fields pulsing in waves like haunted sound-systems. Singing that tune your soul needs, urging you on to the sex beat of reproduction. The pounding drums of interstellar rain inhabiting your abode, shining out of your eyes and your mouth like the burning of a salamander born under a blackened sun.

The surface of the earth we inhabit is not merely the geographic variables we perceive, nor is it only the organic film that clings to the upper layers of the outer crust. The earth is inhabited by more beings than can be accounted for with mass and electrons. Beings of light and gravity, magnetism and electricity. They inhabit rivers, mountains, crossroads. They ring out the tune you seek, dance to the beat you need but if only you could see with your ears and hear with your eyes.

Throughout this region there is an electromagnetic field of complex forms, irradiated by material objects (including the earth itself) yet influenced by shifting patterns of energy in space beyond the biosphere. Like a tapestry made of energy this electromagnetic field contains forms of life long known to the witch, yet hardly understood by common society.

These entities exist in ways both dimensionally and frequency shifted from our own plane of existence. While we are able to bridge the gap between our realm and theirs, and these dimensions do share a common fabric, it is only through practice that we can become accustom to their existence.

Spirits; whose names and forms are as varied as the names mankind has given to shades of colour and light. These beings we refer to as ancestor, kith, and elemental are but part of an ecosystem we have little knowledge of, and what rare knowledge we have is occulted.

With various forms of offering, pacts and rituals we have come to learn how to coax them into allegiance. How to work with them and communicate. Though much of our ritual action is not for them, it is to prepare us as practitioners for the mental and emotional toil of interaction with beings whose existence is obscure. This is why our offerings must come from our possessions, must have meaning to us. Our mental desire projected into the value of an object enriches its value in our trade with those who inhabit the landscape.

As old as it is in the realm of practical magic that concept we have been referring to as “landscape magic” is long overdue for a more accurate descriptive terminology. We have relied for centuries on the designations of various religious authorities to give form to our understanding of these beings, even in the days of ancient Greece, where the witch’s perception was shaped by the everyday culture and beliefs of the ancient Greek.

The secularization of witchcraft, particularly in the practices of the folkwitch, leaves us a framework that can adopt to a practitioner’s own religious beliefs, or be parallel to them in the practicalities of magical practice.

Yet the terminology of “landscape magic” is limited through lack of direct dialog between the disparate practitioners. When we turn to those authors whose work have touched on landscape magic beyond the psychogeographers, (historians like George Ewart Evans, folklorists like Katharine Briggs) we see a pattern of understanding in the practice of common folk magic throughout the world of interaction with a class of spirits whose form and function are shaped equally by the physical manifestation of the geographic landscape in which they inhabit, and the socio cultural framework of the practitioner in their understanding of the shape of the universe.

When we have considered the language of magic and its history of cultural appropriation we have tried in many ways to find a terminology that best represents the broader ideas encapsulated in “landscape magic”, in particular relation to the folkwitch.

Jake Stratton Kent, in his landmark text “Geosophia”, outlines the history and origins of grimoiric magic through the concept of Goetia, a body of knowledge whose origins are derived primarily from the ancient Greek Magical Papyri. While he doesn’t dissect the name of his volume the term “geosophia” is a Greek compound derived of “geo” for earth and “sophia” for wisdom.

The relation of goetia, though distinct and historical, to landscape magic is apparent in that many of the concepts related to spirits we as magic practitioners have come to understand find their origins in the goetia.

I have proposed the term “geotia” (geo sha) to give a broader modern terminology to the idea of landscape magic. It takes the reverse of two vowels in goetia and alters its meaning to one more rooted in the land itself and less tied to a specific massive historic body of knowledge.

Geotia is the state of being within the land itself. The total perceptual elimination of the culturally perceived boundaries between oneself/ species and the natural world. The prerequisite state of the practice of folk witchcraft.

Thus the intersection of geotia and witchcraft is a shared understanding of the form that reality takes when stripped bare of our projected ideas of consensual (culturally acceptable) reality. When we embrace the seeking of that state of geotia we begin to see more widely the potential of energy that exists in the world around us. The folkwitch comes to work a specific patch of land, one that is tended to and looked after by the witch.

The landscape that you make your patch is populated by a wildlife beyond physical form. Not just in the echo of your ancestors, but beings who have lived as long as there have been homosapiens, often longer.

You bleed into the ground, it drinks of your essence and it knows you. You feel outward into the landscape. In some places on the earth it is calm, its hills and valleys having long settled with history. But in others it is marred with the darkness of bloodshed, disease and war. Haunted landscapes that linger still because we refuse to let them settle, they instill us with that dread of our species past.

The words of your ancestors echo down the dna line, reverberate in the sound chamber of the landscape. They teach you who you are and who you are meant to be. They guide you on your path, but like a willow-the- wisp there is no catching them, only a journey further and further into the endless forest of self discovery.

The witch is the link between the ostracized humanity of the late 21st century and the natural world. We are the walkers who can hear, perceiving the true structure of the world we inhabit, beyond the illusion society teaches is “real.” We have been to the other side of the hedge, and have ridden the night winds. We fear not death, and often flirt with its sweet caress. The witch is the guardian of the land, but what we guard it from is humanity.

Bibliography:

Guy Debord. Theory of the Dérive. Les Lèvres Nues #9. 1956.

Jake Stratton-Kent. Geosophia. Scarlet Imprint. 2013.

George Ewart Evans. The Pattern Under the Plow: Aspects of Folk-Life in East Anglia. Faber and Faber. 1966.

Katharine Briggs. Pale Hecate’s Team. Rutledge. 1962.

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This article originally appeared in FOLKWITCH vol 1, 2019.

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patchwork-panda · 4 years

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If A Moment Is All We Are (18/?)

AO3 link: HERE

6:50 am

I snapped my phone shut and continued to wait.

Ten minutes early. Good.

I wasn’t working with Kunikida but he would definitely approve of my coming early if he were here. I’d tried calling Dazai as soon as I arrived but, predictably, he hadn’t picked up. He was probably still on his way or decided the water looked really nice this morning and jumped into the river (Atsushi had warned me via text last night that Dazai had done at least this three times already), in which case, I’d have to go find him. But I could worry about that later. Since I was here a little early...

Scanning my surroundings, I grinned and switched my phone to camera mode.

Surprisingly, this was the first time one of my jobs had taken me to Minato Mirai, the most famous district in Yokohama; so far, the closest I’d been to this place since joining the Agency was when Yosano had dragged me to Motomachi shopping district for my makeover—which was still several stops away. I shifted my bag over my shoulder and started snapping photos, not caring that I looked like an excitable tourist.

I hadn’t been to Minato Mirai in years and it was such a beautiful day. The skies overhead were a beautiful pastel-blue, with not a cloud to be seen and faint hints of purple and orange visible on the distant horizon. The ocean, or what I could see of it from here, anyway, was a deep sparkling sapphire blue. Even the tops of the gray and white buildings were still dyed in subtle shades of pink and gold from the remnants of dawn, like an image from a painting.

I should’ve woken up even earlier; then I could’ve run down to the pier for even more photos. If I got some good shots, maybe I could use them as reference images—or background images for my laptop or phone. Maybe I could even send a few to Kunikida! I’m sure he would appreciate some beautiful images of a beautiful morning!

Warmth bloomed in my chest at the thought of surprising Kunikida with a nice good morning text, complete with a freshly shot photo nice enough to put on a postcard.

I sighed.

He worked really hard, Kunikida... I forgot who, but someone at the Agency had told me he spent his mornings meditating. He was always so focused, so dedicated... I hoped he was able to take some time to relax here and there. I checked the time again.

6:55 am.

Still early. He was probably still meditating right now (and I didn’t want to interrupt) so I set a reminder for myself to send him the text around eight, when he got into the office. A nice greeting so he could get a great start to a hopefully great day.

I smiled and kept shooting.

As my camera slowly focused on a distant landmark, the familiar shape of an enormous Ferris Wheel appeared on my screen: one of Yokohama’s most iconic attractions, Cosmo Clock 21. I paused to stare at it. I’d gone for a ride on the Cosmo Clock once with some classmates, back when I’d first moved to Yokohama. Although we’d had a pretty good time, I’d always wanted to go back, preferably on a date, and not just any date... a date with someone special, at night, when we could rise above the lights of the city and find ourselves sitting amongst the stars...

If only that someone special could be Kunikida Doppo...

“Ku-su-no-ki-kuuuuun!!”

I sighed as the image of the Ferris wheel was blocked from view by a pair of twinkling brown eyes.

Dazai.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

“Good morning, Dazai-san,” I answered in greeting, putting away my phone without taking the picture (it was too far away anyway). Staring up at him, I crossed my arms.

“You’re late.”

“Oh! Were you looking at the Cosmo Clock?” Dazai asked, moving to stand next to me, not even bothering to respond to my accusation.

He shielded his eyes with one hand and stared out into the distance at the tall metal structure.

“It’s definitely a sight to see at night when it’s all lit up and colorful but it’s pretty nice in the morning too...”

His brown eyes flicked down to meet mine and he smiled softly.

“A great place for a date, don’t you think?”

I glanced up at him. Standing next to him in the middle of the sidewalk on a beautiful day like this, I couldn’t help being reminded of the moment we’d first met. He gave off a different vibe in the early morning light, with the soft ocean breeze tugging at his messy brown locks and his irises glowing a rich, warm amber as he held my gaze.

Why was a man like Dazai Osamu blessed with such a beautiful face?

When he smiled at me like that, it was almost enough to make me forget all the teasing and practical jokes...

Almost...

“Yeah,” Dazai murmured, more to himself than to me as he returned his attention to the Ferris wheel. As if on cue, he continued, “Cosmo Clock 21 seems like a great place to commit suicide. I bet if I threw myself out of the top car, I would die the instant my body hit the pavement.”

I grimaced. I could all too easily picture an overly excitable Dazai opening the control panel inside his car, finding some way to override the safety protocols and swan-diving out of his car the instant he got to the top of the wheel.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t off yourself this morning,” I said, covertly looking him up and down.

Good. It didn’t look like he’d gone for a swim in the river this morning. His clothes were dry and his entire ensemble looked like it had been recently cleaned. Our fancy downtown client should be pleased...

“If you had, you would’ve made my life a lot more difficult,” I sighed.

Dazai’s eyes widened.

“Kusunoki-kun...!” he whispered.

At once, he gathered my hands in his.

“I didn’t know you cared!” he whispered, his eyes sparkling joyfully as they stared into mine. “If you’d like, I’d be more than happy to take you to the Ferris wheel, maybe even accompany you to the afterlife—”

“That’s not what I was talking about,” I said casually, snatching my hands away with barely a hint of a blush. “What I meant to say was that I don’t know anything about this case we’ve been assigned to. I was just told to come here and meet you at seven in the morning, speaking of which...”

I flicked out my phone and shoved it in his face.

“You’re ten minutes late! You better have a good excuse for this because it’s going in the report. When Kunikida-san—no, President Fukuzawa reads it—”

“But Kusunoki-kun,” Dazai said, sounding surprised, “I was here early! In fact, I got here before you did and decided to make a convenience store run. See? I even got you coffee!”

He started rummaging through a small plastic bag that I hadn’t noticed he was carrying and pulled out a small canned latte. I was taken aback.

“Huh?” was all I could say as Dazai put the cold drink in my hands.

“What am I supposed to do with you, Kusunoki-kun?” Dazai sighed, shaking his head. “Here I am, trying to be a good mentor by making sure you got up in time for your next big case but what happens when I call you? Every single one of my well-meaning wake-up calls went straight to voicemail! I bet you didn’t even check your inbox this morning when you woke up.”

He was right. I hadn’t. As he spied the guilty look on my face, Dazai crossed his bandaged arms and pouted.

“And to think,” he said sullenly, “the first thing my kohai says to me when I come back, after waiting such a long time in those long morning lines is ‘you’re late?’”

He shook his head again and out of guilt, I dropped my gaze, only to stare right at the cold beverage in my hands. At once, the sense of guilt mutated into shame.

“I... I’m sorry,” I mumbled, bowing my head slightly. “It’s just... after the exam...”

Dazai gasped.

“Wait a minute... Are you blocking my calls?”

“Not exactly...”

Truth was, I’d actually put my phone into airplane mode last night after finishing up my texts with Atsushi because I didn’t want to receive any annoying late-night texts from Dazai or get pranked first thing in the morning again. Thanks to that, I’d gotten a full night’s rest (and before a Dazai case, no less!) but at what cost...?

“Airplane mode, huh?” Dazai pieced together and I winced. “That’s cold, Kusunoki-kun. Do you dislike me that much?”

“I said I was sorry!” I protested as he shook his head again, “And the first thing I said to you when you showed up was ‘good morning,’ not just ‘you’re late!’ And I really did mean it when I said I was glad you didn’t off yourself—Dazai-san, I—!”

I felt the words catching in my throat but I needed to get them out.

I couldn’t let Dazai think I hated him.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands balling into fists and I spoke in a rush:

“I don’t dislike you at all—! In fact, I—”

But before I could finish, something warm descended on the top of my head and when I looked up, I realized it was Dazai’s hand.

“I know,” he chuckled, ruffling my hair. “I was just messing with you. Don’t worry about it.”

He smiled. He was looking right at me but there was something wistful and faraway in his expression; I couldn’t place it.

“I know you don’t hate me,” he said quietly, still smiling that odd smile. “I just wanted my cute kohai to think better of me, is all.”

He folded up the convenience store bag and stuffed it into his coat.

“Let’s just go see the client, alright?”

“Dazai-san...”

Did it bother him that much that I didn’t pick up his calls? Was I being too harsh on him...?

As I watched him walk away, the tails of his trench coat flapping in the morning breeze, I slowly lifted my fingers to my lips.

And what was I about to say just before he stopped me?

Feeling oddly flustered, I directed my attention back to the can in my hands. It was still cold and my mouth felt oddly dry after that whole exchange. Not wanting to think about it any further, I pulled on the tab, opening the can of coffee with a sharp pop—and something big, black and hairy shot out of the can.

I screamed and dropped the can. As I stood there in the middle of the street, clutching my heart and panting like a dog, I heard a snort and looked up just in time to see Dazai burst into laughter.

“That was amazing!” he choked, clutching his stomach, “Absolutely priceless! I should take a photo of your face, this belongs in a museum—”

“What the hell?!” I screeched, flushing in anger as Dazai doubled over, howling with laughter as suit-wearing morning commuters and tourists alike stopped to stare at us.

“Well,” Dazai chortled, barely stifling his laughter behind his bandaged hands, “I could have gotten you a real coffee but then I thought, what kind of senpai would I be if I didn’t give you a real wake-up call?”

He dissolved into laughter once again and, bristling with rage, I snatched the can off the ground and lifted it to my face. It was one of those spring toys in a can, disguised to look like real food and designed to scare the living daylights out of whoever was foolish enough to open it. The hairy black thing I’d seen was nothing more than a plush spider toy with googly eyes and pipe-cleaner legs, bouncing about from the open end of the can. And as Dazai’s laughter echoed in my ears, one corner of the label peeled off; he had taken the label off a real can of coffee and stuck it to the outside of this toy. Which left only one question.

“Why is this thing cold?!” I roared, hurling the can at Dazai’s face as his laughter finally subsided.

“Oho, very observant, Kusunoki-kun!” Dazai cried, easily dodging my attack. “I knew I’d have to go above and beyond to fool you, so I stuck this can in the ice cream freezer at the convenience store before bringing it over!”

“You what?!”

“Oh, don’t glare at me like that,” Dazai waved me off, “Think of it as a compliment that I’d go to such lengths to trick you. But enough about that. We’re late and we really shouldn’t keep the client waiting. Wouldn’t be good for the Agency’s reputation, you know? Come on!”

Glowering and cursing under my breath, I hiked my bag higher over my shoulder and swore never to accept any presents from Dazai in the future, no matter how small or insignificant.

***

“Kusunoki-kun...”

Dazai sounded pretty dejected but I refused to look at him. I would not be fooled by those big brown puppy-dog eyes twice in the same morning.

“I get that you’re mad but you don’t have to stand that far away from me...”

“I’m not standing far away from you at all,” I replied coolly. “In fact, if I could, I’d actually be standing much further away but unfortunately, there’s not that much room in this elevator...”

“And you say you’re not cold,” Dazai mumbled.

I could actually hear the pout in his voice but I just rolled my eyes and ignored him.

After that stunt he pulled with the fake coffee, I was half-seriously considering returning to the Agency and asking to be reassigned. But then I realized that if I went back, I might run into Kunikida and be forced to admit (to my crush) that I couldn’t handle being on a case with Dazai for even an hour... And I’d rather throw myself off the top of the Ferris wheel than face Kunikida’s disappointment. So I settled for refusing to talk to Dazai as much as I possibly could, even as I followed him into the maze of buildings and crosswalks downtown with no idea of our destination.

Unfortunately for me, Dazai looked so happy about the results of his prank that he didn’t seem to mind that I was barely speaking to him. Every once in a while, he’d look over his shoulder to check that I was still following along and shoot me a cheerful grin every time he did. He kept this up until we stopped before a tall, strikingly rectangular building bearing the name “Tanaka Investments” in glossy white lettering. Like the other buildings downtown, the structure seemed to be made entirely of black and gray tinted glass instead of metal but I only had a few seconds to peer up at it before the crowd of morning commuters pushed us forward and into the building.

Together, Dazai and I streamed in through the main entrance, along with a gaggle of the building’s employees, heading, it seemed, towards the elevators in the back. As we got in, I noticed Dazai getting an occasional odd look at the bandages around his neck and arms but other than that, the workers seemed to pay us no mind; overall, they seemed pretty busy with their phones and schedules. When the girl nearest the elevator buttons happened to glance his way, Dazai instantly brightened up.

“Top floor, please,” he said, smiling pleasantly and the girl instantly blushed and hurried to push the button he’d requested.

Rolling my eyes, I quietly navigated my way towards the back of the elevator, purposefully turning the other way when I noticed Dazai looking for me. If he asked, I’d tell him I was doing this out of courtesy and that I was just trying to stay out of the way of the other building employees. However, the truth was, I was hoping to put as much distance between me and Dazai as possible and I made no move to hide the tiny smile that popped up on my face as more and more people packed into the elevator between us.

But as we climbed higher and higher through the building, the crowd began to thin and eventually the number of people standing between me and Dazai slowly dwindled to zero. That’s when he started trying to get my attention again...

“Come on, Kusunoki-kun,” Dazai wheedled, “If you’re not going to look at me, you could at least move a little closer so I don’t have to shout for you to hear me. I still need to tell you about the client.”

“I can hear you just fine from over here,” I stated flatly, staring resolutely at the numbers above the door as the elevator continued to rise.

“Come on, please?”

I didn’t budge.

“Please? Pretty please, pretty lady?”

Crossing my arms, I scowled. This was nothing like the time I’d taken the tiny elevator up to the Agency office with Kunikida... Nothing at all...

What I wouldn’t give to be in here with Kunikida instead... He wouldn’t whine and pester me like this. And he wouldn’t have pranked me this morning either. I closed my eyes and let a small, happy smile cross my face.

Hmm... then again, if it was Kunikida, I wouldn’t mind getting a little closer...

“Alright then,” Dazai sighed, finally realizing I wasn’t going to move at all. “If you won’t come to me...”

I heard a series of soft, echoing clicks from Dazai’s dress shoes as he slowly approached me from the opposite corner of the elevator.

“Then I’ll just have to come to you.”

His voice was low, sultry... just like it was yesterday afternoon, when he’d backed me up against the locked conference room door and whispered softly into my ear...

“...I’d like you to do something for me.”

I could still feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek, see the softly heated look in his deep brown eyes... His lips parted smoothly into that relaxed, easy smile...

“Come away with me...”

It was so cold the night he walked me home. The brightness of his smile had not been enough to obscure the shadows in his eyes...

Forever.

I came to with a sharp gasp, abruptly realizing that Dazai was about two seconds away from trapping me against a wall the way he’d done twice already. In a flustered panic, I uprooted my feet and tried to make a break for it—

—only to crash right into Dazai.

“Kusunoki-kun!”

His eyebrows shot up into his hair as I bounced off of him with a painful smack and his smirk widened into an ecstatic grin.

“Were you looking for a hug?” he asked, opening his arms wide. “I’d love one!”

“Oh, shut up,” I groaned, rubbing my nose where it’d collided with his chest. “Just tell me about the client already.”

Dazai wilted.

“You sure you don’t want a hug?”

“I’m sure. Case briefing, please?”

Dazai sighed heavily. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shot me a disappointed look.

“Yosano-sensei was right...” he mumbled, kicking an invisible pebble on the floor. “If you spend too much time with Kunikiiiiiida-kun, you really will turn into a four-eyed workhorse too.”

“Will you stop insulting Kunikida-san and just tell me about the client?! We’re almost at the top floor and I still don’t know who we’re meeting with!”

As if on cue, the elevator suddenly stopped moving. Thinking we’d arrived at the top floor, I looked up at the display above the door, only to see that we were still ten stories away. I turned to Dazai but he just yawned widely and stretched his bandaged arms high above his head as a sound like a buzzer sounded throughout our hollow metal chamber. There was a quiet cough and then a voice crackled to life over an unseen speaker.

“Identification, please.”

“We’re from the Armed Detective Agency,” Dazai said before I could answer. “We were asked to meet with a client on the top floor this morning.”

There was a pause and then the voice spoke again, more irritated this time.

“You’re late.”

I heard another loud buzz and with the tiniest of tremors, the elevator started moving again. I stared at Dazai.

“Who... are we meeting with...?”

He shot me a grin.

“The company president,” he answered, tucking his hands back into his pockets. “Tanaka Ichiro.”

There was a soft chime and as I turned just in time to see the elevator doors sliding open with a faint whoosh. I peered out beyond the doors into what appeared to be a very bright light and I raised my hands up to shield my eyes. When my eyes had settled, I realized I was staring into an enormous, empty lobby, one with very high walls and very pale coloring.

Silently, I followed Dazai out of the elevator and into the monochrome chamber, the heels of our shoes making sharp, echoing clicks against the hard, shiny surface of what seemed to be a faux-white-marble floor. All around us were large, rectangular tinted windows, each as high as the ceiling itself, where a modern-looking geometric chandelier, if you could call it that, hung in the very center of the room.

Below it, was a single desk, made of the exact same material as the floor, and it was so seamlessly integrated with the surroundings that I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were all carved from a single stone. Everything was spotless and polished to a shine and I looked out the windows to see sweeping views of the ocean and Mirato Mirai on one side and the rest of downtown Yokohama on the other.

Standing behind the desk was a very cross-looking man in a gray suit and tie with slicked-back black hair and thin rectangular glasses perched on his long, thin nose; with his narrowed eyes and set, square jaw, he looked especially forbidding where Kunikida merely looked strict. I decided to hang back a little as Dazai approached the desk.

“Morning,” Dazai greeted, with a casual wave of his half-bandaged hand. “You’re the gatekeeper?”

“My name is Shimada,” the man replied, his lips barely moving as he spoke, “President Tanaka’s personal bodyguard.”

One of his thick black eyebrows rose higher on his forehead and he shifted a little, his hand going to his belt as he studied Dazai and then me. His expression soured slightly.

“You’re... the detectives?”

If Dazai was insulted at his tone, he didn’t show it. While I discreetly examined my outfit for any sign of dirt, Dazai grinned broadly at him and stepped forward.

“That’s right.”

He draped the crook of his bandaged elbow over the top of the desk and as he leaned his weight on it, Shimada’s jaw tightened visibly.

“We’re the detectives,” Dazai said smoothly, “Sorry we’re late.”

“The President is a busy man,” Shimada said icily. “He cannot afford to be kept waiting. Time is money, you know.”

“Of course,” Dazai chirped, deliberately rubbing his dingy-looking bandages against the countertop and for a brief moment, I actually felt sorry for Shimada.

That moment ended when I saw Shimada reach inside his desk and before I knew what was happening, he whipped out a thick black rod and swung it towards Dazai’s head.

“Dazai!!”

I rushed forward, intent on pushing Dazai out of harm’s way but the tell-tale crack of metal against skull never came. The rod came to an abrupt stop just a centimeter away from Dazai’s temple, barely ruffling the hairs on his head and as I looked on in shock, I saw Dazai’s grin widen.

He hadn’t moved at all...!

“I see the reputation of the Armed Detective Agency is well-earned,” Shimada muttered under his breath.

He moved the rod away and as he did so, I realized that I wasn’t looking at an actual weapon but at a handheld metal detector. Still wearing that shit-eating grin, Dazai stood up straight and put out his arms as Shimada came out from behind the desk and began scanning him. When he was satisfied that Dazai was carrying no weapons, Shimada nodded and went back to his desk.

“You will show President Tanaka your utmost respect while you are talking to him,” Shimada said, putting away the detector. “See to it that you don’t waste his time.”

Keeping his right hand against his belt, Shimada pushed a button from somewhere inside his desk and the closed black-paneled doors behind him opened at last.

“Thanks,” Dazai chirped.

He patted Shimada on the shoulder as he passed by and I saw the man flinch.

Taking a deep breath, I hiked my bag a little higher over my shoulder and stepped forward, preparing to be scanned as well. But to my surprise, Shimada barely gave me a second glance before putting down his metal detector and gestured for me to step through the doors as well.

“You’re not going to scan me?” I asked, confused.

Shimada shook his head.

“I don’t need to.”

“W-why not?” I asked, my grip tightening on my bag.

I don’t like his tone...

“Because,” Shimada stated simply, “you’re not a threat.”

I bristled.

“How do you know I’m not carrying a weapon?”

Shimada’s lip curled unpleasantly.

“Because if you were,” he said, a nasty sneer blooming on his face, “You would’ve used it on me to save your partner. Now are you going in or not?”

“I—”

“Kusunoki-kun.”

A weight settled around my shoulder and I looked up to see that Dazai had thrown his arm around me. He pulled me in close, effectively tugging me away from the sneering Shimada and guided me towards the doors.

“You heard the man,” Dazai said, his voice sounding right next to my ear, “We’ve got a client to see.”

And as he led me away, I glanced back at Shimada, only to see that the man had a gun in his hand.

My eyes widened.

“D-Dazai-san—” I whispered, looking up at him in alarm.

But Dazai merely smiled and put his finger to his lips.

“I’ll explain later,” his expression seemed to say.

Swallowing, I nodded and shot another furtive look over my shoulder at Shimada, who was now scrubbing at the counter top with a wet wipe, where Dazai had leaned against it and smudged its pristine, white surface.

The black paneled doors closed behind us and we found ourselves in a much smaller room, one that so resembled a normal office that it made the outside lobby and the whole thing with the elevator seem even stranger by contrast. The walls were lined with bookshelves full of thick binders and leather-bound books and there was a polished wooden desk in the middle of the room, under which was an exquisitely patterned Persian rug. Sitting at this desk with his hands folded in front of him was a rather cheerful-looking man in his mid-thirties. There was a streak of white in his otherwise brown hair and as we approached the desk, he stood to greet us.

“You must be the detectives,” he said, spreading his arms. “Welcome, welcome. I am Tanaka Ichiro, the president of this fine establishment. Please, have a seat. Make yourselves comfortable.”

As he moved out a little from behind the desk, I thought I saw something in the trash can nearby, something with black feathers...

I heard my own sharp intake of breath when I realized it was a dead bird and upon hearing me, Tanaka’s smile widened; he pulled the trash can out of sight and quickly sat back down.

“May I offer you some refreshment?” Tanaka asked, “Hot tea, perhaps?”

“N-no thanks,” I mumbled, still wondering about the dead bird.

“Then I could turn up the heat,” Tanaka offered, “if you’re cold.”

“Huh? It’s not...”

I trailed off as Dazai tightened his grip around me to give me a brief around the shoulders hug.

Oh.

Dazai took his arm off of me before I could throw it off for him and bowed politely, forcing me to follow suit.

“Dazai Osamu and Kusunoki Kyou of the Armed Detective Agency at your service,” he said smoothly, suddenly sounding just as professional as Kunikida. “What can we do for you?”

Tanaka pointed to the two chairs on our side of the desk and Dazai and I sat.

“I do believe we are short on time,” Tanaka said, as I shot Dazai a nasty look, “so I’ll get right to the point. Over the last few months, we’ve seen a series of thefts take place at the company but the thief has only stolen money from a single account. Unfortunately, it is a rather important account—one we use to pay our yearly business expenses.”

He took out a plain manila folder from his desk and slid it towards us. Dazai took it but opened it up in a way that I’d have to scoot towards him to read it. Struggling not to roll my eyes, I pushed my chair towards his.

“That first page will show you screenshots of the account in question, month to month,” Tanaka continued. “As you can see, it’s no small amount that was taken.”

My eyes widened.

Holy shit. There had been enough here to cover my yearly rent ten times over. What sort of business expenses would cost so much?!

“It’s been drained,” Dazai said, flipping the page. “Several times. You didn’t increase security around the account the first time it happened?”

“We did,” Tanaka admitted, “but the thief somehow got around the changes every single time. We can’t change the account for reasons I won’t go into but it’s baffling to say the least.”

“Thief...” I said slowly, glancing up at Tanaka. “Why do you say ‘thief,’ as if you’re certain it’s one person? Did you already have someone in mind?”

Tanaka rubbed his chin. He looked pleased.

“Very good. We do, actually,” he said. “Turn to the third page.”

I flipped through the file to see a picture of an older man, somewhere around Mrs. Yamazaki’s age, if I had to guess. He wore a pair of large, clunky square glasses, making his already dark, tiny eyes appear even darker and tinier and beneath his slightly hooked nose he had a bushy mustache and beard with streaks of gray. In all honesty, he looked a little like a Japanese Santa Claus.

I squinted at it.

Tsushima looked vaguely familiar, although at the moment, I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him. Had I passed him in the street before?

“That is Tsushima Shuji, one of our best and highest ranking accountants. He had access to every account in this investment company, including our most secretive business dealings and he disappeared about a month ago without a trace.” “Right when the last theft took place,” Dazai said.

“Correct,” Tanaka replied. “We think he had something to do with it but we haven’t been able to find him. We ran our own internal investigations, of course, but so far it’s turned up nothing. Normally, at this point in time, we’d be asking the Yokohama Police Department to investigate but the situation is rather delicate.”

“I see,” Dazai mumbled. “So you want us to find this Tsushima Shuji.”

“And recover the money.”

Tanaka steepled his fingers together and looked at us.

“We are a highly successful investment firm but we do still have debts to pay. And they must be paid very, very soon if this company is to survive...”

“It’s almost the first of next month,” I pieced together aloud, flipping through the printouts. “You want us to solve this case before the account can be drained again.”

“Exactly.”

Tanaka looked down at his wrist, where a clunky gold watch gleamed alongside his cufflinks.

“Forgive me for my rudeness, but we are out of time. I cannot, unfortunately, provide anything more for you than these printouts due to the security issues around the account and the employee files. But I think this should be enough to start with. If you need more, please, don’t hesitate to give myself or Shimada-san a call.”

“Of course.”

I swept the folder full of files into my messenger bag and stood to take the pair of business cards from Tanaka.

As I reached up to pinch the cards between my fingers, taking care to avoid touching any part of Tanaka’s skin, his shrewd brown eyes swept over me.

“Kusunoki-san, was it?” he asked, as I half-nodded, half-bowed. “I don’t think I’ve heard your name before. Are you new to the Armed Detective Agency?”

“Somewhat,” I mumbled, avoiding his probing gaze.

I didn’t feel like answering any further but Tanaka wasn’t finished with me yet.

“I see,” Tanaka continued, peering more closely at me.

He looked like he was trying to figure out if he’d seen me before but to the best of my recollection, this was my first time meeting him. His smile held no warmth.

“Have you been enjoying your time with the Agency so far?”

I honestly wasn’t sure how to answer that and I really didn’t like the way he was looking at me. But before I could speak, I felt Dazai put his hand on my shoulder.

“Kusunoki-kun is our valued colleague,” the bandaged detective said, directing his full attention towards Tanaka. “We’re really lucky to have her.”

Dazai smiled and without meaning to, I flinched. This wasn’t the usual, cheerful smile I’d gotten used to seeing from Dazai. No. The look in his eyes was cold and calculating and his smile seemed to function more as a warning than a gesture of good will. I forced myself to keep still as Dazai turned those frigid brown eyes on me.

“We should get going,” Dazai said gently, the warmth in his expression returning the instant his eyes met mine.

I nodded.

“Tanaka-san, we’ll check in with you in a few days?”

“Please do,” Tanaka replied.

Polite bows were exchanged once again and Dazai and I turned around to leave. Dazai’s large, half-bandaged hand remained on my shoulder and I could still feel Tanaka’s eyes on me as we departed. However, after seeing the look on Dazai’s face as he’d stared Tanaka down, I couldn’t tell if the weight of the man’s hand on my shoulder was comforting or not. I found myself unable to move any closer to him.

Dazai didn’t drop his hand until we were well out into the lobby, but just after he did, Tanaka called out to us once again.

“Oh and Dazai-san? Kusunoki-san?”

We turned and Tanaka’s smile widened.

“Best of luck,” he said as those black-paneled doors came to a close.

***

“This could get dangerous for you, Kusunoki-kun,” Dazai said as we exited the building.

“How so?”

In the seemingly short time we’d spent in Tanaka’s office, the sun had climbed a little higher in the sky, warming the downtown zone by that much more. I found myself wishing Dazai had actually brought me an iced coffee instead of a joke toy this morning and was about to shrug off my light coat when I noticed Dazai was watching me. I kept the coat on as we walked down the street.

“Is this about Tanaka-san?” I asked.

Or the way he’d looked at me?

“Not quite.”

Dazai paused to study me.

“Let me ask you... What do you think that account was used for? The ‘business expense account.’ It’s a lot of money, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. I was avoiding his gaze and I knew that Dazai could tell but if it bothered him, he didn’t let it show.

“Tanaka said it was for business expenditures, didn’t he?” I answered, hiking the strap of my bag a little higher over my shoulder as it slipped. “I can’t say I know much about investment firms but I wouldn’t be surprised if these were for another company they’re working with.”

I paused.

“Why do you ask? Do you think this account’s being used for something else?”

“Sort of.”

We paused at the crosswalk as the light turned red and Dazai dropped his voice so low it was actually hard to hear him.

“It’s been a while since I’ve heard someone refer to it as a ‘business expenditure,�� but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were paying back either debts or protection money to the Port Mafia. Many businesses in this area are, especially some of the bigger ones with more complicated connections.”

He jerked his thumb back towards the building.

“How do you think such a newly established investment firm got so big so quick that they ended up moving into one of the bigger buildings downtown, right in the middle of Port Mafia turf?”

I balked.

“Seriously?”

Dazai nodded and I took a moment to think.

“So if that’s true then that means...” I thought aloud, “the person stealing from this account...”

“He’s stealing directly from the Port Mafia,” Dazai finished for me.

No sooner had Dazai finished speaking than a sound like a thunderclap echoed throughout the streets. Tremors shook the ground and as I fought to regain my footing, I turned around just in time to see columns of thick, black smoke pouring out of the shattered windows of the top floor of Tanaka Investments.

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd #dazai x oc #dazai #dazai x reader #fanfiction

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alchemisoul · 4 years

Text

The Rose Cross Ritual

Original Golden Dawn version of the basic ritual.

1. Light a stick of incense. Go to the South East corner of the room. Make a large cross and circle thus:

and holding the point of the incense in the center vibrate the word Yeheshuah.

2. With arm outstretched on a level with the centre of the cross, and holding the incense stick, go to the South West corner and make a similar cross, repeating the Word.

3. Go to the North West corner and repeat the cross and the Word.

4. Go to the North East corner and repeat the cross and the Word.

5. Complete your circle by returning to the South East corner and bringing the point of the incense to the central point of the first cross which you should imagine astrally there.

6. Holding the stick on high, go to the centre of the room, walking diagonally across the room towards the North West corner. In the centre of the room, above your head, trace the cross and circle and vibrate the Name.

7. Holding the stick on high, go to the North West and bring the point of the stick down to the centre of the astral cross there.

8. Turn towards the South East and retrace your steps there, but now, holding the incense stick directed across the floor. In the centre of the room, make the cross and circle towards the floor, as it were, under your feet, and vibrate the Name.

9. Complete this circle by returning to the South East and bringing the point of the stick again to the centre of the Cross, then move with arm outstretched to S.W. corner.

10. From the centre of this cross, and, raising stick before, walk diagonally across the room towards the North East corner. In the centre of the room, pick up again the cross above your head previously made, vibrating the Name. It is not necessary to make another cross.

11. Bring the stick to the centre of the North East cross and return to the South West, incense stick down, and pausing in the centre of the room to link up with the cross under your feet.

12. Return to the South West and rest the point of the incense a moment in the centre of the cross there. Holding the stick out, retrace your circle to the North West, link on to the N.W. Cross --- proceed to the N.E. cross and complete your circle by returning to the S.E., and the centre of the first cross.

13. Retrace the cross, but larger, and make a big circle, vibrating for the lower half Yeheshuah, and for the upper half Yehovashah.

14. Return to the centre of the room, and visualise the six crosses in a net-work around you. This ceremony can be concluded by the analysis of the Key-Word given as follows:

1. Stand with arms outstretched in the form of a cross. Face East.

2. Vibrate these words:

I. N. R. I.

Yod-Nun-Resh-Yod

The sign of Osiris Slain.

3. Right arm up, left arm extended out from shoulder, head bowed toward left hand.

L. --- The Sign of the Mourning of Isis.

4. Both arms up in a V shape.

V. --- The Sign of Typhon and Apophis.

5. Arms crossed on breast, head bowed.

X. --- The Sign of Osiris Risen.

6. Make the signs again as you repeat L.V.X.

L.V.X. Lux.

7. Arms folded on breast, head bowed.

The Light of the Cross.

8. Then arms extended in the Sign of Osiris Slain (see 1).

Virgo - Isis - Mighty Mother

Scorpio - Apophis - Destroyer

Sol - Osiris - Slain and Risen

9. Gradually raise arms.

Isis - Apophis - Osiris

10. Arms above head, face raised.

I. A. O.

11. Except when in the Vault, now vibrate the four Tablet of Union Names to equilibriate the Light.

Exarp - Hcoma - Nanta - Biton

12. Aspire to the Light and draw it down over your head to your feet.

Let the Divine Light Descend.

1. It encloses the aura with a protection against outside influences. It is like a veil. The Pentagrams protect, but they also light up the astral and make entities aware of you. They are more positive for magical working. When much distracted, use the Pentagrams to banish and the Rose-cross to maintain peace.

2. It is a call to another mode of your consciousness and withdraws you from the physical. It is a good preparation for meditation and, combined with the Key-Word, a form of invocation of the Higher Wisdom which is helpful when solving problems or preparing for a difficult interview, or in order to be calm and strong to help another.

3. When you are quite familiar with the Ritual, but most certainly not before, it can be done in imagination while resting or lying down. Part of yourself goes out, and you get all the sensation of walking around your own quiescent body. Used thus, with rhythmic breathing, it will withdraw your mind from pain (if it be not too severe) and release you for sleep. You can do the analysis of the Key-Word standing behind your physical head, and you can call down the Divine White Brilliance, watching it flow over your body and smooth out the tangles in the etheric double, bringing peace and rest.

4. You can do the Ritual with intention to help others in pain or difficulty. For this purpose, you build up an astral image of the person, in the centre of the room, and call down the Light upon him, after surrounding him with the six crosses. When the ceremony is done, command the astral shape you have made to return to the person, bearing with it the peace of Yeheshuah.

5. It is a protection against psychic invasion from the thoughts of others or from disturbed psychic conditions, such as there might be in a place charged with fear, where terrible things had happened.

#rosicrucianism #freemasonry #golden dawn #esotericism #western esotericism #western esoteric tradition #philosophy #hermiticism #mysticism #rose cross #religion #ritual #occult

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arda-marred · 6 years

Text

‘And he died with the Dawn in his eyes’

On the eve of war, Tolkien encounters ‘Earendel’

Exeter College, Oxford, 1914.

Note: By the end of 1914, most of Tolkien’s Oxford friends and fellow TCBS members had enlisted. But as an orphan who had always struggled to stay out of poverty, and being by then engaged to his beloved Edith, Tolkien could not afford to abandon his studies, which were crucial to his future chances of an academic career. And so, despite immense pressure from his extended relations and intense societal scorn, he deferred his enlistment until after finishing his final exams the following summer.

“ Back before war broke out, at the end of the university term, Tolkien had borrowed from the college library Grein and Wülcker’s Bibliotek der angelsächsischen Poesie. This massive work was one of those monuments of German scholarship that had shaped the study of Old English, and it meant Tolkien had the core poetic corpus at hand throughout the long summer vacation. He waded through Crist, by the eighth-century Anglo-Saxon poet Cynewulf, but found it ‘a lamentable bore’, as he wrote later: ‘lamentable, because it is a matter for tears that a man (or men) with talent in word-spinning, who must have heard (or read) so much that is now lost, should spend their time composing such uninspired stuff.’ Boredom could have a paradoxical effect on Tolkien: it set his imagination roaming. Furthermore, the thought of stories lost beyond recall always tantalized him. In the midst of Cynewulf’s pious homily, he encountered the words ‘Eala Earendel! engla beorhtast / ofer middangeard monnum sended, ‘Hail Earendel, brightest of angels, above the middle-earth, sent unto men!’ The name Earendel (or Éarendel) struck him in an extraordinary way. Tolkien later expressed his own reaction […]: ‘ I felt a curious thrill, as if something had stirred in me, half wakened from sleep. There was something very remote and strange and beautiful behind those words, if I could grasp it, far beyond ancient English….I don’t think it any irreverence to say that it might derive its curiously moving quality from some older world.’ But whose name was Éarendel? The question sparked a lifelong answer.

Cynewulf’s lines were about an angelic messenger or herald of Christ. The dictionary suggested it meant ray of light, or the illumination of dawn. Tolkien felt that it must be a survival from before Anglo-Saxon, even from before Christianity. (Cognate names such as Aurvandil and Orendil in other ancient records bear this out. According to the rules of comparative philology, they probably descended from a single name before Germanic split into its offspring languages. But the literal and metaphorical meanings of this name are obscure.) Drawing on the dictionary definitions and Cynwulf’s reference to Éarendel as being above our world, Tolkien was inspired with the idea that Éarendel could be none other than the steersman of Venus, the planet that presages the dawn. At Phoenix Farm [his widowed aunt’s residence in Nottinghamshire], on 24 September 1914, he began, with startling éclat:

Éarendel sprang up from the Ocean’s cup In the gloom of the mid-world’s rim; From the door of Night as a ray of light Leapt over the twilight brim, And launching his bark like a silver spark From the golden-fading sand; Down the sunlit breath of Day’s fiery Death He sped from Westerland.

Tolkien embellished ‘The Voyage of Éarendel the Evening Star’ with a favourite phrase from Beowulf, Ofer ýpa ful, ‘over the cup of the ocean’, ‘over the ocean’s goblet’. A further characteristic of Éarendel may have been suggested to Tolkien by the similarity of his name to the Old English ēar ‘sea’: though his element is the sky, he is a mariner. But these were mere beginnings. He sketched out a character and a cosmology in forty-eight lines of verse that are by turn sublime, vivacious, and sombre. All the heavenly bodies are ships that sail daily through the gates at the East and the West. The action is simple: Éarendel launches his vessel from the sunset Westerland at the world’s rim, skitters past the stars sailing their fixed courses, and escapes the hunting Moon, but dies in the light of the rising Sun.

And Éarendel fled from that Shipman dread Beyond the dark earth’s pale. Back under the rim of the Ocean dim, And behind the world set sail; And he heard the mirth of the folk of earth And hearkened to their tears, As the world dropped back in a cloudy wrack On its journey down the years.

Then he glimmering passed to the starless vast As an isléd lamp at sea, And beyond the ken of mortal men Set his lonely errantry, Tracking the Sun in his galleon And voyaging the skies Till his splendor was shorn by the birth of Morn And he died with the Dawn in his eyes.

It is the kind of myth an ancient people might make to explain celestial phenomena. Tolkien gave the title in Old English too (Scipfæreld Earendeles Æfensteorran), as if the whole poem were a translation. He was imagining the story Cynewulf might have heard, as if a rival Anglo-Saxon poet had troubled to record it.

As he wrote, French and German armies clashed fiercely in the town of Albert, in the region named for the River Somme, which flows through it. But Éarendel’s is a solitary species of daring, driven by an unexplained desire. He is not (as in Cynewulf) monnum sended, ‘sent unto men’ as a messenger or herald; nor is he a warrior. If [this early version of] Éarendel embodies heroism at all, it is the maverick, elemental heroism of individuals such as Sir Ernest Shackleton, who that summer had sailed off on his voyage to traverse the Antarctic continent.

If the shadow of war touches Tolkien’s poem at all, it is in a very oblique way. Though he flies from the mundane world, he listens to its weeping, and while his ship speeds off on its own wayward course, the fixed stars take their appointed places on ‘the gathering tide of darkness’. It is impossible to say whether Tolkien meant this to equate in any way with his own situation at the time of writing; but it is interesting that, while he was under intense pressure to fight for King and Country, and while others were burnishing their martial couplets, he eulogized a ‘wandering spirit’ at odds with the majority course, a fugitive in a lonely pursuit of some elusive ideal.

What is this ideal? Disregarding the later development of his story, we know little more about the Éarendel of this poem than we do the stick figure stepping into space in Tolkien’s drawing The End of the World. Still less do we know what Éarendel is thinking, despite his evident daring, eccentricity, and uncontainable curiosity. We might almost conclude that this is truly ‘an endless quest’ not just without conclusion, but without purpose. If Tolkien had wanted to analyze the heart and mind of his mariner, he might have instead turned to the great Old English meditations on exile, The Wanderer and The Seafarer. Instead he turned to Romance, the quest’s native mode, in which motivation is either self-evident (love, ambition, greed) or supernatural. Éarendel’s motivation is both: after all, he is both a man and a celestial object. Supernaturally, this is an astronomy myth explaining planetary motions, but on a human scale it is also a paean to imagination. ‘His heart afire with bright desire’, Éarendel is like Francis Thompson (in Tolkien’s Stapeldon Society paper), filled with ‘a burning enthusiasm for the ethereally fair’. It is tempting to see analogies with Tolkien the writer bursting into creativity. The mariner’s quest is that of the Romantic individual who has ‘too much imagination’, who is not content with the Enlightenment project of examining the known world in ever greater detail. Éarendel overleaps all conventional barriers in a search for self-realization in the face of the natural sublime. In an unspoken religious sense, he seeks to see the face of God. ”

— John Garth, Tolkien and the Great War: The Threshold of Middle-earth

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fitnesshealthyoga-blog · 5 years

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Wanderlust O’ahu is just around the corner! Join the global mindful movement in one of the globe’s most beautiful locations. More than just yoga, Wanderlust gives you the chance to explore several aspects of mindful adventure, with opportunities to hike, surf, swim, zipline, and kayak. Tickets are on-sale now.

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The tropics before dawn hold a hint of chill along with the promise of growing light. The sea is calm in the early morning hours. A gentle breeze fills your lungs with salty air untouched on its journey across thousands of miles of open ocean. All converge this morning, this place, this meditation. Your mind is at peace and your heart is centered as the first sunrays split the air, cracking through the horizon to bring another day to the islands. This day, anything is possible.

Hawaii is a land unlike any other. From its earliest beginnings—when molten lava exploded from the depths of the earth and sea, when Polynesian voyagers navigated across thousands of miles of empty water to inhabit this island paradise, when Captain Cook began the period of contact with the Western world and paid for it with his life—the islands of Hawaii have constantly evolved, grown, changed.

Sense of adventure? Required. You can see the adventure—quite literally—by watching one of the many blockbuster movies or series filmed in Hawaii: Jurassic Park, Jumanji, Pirates of the Caribbean, Lost, Gilligan’s Island and many others were filmed on island, to tap into the pervasive sense of isolation and the thrill of rising to a challenge. Today, locals and visitors experience the ‘aina (land) in many forms synonymous with adventure: yoga, hiking, surfing, swimming, ziplining, kayaking, even mediating.

The people of Hawaii believe appreciating the land today motivates us to sustain it for tomorrow. Ancient Hawaiians even asked permission from Laka, the goddess of hula and forest plants who dwelled in the forested realms, before hiking into the mountain forests. Today, that same love and respect for nature and spirit of adventure draw many to the islands.

Hiking the Islands

What could be more in tune with the true desire of a yogi? Hike through the mountains in a misting rain, following the roar of falling water until you arrive at the clear pool catching the abundant fresh water pouring off the side of a mountain. Moments of tranquil stillness within the unabated roar that surrounds us allows space to tap into the peace that expands outward from center. It’s having confidence to move forward in hope when trying something new, and appreciating the connection with others—and self—that grows from moments shared, moments we connect, moments we’re renewed.

Your Chance to Fly

Have you ever dreamed of flying? Dreams come true in Hawaii with a variety of ziplining adventures. Walk through ancient forests and smell the spicy sweetness of the sacred woods, then leap out of your comfort zone into a soaring experience unlike any other. Sweep over river valleys, waterfalls, and jungle in this high-flying mode of transportation. Most tours begin with a short drive up to the base of the first zipline. You might pass lush banana or massive monkeypod trees, or catch a glimpse of the broad sweep of the Pacific Ocean.

The staggering Ko’olau mountains tower over much of the island, with tenacious foliage and nearly unreachable jungle clinging to walls of exposed lava rock. You’ll strap into a safety harness and clip into the zipline before teetering at the edge of a platform and making that leap into space for an exhilarating slide of up to half a mile. Catch your breath, then hike on and do it again! Most zipline tours include suspension bridges and short hikes along with zips. Beyond the thrill of zipping, these tours can open up parts of the island inaccessible to most hikers. Some islands (Maui and the Big Island) even offer rappelling down waterfalls as part of the package.

Kayaking

If ziplining doesn’t appeal, pick up a paddle instead; it’s time for a kayaking adventure! Out on the water, you can glide along the fine line between the worlds of sea and sky. This is one time when the journey is truly the destination, so explore the experience at your own pace. Just below the surface, a whole new world emerges: colorful fish, living coral, and honu—so many honu. Encountering one of these protected green sea turtles and watching their fluid grace and surprising speed is an electrifying and unforgettable experience. Open your eyes and heart and tap into the mana—Hawaiian spiritual power and healing energy—to see the island the way the first voyagers did. Marvel at the bold colors that rise out of the water and extend below. Circle an offshore island, or let the wind and waves guide your journey. Floating here gives a sense that nothing lies behind or ahead; everything exists in this moment, and you have arrived.

Stand-Up Paddleboard Yoga

Leave the four walls of your studio behind and let the board be your mat. Even experienced yogis will find new challenges and a greater connection with the elements. A session starts before touching the water—be sure to slather on reef safe, waterproof sunscreen. Drink lots of water and have a small snack to ward off any motion sickness. Boards are anchored in calm ocean water, but waves passing beneath with move the board slightly. All that extra movement can cause people to tense up and hold their breath. Keep breathing. Let your mind take your breath back to the very beginning and focus on breathing in, breathing out, as the waves pass under the board and beyond. When the worst thing that can happen is a slip and a dip in Hawaii’s sparkling waters, how bad can it be? So breathe, try, laugh, and—most of all—don’t be afraid to fall. You can always get back up again.

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A silent step in sand, a spray of salt water, the unfamiliar rustle of palm trees in the winter—the end of the day falls quickly in the tropics, with darkness descending rapidly after the sun sinks again beneath the waves. The evening is soft and warm, colors streaking briefly across the sky as the stars appear—the same stars that lead the first voyagers to this land of adventure, where fears are overcome, where new things begin. When the Big Dipper appears, track the two stars on the front of its ladle. They form a straight line with Polaris, the North Star—the star that guides until the sun again rises. Where is it leading you?

—

Mari Krueger is a freelance writer and photographer based in Kailua, HI. The perfect day includes family, stand up paddle boarding, and being outside at sunset. She loves hopping on a plane to meet her favorite sailor in port. Follow her at Mari’s Passport Diaries and Instagram.

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ulrichfoester · 5 years

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Breaking up with Alcohol and Stepping into a Clear Life

Cecily Mak shares her personal journey and paradigm shift around the role of alcohol in her life.

“Whatever you do, don’t tell people you don’t drink. They’ll think you’re weird.”

Last night I attended an international boarding school reunion at a lovely rooftop venue on Park Avenue in New York City. I was among approximately 75 people of many ages, diverse backgrounds, and exotic nationalities, our experiences at a Swiss boarding school at some point in the last seven decades being the thread that tied us all together. I attended the reunion alone and knew nobody.

It’s always interesting to experience these types of events as a non-drinker. Whether it is a professional networking happy hour, a school fundraiser, a milestone celebration, or any of the many other types of professional or social gatherings comprised of mostly strangers there to meet, connect, exchange, possibly meet again, alcohol is almost always the common theme. Let’s face it: Alcohol is an excellent lubricant. A drink or more makes these events easier and often more fun. Our inhibitions lessen. We’re less intimidated by the unknown. We’re more likely to introduce ourselves, open up, share contact information, and sometimes more.

I’ll admit it: Though I still enjoy them, it is harder to attend heavily anonymous social or professional events without alcohol. It takes work to move through a crowd and meet strangers without the alcohol buffer. It’s often awkward to order a non-alcoholic drink and reassure the person asking “Yes, I’m sure, just a sparkling water for me, please.”

It’s also a little more tiring. A couple of hours is usually my limit. I meet the people. I do the things. I listen to the talk/toast. I exchange contact info. I have interesting conversations. Then, I’m finished. I’m thinking about getting enough sleep to be up and out the door for a run at 6am, not where we are all going to go to get some late night food and a nightcap (salty pizza and a double Oban with one rock being my historical favorite).

I am a regular at these gatherings and have been for most of my life. I was trained at a young age how to host and attend with style, grace, and just the right amount of drink. Starting in high school, carrying on through college, a brief chapter as a model in LA, three years of law school, three years at a law firm, seven years as a music lawyer, six years as a Silicon Valley executive, and now as a new entrant in the blockchain/venturing industry, I consistently attend a multitude of gatherings that include alcohol as a focal point, an essential part of the experience. A whisky tasting with colleagues in Dublin. Dinner followed by karaoke with the new team in Tokyo. Cocktails at the end of a grueling two-day offsite in Brooklyn. A wine tasting at high end Italian restaurant in Las Vegas. These are a few of the things I’ve attended without drinking alcohol, just in the last seven months.

I can then layer in the personal life experiences: twelve years (so far) as a mother with many wine-loving fellow-mom friends, eleven years as a professor (almost always hosting a round of drinks after our evening classes), and a fifteen-year long relationship with a DJ/burner/creative (imagine it and it probably happened). I’ve had my share of social and professional drinking and partying. I’ve delighted in the boozy client dinners, the champagne-soaked baby showers, the big nights out on the town with rockstars, endless day-night-days at Burning Man, sloppy family holidays, girls weekends galore, and plenty of amazing pinot noir tastings in spectacular environments with fascinating people.

If I’m honest with myself (and I’m getting better and better at this every day), I was headed in the wrong direction with alcohol when I decided to stop drinking almost two years ago. My years of “use” and enjoyment purely for enjoyment’s sake were behind me. I had evolved to a place in which I was (ab)using alcohol to dull, tolerate, to avoid, to endure. Lucky for me, I was inspired to stop before this (ab)use progressed further, possibly descending me into the grips of addiction and depression I witnessed take my mother’s life.

Choice Day, September 1, 2017 (photo by R. Dragonfly)

A gifted therapist I started to see several months after stopping, primarily to help me understand alcohol culture and some of the changes I am experiencing in embracing a sober life, has helped me put some terminology around this all. He tells me there are three levels of drinkers: users, abusers, and addicts/alcoholics. I was a bit disoriented in the beginning of my alcohol-free journey and needed some structural guidance, language-wise. I never felt like an alcoholic. I never had a DUI, I never went to rehab or needed AA. I just stopped only to realize my life is better without it. I also knew I wasn’t just a casual user either. I was drinking at least a little almost every day and probably more than I should have on some days. There were certain things I couldn’t imagine doing, people I wouldn’t see, places I didn’t want to go without a context-appropriate beverage in hand. And there were certainly mornings I awoke annoyed with myself for not drinking less the night before. But I had grown up and matured as an adult surrounded by loved ones, a social life, and a professional ecosystem that assured me that this was all just fine, normal in fact.

After a few conversations, we concluded that I was abusing alcohol when I decided to stop. This was more than casual use and not as serious as an addiction or alcoholic label. I was (ab)using alcohol to cope with a heartbreaking time in my life, to escape, to avoid, but not to celebrate. It took me some time to accept this. What I was doing for almost the entirety of my adult life didn’t look like abuse or a problem of any kind, it looked like what most of my friends and family were doing: a cocktail or two after work, wine with dinner, the occasional beers on the beach, the meandering afternoon-into-evening in wine country, mimosas with weekend brunches. In fact, many friends and a couple of family members have tried to talk me out of this seemingly austere decision. “You didn’t seem like you had a problem.” “I never saw you drunk.” “Are you sure you are choosing not to drink for the right reasons?” (This last one is particularly puzzling to me. Another post, another day.)

It all looked “normal” but I was drinking just enough to dial the volume of my inside screams down, calm my pounding heart, sometimes get to sleep. I was getting to a place of needing to drink to transition from work-mode to home-mode, from chore-mode to entertain-mode, from bedtime routine-mode to chill out on the sofa mode. I often felt I couldn’t really relax, socialize or be fun without a little kickstart. In some of the harder, final months of my marriage (and habitual drinking), I recall not even wanting to eat dinner with my family until I’d had a cocktail. Though it seemed normal and harmless enough, this meant less presence, less connection, less consciousness, less health, all things I celebrate and rejoice in today.

So, how and why did I stop?

It was pretty spontaneous. I’d met a few women in the years leading up to my own decision (my “Choice Day”) who inspired me. One was a new mom who didn’t want to be buzzed, ever, around her daughter. Another was an overworked executive who quit one day and discovered a love for running that has evolved into a thriving fitness-for-urbanites business. Another radiates health and attributes her clear eyes, glowing skin, and regular meditation practice to living alcohol-free.

I made the decision to stop in an unexpected and unplanned moment of shock and awe. I awoke before dawn on September 1, 2017, and knew in the core of my being that it was The First Day of the Rest of My Life. The previous thirty-six hours were a neon-lit array of events and circumstances that, strung together, confirmed once and for all that my marriage was over. I was in the middle of the desert at Burning Man, surrounded by thousands, profoundly alone, surprisingly at peace, and with great trepidation peeking over the edge of the other side of The Continental Divide of My Life. In this moment, I was reminded by a loved one that I needed to be as crystal clear and present as possible for at least the next thirty days. Decisions I knew I was going to be making and communications I knew I would be initiating would impact my children, my health, my finances, my community, my career, my family, and more for years to come. I knew that in order to make sure that this all unfolded as harmoniously as possible, I needed to be completely present (sober) in every moment. I didn’t want to look back on a single regrettable text, conversation, signature or kiss. There was no room for being blurry or loose. This was the time to be sharp, clear, feeling, and present.

It was surprisingly easy. I am very fortunate. I have not struggled to not drink. I haven’t needed AA, rehab, or any other medical/psychological support in making this profound change in my life. (That said, I can’t imagine having navigated these seas without the bright lights in love, friendship, and support from many amazing people I’ve been beyond blessed to journey with. Again, another post for another day.) I never went through withdrawals, battled cravings, or questioned my decision. In fact, I tell people all the time, I’ll have a drink when I want one. I just haven’t (and now that it’s all out of my system and I am fully embracing what I’ve affectionately called ClearLife, I doubt I ever will).

Cecily’s sons at Stinson Beach, Christmas 2018.

After thirty days, the positive impact on my life was so profound in so many ways, I started another month, and another. Sleep was deep and uninterrupted. My skin, eyes, and posture lit up. I started running early in the morning before work. I mastered my finances. My mind sharpened. My heart opened. I started to write again. Anxiety and fear withered into a memory. I have grown to be more comfortable with touch and eye contact with loved ones. I lost almost twenty pounds. Things that had been on a rolling to-do list for years were crossed off, energy freed up. Most importantly, what felt like a loving and functional relationship with my sons has evolved into a deeply powerful bond of mutual respect, understanding, and awe that I hadn’t fully experienced pre-ClearLife. And somehow there is no more yelling, anywhere. There was for a while, including between my sons and me.

In months three and four (the 2017 holiday season) there were a few evenings when I chose to consciously drink, experiment, yet these experiences were only affirmative; I was finished. The last drink I had was on December 29, 2017. There was a home-cooked steak dinner, a raging fire in a handsome fireplace, wonderful conversation, and peaceful sleep, but none of this was made any better by the cocktails or wine. Not knowing it was the last of the last, looking back, it was a beautiful way to say goodbye to what was no longer going to serve me.

Simply put, my life is better without alcohol. I could not be more grateful for the awakening, strength, and self-awareness that has empowered me to make perhaps the biggest decision and shift to date. And my kids are growing up with one parent who lives a pretty awesome and fun life, but doesn’t drink. I never had that example in my own childhood.

I don’t bring it up, but at events like last night’s reunion, sometimes it does come up in social settings. When I ultimately tell people that I don’t drink, most ask if I had a problem. Common responses include:

“Oh wow. Do you do anything or are you completely sober? Nothing?!”

“So, are you an alcoholic?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What happened? Are you ok?”

“For how long? Is it forever?”

“Wow! I could never do that.”

Funny, alcohol is the only drug we need an excuse to not be taking.

So it was interesting when I was at the alumni gathering last night and one of the first (and only) people I spent much time talking to was a seventy-something year old man who also doesn’t drink. He’d just finished the Boston Marathon and was more fit and bright-eyed than most of my forty-something friends. We spent almost a half an hour talking about our common education experiences, marathons, travel, our careers, and how to stay healthy into and through our 70s when we stumbled into the “I don’t drink either” part.

“Whatever you do, don’t tell people you don’t drink. They’ll think you’re weird.”

This was thought-provoking. He went on to explain that he dodges the topic in his busy social and professional circles by being the life of the party and generally not getting into a discussion about alcohol if asked. (Meanwhile I’m wondering how he could possibly leave this detail out if answering questions about his health and fitness at his age.)

I’m driven to help shift this. I’d love to live in a place and time when it isn’t weird or stigma-inviting to not drink alcohol. There is a movement underway, somewhat reminiscent of what happened to Big Tobacco. Younger people are drinking less. The mocktail (or “zero-proof drink”) industry is exploding. The stigma associated with not drinking seems to be fading, despite the marketing muscle behind trying to keep us going. A growing list of celebrities are publicly opting out of the booze. We are spending billions of dollars a year on improving health through diet and exercise, but neutralizing all of this time and money spent with a steady dose of ethanol.

I don’t want my (our) kids to feel like they have to drink to have fun, be fun, or fit in. I also want to be able to talk about this if asked without inviting or suggesting judgment either way. So, here’s a baby step. Maybe if more of us are more open about our choices around alcohol (and there is a growing number of us!) we’ll be less weird over time.

—

See the original post by Cecily Mak on Medium.com.

Breaking up with Alcohol and Stepping into a Clear Life published first on https://familycookwareshop.tumblr.com/

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torreygazette · 6 years

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Penetrating Our Darkness

Permit me to get dangerously transparent for a little bit. There are places, experiences, and days that parents dread. As the Psalmist admits, there are valleys of the "shadow of death" (Psa. 23:4). In early 2016, Alaina and I had one of those moments. Tears of joy anticipating another child turned to tears of frustration and anguish. Moments, plans, and teased names were ruined. There was a silence of which there is never full recovery this side of the resurrection.

All of this makes my encounters with Job 3 painful, to say the least. As most know, Job is the pitiful soul that God providentially decided to place before the Accuser (i.e. Satan). God permitted the Accuser to bring everything but the final inch of wrath upon Job's life. Job lost more kids in one day than Alaina and I have dreamed of having. He lost his property. His wife told him to curse God and die. He claimed she talked like the "foolish women"—apparently quite the insult.

Amidst this turmoil and cacophony of poor speech from Job's wife, an eerie silence occurs at the end of the second chapter. For whatever attack we might levy against Job's three friends, their introduction to the story is without fault. After weeping with Job, they spent seven days and nights in silence for "his suffering was very great" (Job 2:13). There is enough in those verses of silence to cover a whole Advent of meditations. In an effort to look forward to Christ, there is something more to be said—by Job and Christ—after this silence.

Frustration and Anguish

Many of us give credit to Job when he professes that "Though he slay me, I will hope in him" (Job 13:15). But few of us quote the full verse. The full citation finishes by saying:

"Though he slay me, I will hope in him; yet I will argue my ways to his face." — Job 13:15

In the third chapter of Job, our suffering protagonist breaks his silence and seemingly breaks down completely. He begins to argue his ways against the face of God. He begins to rue his very existence and laments in explicit terms his day of conception and birth.

In summary, Job curses that he didn't come out stillborn (Job 3:16). He curses that a knee and breast were there for him (Job 3:12). He pleads "that night be barren; let no joyful cry enter it" (Job 3:7) that he might "have been at rest" (Job 3:13). It is painful to read. It is agonizing to imagine the suffering of Job that inspired the words. Nonetheless, in my own exalted piety, I want to pull out my beard, wail as Job's friends did, and proceed to slap him. After seven days and nights of silence, this is what Job has to say? I'm usually furious reading his lament.

Then I close my eyes. I look at the horror in the world. Mass shootings, global sex trafficking, children dying at the hands of awful parents, and other global crises. Those don't even account for my pettiest frustrations. In my panic and breathlessness, I scream at God for all of this to just be done. Send Jesus back. End the lives of the oppressors. Oh God, let us all just drop dead and be at rest. For one moment let us rest from the crushing oppression of evil and hatred.

I realize I sound like Job. While I cannot connect with how Job wishes God would resolve his pain, I can connect with Job's desire for God to do something dramatic in an effort to absolve this world from the pain we have introduced:

"For the thing that I fear comes upon me,

and what I dread befalls me.

I am not at ease, nor am I quiet;

I have no rest, but trouble comes.” — Job 3:25-26

We cannot feign ignorance of this pain. We may not know it on the Biblical level of Job, but we've felt it. We've all experienced the consequences of our sin—and the sins of others. Some of us will try to be quiet about it. Nonetheless, the rotting stench of sin, eventually, leads us to cry like Paul:

Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? — Romans 7:24

We know the theological answer to this question. We know the answer in the mode and articulation that Paul will provide. But do we really know the answer?

Paul's answer—the birth of the Messianic baby—is precisely the event Job did not wish for himself. I find this to be ironic. It is also providentially educational. By digging into the depths of despair in Job, we can realize the depth of our own darkness. We can't hide behind "Though you slay me …" without announcing "yet I will argue." We need to hear beyond Job that Christ descended into on His own "silent night" to be slain Himself by God the Father.

Looking at the song "Silent Night" and its symbolic symmetry with Job helps us to prepare for Advent—a time of controlled darkness—and the dark(er) times of our life.

A Silent Night

There are many of us who downplay the darkness we experience in our personal lives. We prefer to experience the darkness exterior to us. That gritty we can handle. This attitude tends to go hand-in-hand with disparaging light and peaceful moments in art and poetry. Some of us even prefer Die Hard over White Christmas or It's a Wonderful Life. Grit! Reality!

Or for another less controversial example, I have known individuals who mock the anonymous "Away in the Manger" or Joseph Mohr's "Silent Night." The lyrics are deemed too peaceful—like the Thomas Kinkade painting of Christmas carols. The first stanza of Silent Night is particularly serene:

Silent night, holy night,

All is calm, all is bright

Round yon virgin mother and child.

Holy infant, so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace.

The last time I read through Job 3, I was struck by the shared and ironic symbolism of silence in Job's death wish and the peacefulness of our Savior's birth. The two are practically antithetical to one another. Job wished his birth night had been silent. He wished the darkness and gloom had consumed it entirely:

Let that day be darkness!

May God above not seek it,

nor light shine upon it.

Let gloom and deep darkness claim it.

Let clouds dwell upon it;

let the blackness of the day terrify it.

That night—let thick darkness seize it! — Job 3:4-6

Job sought a silent night to end the terror of his existence. Job perceived that in a night of quiet stillness his perpetual rest would be found. In some perverse way, Job was correct. Not in the way he thought, though. No, Job's way was thoroughly wrong. In the moment, Job believed his destruction was the best deliverance God could provide. We too, in our moments of despair, often perceive that our deliverance will come solely at the final concluding existence of all things. But Job spoke of things he did not know. Perhaps even things that Job's third chapter is not meant to point to directly. Let me explain.

Job wished a quiet night for his birth. Incidentally, his Savior would be born with little fanfare. Job wished that he would be delivered stillborn. His Savior was born to death row —even death on a cross! Job wished that no breast would nurse him. The breast that nursed Christ would watch him take his last breath—gloom and darkness apparently won on that day. But we know better. Don't we?

In the darkness that consumed my analytical mind the days and weeks after our miscarriage, the natural theological questions presented themselves. Questions of sovereignty, election, original sin, and God's justice. But we can only stay quiet for so long. Like Job, whether in mouth or heart, there comes a point—no matter how brief—when one throws their hands up in the air and wishes God would end their existence. We all have cycles of life that are this way, and Advent is the portion of the church calendar that reflects this experience with the brooding silent night of Christ's birth on the horizon. The silent night indicating how wrong we truly are in disparaging our existence.

My comfort in dark days comes from the reminder that Jesus Christ entered the darkest day I have ever experienced. He entered into the darkest day that any of us has experienced. In the time fitting the design of God, He encountered a day darker than all the others combined. Advent is experiencing and enduring the darkness knowing Christ wins. The Nativity is the reminder that God has already entered the darkness with His impenetrable light. Advent is screaming in frustration and despair waiting for the baby who will quietly go to His death. The Nativity is the gentle voice of my Savior calling the weak and wounded.

Job said:

Let the stars of its dawn be dark;

let it hope for light, but have none — Job 3:9

But Advent teaches us to sing:

Silent night, holy night,

Son of God, love's pure light;

Radiant beams from thy holy face

With the dawn of redeeming grace,

Jesus, Lord, at thy birth,

Jesus, Lord, at thy birth.

The Advent season is the perfect time to reflect on our individual Job-like moments and realize that Christ is about to enter into them with healing in His wings. The Advent season prepares our heart, mind, and soul for the darkness that occurs throughout our life. It reminds us to rely not on any extinction of existence but the Christ who penetrated our deepest darkness and conquered them in His death.

#Advent #Job #Death #Light

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ulrichfoester · 5 years

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Breaking up with Alcohol and Stepping into a Clear Life

Cecily Mak shares her personal journey and paradigm shift around the role of alcohol in her life. A clarifying moment in time, the realization that her marriage was over, was the catalyst. Shortly after, she admitted to herself that, yes, she had been abusing alcohol.

“Whatever you do, don’t tell people you don’t drink. They’ll think you’re weird.”

Choice Day, September 1, 2017 (photo by R. Dragonfly)

So, how and why did I stop?

Cecily’s sons at Stinson Beach, Christmas 2018.

“Oh wow. Do you do anything or are you completely sober? Nothing?!”

“So, are you an alcoholic?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What happened? Are you ok?”

“For how long? Is it forever?”

“Wow! I could never do that.”

Funny, alcohol is the only drug we need an excuse to not be taking.

“Whatever you do, don’t tell people you don’t drink. They’ll think you’re weird.”

Breaking up with Alcohol and Stepping into a Clear Life published first on https://familycookwareshop.tumblr.com/

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