The Arc of the Phoenix
And the Current-see of Re-creation
The Arc of the Phoenix is a grand narrative, covering all our mythology, religions and history, from the beginning of the iron age. The myth-makers of that era were the eponymous Phoenicians, who carry on the same business under other names today. I’m sure this isn’t news to you, but it is worth noting that the terms and conditions of operation have changed.
Over the past few months, the mechanics of reality have become more fluid, nuanced and less fixed. It might seem far-fetched to consider that AI will be outsmarted by telepathy, but it’s already happening. Facts are now more or less worthless in the navigation or creation of reality. If you have any stored away, you can trade them in for firelighters at any institute of higher indoctrination, for the time being Truth is Truth; it is what it is, non-tradable and unbelievable. The new current-see (thank you to the little bear who gave me that syntax) is your unique and sharable NOW, power-packed with the resonance, audacity, imagination and discovery of your own meaningful experience.
Yes, nice words. Is it really happening? Yes, it is. If you’re not seeing it, it is only because you are still working from an old model in your mind and expecting to see something from that. There is no current-see in the old models. Novelty, story-telling and myth-making are part of the human contribution to existence and you can’t escape your own personal narrativeI, but you can make it something to be proud of, whatever situation you find yourself in. Reality responds to your myth and the more outrageous, the bigger the response – for better or for worse.
I’ve been tracking the effect of story-making on reality for a while and the arc of the Phoenix in particular. The Phoenix rudely crashed into my life in late 2001, when I was sexually assaulted by a Kuwaiti man on a British Airways flight from London to Phoenix, Arizona. It was just two months after 9/11 and the highly inflamed FBI claimed Federal jurisdiction and launched an intensive investigation that went on for the next two years. By which time I had already torched my brilliant career.
At the time, I noted that the hotel I stayed in was in an area called Paradise, right next door to Arcadia. The City of Phoenix was named because it was built on the ruins of a Native American civilisation, said to have lived there between 200CE and 1400CE. No one knows what happened to these people, or what they called themselves. They built an extensive irrigation system that enabled them to grow enough food in the desert to support a large community. From their tools, it was determined that they were also hunter-gatherers. Their canal system was more sophisticated than that of their Mesoamerican (Phoenician) neighbours. They were named Hohokam by archeologists, taken from the word ‘Huhugam’ of the O’odham people, meaning ‘that which has vanished’.
The O’odham Nation still exists in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona, spreading south into Mexico and they claim that they are descendants of the Hohokam, which may or may not be true. O’odham means ‘people’, which is very often how original humans refer to themselves. The Akimel O’odham are the People of the River and the Tohono O’odham are the People of the Desert. It brings to mind the Ogham, as the Irish ‘language of the trees.’ It suggests to me that the Irish are People of the Trees. The Navajo call themselves Diné Diné, meaning People People, to differentiate themselves from the Dog Diné, the Tree Diné, the River Diné etc. Original people recognised the sacred essence of all life forms and lived in relationship with them on their own terms. This is not a matter of belief, but lived experience. I found myself following the trail of the original people, deep into myself.
Over the following years, the dream of Arcadia took root in my unconscious mind, yet it seemed to be in shadow. The idyllic pastoral landscape of gentle sloping meadows, the ancient woodlands, babbling brooks and still pools were clear in my memory or imagination. I could smell the air, hear the birds and feel the wind. In the old stories, Arcadia was the home of the nature god Pan, the nymphs and satyrs, but when I reached out to them in my mind, their faces turned feral and mean, so I left them alone. A district in the Peloponnese Peninsula of Greece still bears the name Arcadia.
There were days when I could see that landscape here and its magic was strong. One time, while I was working through my Athena-Medusa wound, a huge Aesculapian snake appeared in the greenhouse just when I needed an answer. On one of our retreats, when we were looking for a plant to reveal something of itself to us, a giant fennel appeared in the field that morning. Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, vegetation, pleasure, festivity, madness and wild frenzy was said to have used the giant fennel stalk for his staff. That was the only time we have ever seen a giant fennel here. The magic here seemed to have a surprisingly Greek flavour.
The Phoenix itself showed up on the 9th December 2020. I did not see it, but we were left with a pile of ashes where our barn had been. All our solar system (a noteworthy term), our tools and all our books, photos and things from our past that we had not yet found a home for, all burned in a day. The fire purged us of attachment to the past, but it was more than that; ‘other’ energies were involved, but I couldn’t name them. Something unpredictable and disruptive was on the loose.
This was when the Lightning Bearer, who became known to me as Mr Luigi, first broke through. The area we live in is called Lugo, which is from the same root as the Celtic Lugh, over whom Julius Cesar imposed the Roman Mercury – also identified with the Phoenix in alchemical texts. There were wildfires everywhere, not caused by lightning. I wanted to see these fires as the funeral pyre of the Empire of Brutality, but it was not the strongholds of the Empire that were burning. It was areas that the renamed Phoenicians wanted to clear for their next regime, the establishment of smart cities and the resources needed to manage them. In other areas, not considered useful, forests were burned to weaken resilience and support the climate change agenda. There was no shortage of clues and misdirection. The ‘Camp Fire’ that destroyed Paradise, California in 2018 was a big one. So I began to follow the trail of the Phoenix.
Joseph Nigg’s book, The Phoenix; An Unnatural Biography of a Mythical Beast, details all the appearances of the Phoenix, from its possible origin as the Egyptian Benu bird, to Harry Potter. He follows the bird, along with its cousins the slavic Firebird, the Chinese Feng Huang and the Persian Simurg, through mythology and folklore, history and art, ornithology, alchemy and astronomy, heraldry and symbology, literature and poetry from ancient Greece to today’s modern vernacular, “Rising from the ashes”. The book is full of nuggets and clues. He tells us that it was first named by the Greek Hersiod in the 6th century BCE. The name ‘phoenix’ is derived from a Greek word meaning reddish-purple, which was the colour of its plumage, apparently. The Phoenix was a key, but to what door?
The following year, 2021, the Phoenix reappeared in real-time time as the creation of a friend and artist, Daemon Rowanchilde, as he began to recreate himself out of the ashes of his former life. The lockdown policies had destroyed his livelihood, forcing he and his wife Raven to sell their home and move into a caravan. She became ill and was unable to get timely medical support. She found her freedom on her terms, by leaving her body through the Lion’s Gate Portal of 2021. She had refused the poison, but her heart was broken to see such evil unleashed in the world and not be able to do anything about it. Raven’s family were from the Peloponnese Peninsula of Greece, very near the region still known as Arcadia.
Daemon’s Phoenix mailbox, was the key to the hidden doorway that lies at the bottom of the ocean of grief. This is the hardest door to find and the one that opens the most readily, at the lightest touch. The first tones of the Creative Masculine began to move through this portal. This stream flowed along multiple concurrent pathways and opened many doors, that all led into the Hall of Mirrors where it was turned back on itself; there was nowhere for it to land. We all experienced the surges and purges, the feeling that we had broken through to a new bright and shiny reality, only to have it all come crashing down again.
“I’ll tell you right now, the doors to the world of the wild self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost can’t bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.”
Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run with the Wolves
Some doors lead to the Hall of Mirrors. I was there throughout 2022, starting things up with enthusiasm, to find them morph into something different and not what I wanted at all. I call it the Hall of Mirrors, as genuine ideas and discoveries put out into the world couldn’t get any traction. Instead, they ‘met with’ something or someone that looked or felt similar based on past experience and this got reflected back. Then in reacting to that another spiral of reflections is generated from past experience, each one with less current-see, infinitely extending the Hall of Mirrors.
I felt this on the Merlin trail that showed up for me that year. I followed it to the point where I could see the Language of Light, but I couldn’t access it. In the summer of 2022, the shadow of Merlin showed up in the form of a rooster. Later that year, another little bear gave me the syntax of ‘anchoring Arcadia’. I was still on the trail, but I felt as though I was moving in circles.
Finally, in December 2022, I experienced that what I called a Real Time Breakthrough.
“I experienced a shift in my relationship with time. Not a shift to a new ‘timeline’, but the real-eyesing that linear time itself was an output from the old radio station. On the new station, time rolls out through each of us in a kind of rolling spiral standing wave, in which every aspect of a related issue falls into place where ever it is in space and time when we focus on it. The act of witnessing, when we can stand to see with an open heart, is congruent with our experience of time. This frequency bandwidth does not support the grandiose ideas that generated the Jovian empires, with its parasitic dy-nasties and bare-arsed old farts.”
What this showed me, was that as I acted on what was meaningful to me and observed what I was in resonance with, my attention created a vortex that operated in both linear time and no-time. I was moving in a spiral, not a circle! I stopped making myself a slave to linear time. I began to see what moved most rapidly and easily into my observable reality and what seemed to falter and grind, no matter what I did or didn’t do, or how much I wanted it, or thought I wanted it.
That winter, 2022-23 a book called Arcadia, by Iain Pears, fell into my hands. This is the story of a retired Oxford Don, who writes a novel that draws in characters in his life who travel through a time portal to make his fictional Arcadia real. It is a great story, beautifully written and as I read it, scenes from the book jumped off the page into my physical reality. This was a curious and novel experience on multiple levels, but the gas on my pyre was this single line:
“What was is. Until it isn’t.”
By mid-2023, the surge-purge pattern was clear and we were finding our way through the cracks in the Hall of Mirrors. I was beginning to tune into the Spirit of Play (Lila, sitting on my lap now) but there was something else going on as I seemed to be losing my ability to speak. Not losing my voice, so much as being unable to find the words in my mind, especially when I really wanted to say something that was important to me. It felt as if parts of my memory had been deleted and it happened and it was especially strong when I was talking to Dean. He wanted to fill in my words for me and I had to ask him to wait, to allow me to find the image for what I wanted to express in my mind, so that I could describe it. I felt that I was making new connections in my brain.
These energies that were moving through me burst through a crack in the Hall of Mirrors in the autumn of 2023, In this burst of insight, I saw how the Naming Power was used to take the power and meaning of a natural event and subliminally overlay it onto an authoritarian structure:
“The etymology of the word ‘archetype’ indicates that it is drawn from the word ‘arc’, which denotes the path of the Sun from horizon to horizon. The energy of the Sun is part of us, along with the energy and substance of the Earth. It moves through our waters, energising our cells with a living intelligence and sentience that we are able to recognise as meaningful.
When you get this, you real-eyes that the “archon” is the arc on the Earth made by the path of the Sun. The Sun is literally and figuratively over the Earth and is the primary energy source of all life on Earth.”
According to Wikipedia:
“In Athens, a system of three concurrent archons evolved, the three office holders being known as archon eponymos (ἄρχων ἐπώνυμος), the polemarch (πολέμαρχος), and the archon basileus (ἄρχων βασιλεύς).[1]According to Aristotle‘s Constitution of the Athenians, the power of the king first devolved to the archons, and these offices were filled from the aristocracy by elections every ten years. During this period, the archon eponymos was the chief magistrate, the polemarch was the head of the armed forces, and the archon basileus was responsible for the civic religious arrangements. After 683 BC, the offices were held for only a single year, and the year was named after the archon eponymos.”
Enter the eponymous archon, who got his power from the king, who claimed to be descended from the gods. And who was ‘King of the gods’? Zeus. Who was born on Mt. Lykaion in Arcadia, apparently.
Ping, ping, ping – I’m honing in on the splice in the weave of the fabric of reality, where the Phoenicians cut it and began to siphon our creative life forces into the artificial matrix. Historical or mythological accuracy of who did what in ancient Greece is irrelevant, as if I could ever know anyway, when all our history has been altered or scrubbed. That ping indicates that I am on target and my current-see is active; this is something I can use in creating my own life and it doesn’t matter whether it is true or not, so long as my steps are anchored in the natural world. Something significant is anchored in Arcadia.
I couldn’t talk about it though. Mr Luigi still had my tongue. The embodiment of the Lightning-Bearer was present in our lives for a short while, in cat form. He released my tongue when he left his body unexpectedly on the 8th January 2024. In his passing, I real-eyesed that the Spell of the Spanish Inquisition had been dissolved and I could speak again, but of what? Deep in grief, I found the door and Daemon’s Phoenix Key that opened the pathway to regeneration. The original Phoenix appeared over Iceland on the 25th February 2024.
I’m not claiming that I caused the Phoenix to form, not at all, but this appearance wasn’t random either. The Earth is intelligent, responsive and magical; the higher orders of Nature are animated by our actions because they have no free will, which is how they came to be abused by sorcerers. I saw the Icelandic Phoenix as a regeneration of the original Phoenix, that was not a bird but an electromagnetic phenomena that appeared at a time of volcanic activity when the Earth energies are increasing, just as they are now – Santorini in the Aegean Sea is tremoring as I write and we are due a ‘near miss’ from the Bennu asteroid. These wild and dangerous energies enhance the super sensory abilities of original humans.
This phenomena was seen at the time of the last Great Flood and the volcanic and seismic activity that brought about the sinking of Atlantis. As I see it, the Phoenicians, aka the Sea People are the surviving Atlanteans. They did not originate on Earth and arrived here through the portals that used to exist between here and the Sirius and Orion systems. They named themselves and the phenomena to appropriate the energy of regeneration for themselves, just as they did with the ‘arc on the Earth’.
Returning to Arcadia, as with the Hobokam above, this is not what the original people of those lands would have called themselves. Some say they were Pelasgians, considered to be one of the oldest tribes of Greece and originally non-Greek speaking. Arcadia was named after King Arcas, son of Zeus and Callisto, the bear-mother who became the constellation of the Great Bear. And who named Zeus? A ‘sky god’ a ‘shining one.’ Remember, we original humans are the shining ones, our inner luminosity having intensified after millennia living underground during the great freezes caused by the Atlanteans.
Plato, another Phoenician, was one of the earliest architects of the split in the fabric of reality. He lived from around 427-347 BCE, which was during the time of the second Peloponnese War between the old tribes of Greece and the invading Phoenicians. He presented a story that he claimed to be fictional, known as the parable of the metals. In the story, all people are ‘earthborn’ and received at birth an essence of gold, silver, copper or iron. Those born with gold were qualified to be the rulers and those with other metals were only qualified to be artisans, workers or peasants. This parable was initially presented as the ‘Phoenician Lie’ and subsequently became known as the ‘noble lie.’ The noble lie being the myth or falsehood propagated by the ruling elite to maintain the social structure and caste system that supported their authority and right to rule.
Today, we are much more familiar with the methods by which an idea is introduced as a fiction and subsequently becomes real. The period of low, slow electromagnetic energy from the Earth almost eliminated our super-sensory abilities and it has been a long haul, but during this lull some of us have learned to real-eyes the workings of how we shape reality. As we move into a more active period the fluidity between ideas and concepts, that may or may not be true, and what emerges in physical reality will become more obvious – as I first experienced in reading the book Arcadia and even more so since.
A few weeks after the appearance of the Phoenix over Iceland, in March 2024, we went to visit the so-called Templars Castle and the largest gold mine of the Roman Empire, known as Las Médulas – meaning the essence, or marrow of the bones. It was a strange expedition. We couldn’t get close to the castle and diversions kept sending us off to Las Médulas. As we neared the castle, we lost the ability to communicate with each other, as if a connection was dropped. We were so repelled that we had to ask directions when we were only 200M away and I thought that there was some protection around he castle, but no. When we got there, it was clearly a Disney-fied fake, for all the money spent on it. Dean said, “That’s it then. All our history is built on lies.” And it was, The End of History.
The experience at Las Médulas was unexpectedly magical. Even though the landscape had been irrevocably altered by mining, it had become even more beautiful and we felt light and energised being there. We even found an other-worldly portal in a wall in the village nearby. Something new was unfolding, moving out in waves, from the Galactic Centre through us.
Two months later, a tiny kitten came into our lives. He arrived on the 26th May, in the hour that the moon was aligned with the star Nunki in the arm of the Archer aimed at the Galactic Centre. We thought that Maia, who had been the foster mother for Mr Luigi would take him under her wing, but she couldn’t. The corrupted predatory instinct began to move through her and she began stalking and attacked him more than once. It took three months to restore the sacred predator-prey bond and with that, my inner guidance system became stronger and my perspective broadened and deepened.
King Arcas of Arcadia was said to be a great hunter, who killed his mother Callisto the Great Bear on a hunting expedition in the woods, because he did not recognise her. So Zeus turned him into the constellation of the Little Bear, the bear with a tale to tell. The hunters who broke the sacred predator-prey bond by hunting and killing the magical beings of ancient Arcadia were the Phoenicians who originated in the Orion system. They were the men of iron, for which the age was named. They were the first to use iron for their weapons and armour which gave them superiority over local tribes that they completely subdued over time to steal all the wealth that they found there.
There were enormous deposits of silver in the Peloponnese Peninsula, with gold and copper in the hinterland of northern Greece. We’ve been there too. The landscape of Meteora has more than a passing resemblance to Las Médulas and was also created by mining. They plan to start mining again there soon. Meteora did not have the lightness and spirit of regeneration we experienced in Las Médulas, most likely due to the creepy monasteries on the tors, sitting on ossuaries and decorated with violent murals of martyrdom.
The Phoenicians are credited with producing one of the earliest alphabets based on pictograms. Alpha from the aleph glyph and bet from house or holding. The Greek alphabet that we know today was derived from the earlier Phoenician alphabet. The original tribes of Greece, like those of the rest of Europe before the Roman conquest, did not have a written alphabet as we didn’t need it. The written alphabet is the language of transactions and property, the stronghold needed to prove a claim by the non-telepathic colonisers. It stuck and lasted because the pictograms were physically imprinted into the clay tablets and stones of the Earth in this most sensitive region. This language, the language of trade and conquest, is what we know today.
The ancient land of Arcadia, rich with precious metals, generated an ambiance of abundance that resonated with the people there. It enabled them to live an idyllic pastoral life of plenty, with the freedom to develop their skills as musicians and story-tellers. These skills attract the Nature Powers, who need people to bring novelty and drama to their existence. This was noted by the the Phoenicians and they forced the story-tellers and dreamers to change the stories to support their regime. The Greek mythology we know today is an insertion that barely touches the stories and story-telling abilities of the original tribes of Greece. Like the O’odham people, they have much deeper roots.
in August 2024, a story portal opened up here in response to gateway work a little bear was doing in Scotland and England, streaming from the Galactic Centre. I felt the activation of the medulla oblongata, that functions as a circuit-breaker and the promise of Arcadia was tantalisingly close. However, we were not ready and these energies fired-up the the demons and entities we had not yet cleared. This was especially hard on Tulku, who by them I knew to be a Dragon Dog, a portal guardian.
I lean heavily on our ani-bons for confirmation and revelation, as their instincts are true and untainted. I do my best the ensure that I don’t project my own ideas and emotions onto them but, even so, I sometimes feel that I ask a lot of them. They show that they are up to the task and more than willing in their behavior, calmer, closer, more attentive and easier to communicate with. They like to be recognised for who they are in the fullness of their souls. The choices are not always easy.
Back in 2020, the first time I encountered Mr Luigi, he said, “You needed to fix the generator before embarking on this trip.” I had made a connection between ‘the generator’ and Dean and, in the strange way that things work here, the back-up generator for our solar system was also not working properly – the circuit-breaker needed replacing and it’s still in the repair shop. They don’t know what’s wrong with it. The generator is analogous to the creative masculine energy and there is still an incomplete circuit there, somewhere.
By the end of 2024, I could name the alien masculine egregore that lies behind the Phoenician hegemony, aka the archon. I knew that in naming it, I would give it the power to have more of an effect on our lives, but I I trust my connection with the Land and I had to see and feel more deeply into it, to work out what I needed to do. As it happened, the alien masculine disintegrated surprisingly quickly into other lesser egregores, that are rapidly dissolved by other little bears. As I write this, the alien masculine is trapped in the Hall of Mirrors with all those who would invoke it of their own free will. Let’s not go there.
The alien masculine operated through the False Mother. Tulku and I dissolved the egregore of the False Mother on the 8th January 2025, the first anniversary of Mr Luigi’s passing. The False Mother first came into existence as Athena. The official story tells of Zeus swallowing his consort Metis while she was pregnant with Athena. This is a reference to the total subjugation of women and the control of our wombs, as part of the law of property and succession. In ancient Greece, under Phoenician law, women were not allowed to marry for love, own property, vote or have any role in government. And of course, they gave us maritime law too. However, it was a raped and tortured child-woman who generated the animating power that became Athena, fully-armoured for our protection. A method still used today.
Athena was empowered by the gifts of the Phoenicians and subsequently twisted through the story of Arachne, bringing Spider Grandmother under the control of the Empire and the ability to weave our fates. Since then, we have sold our own daughters into bondage and marriage and sent our sons to die in faraway lands in service to the Empire. The False Mother egregore superseded natural maternal instincts, operating through figures like the Virgin Mary, Mother Theresa, Gaia, Mother Nature etc., and was always in resonance with the alien masculine who caused it to be created out of terror. It has caused many mothers to harm their children out of fear for their safety, unwittingly.
When an egregore is dissolved, there is always a moment where it is gone everywhere, for everyone and this generates ripples through the fabric of reality. However, because we have free will, memory, habits, damage and multiple levels of interference, some are still being reactivated. That said, no one has to be resonance with any egregore either. Sudden memory lapses, losing words is part of the reset and the deletion of memories that are hooked into the egregores and do not serve life. If you can’t find a specific word, call the image of the thing, person or event to your mind and use whatever word comes to you to describe that image. This is one method in which, under a different kind of duress, we imprint words into the mind of the Earth and reclaim our language. The Language of Light is the luminous thread between the image in our minds and the spoken word radiating from the throat centre.
Behind the False Mother lies the Womb of Creation (thank you to the little bear who gave me that syntax). I see it is a dreamscape, with the shape of a deep lush valley. The Womb of Creation is not a mental construct, it is the feminine Source of our reality that exists here and now beyond our ordinary awareness and interacts with physical reality in resonance with the creative masculine. The creative masculine operates through both men and women, bringing a fresh perspective and new ideas as part of our current-see. Novel ideas, words and song woven with meaning drop like pearl-rain into the Womb of Creation, where they take root in all resonant people and places.
Then, on a beautiful, sunny afternoon in mid-January, Merlin our rooster, suddenly dropped dead. He was young and healthy. I loved him and he was beautiful, but he could not crow; just as I loved the flawed eponymous Merlin. I knew his sudden death signified another completion and a turning point. Merlin was a sorcerer. He used magic to deceive the Lady Igerna, so that she saw Uther Pendragon as her husband and slept with him, thus begetting King Arthur. King Arthur was Merlin’s creation, a man of magical primogeniture bearing the Phoenician seal. We buried him and his sorcery underneath the pear tree.
The next day, Dean bought a young rooster. He was cream and gold and didn’t look like a Phoenix, but he was here and the name was on my mind, so I named him. He didn’t make it through the night. Neither did our hens. A pine marten took them all. It was a sad blow, they were a happy flock and good layers, and also part of a much bigger story. Four of them died in a circle, with their wings outstretched and not a mark on them. Nature has found her teeth and is currently, somewhat disconcertingly, rearranging mine.
A couple of days before Merlin died the farmer had cleared a piece of land just across the track for the chicken paddock. Everyone around here had received letters from the authorities, threatening fines if we did not clear the land, ostensibly for the prevention of forest fires. Many people here know that the wildfires that have burned through Spain and Portugal were deliberately started and that clearing all vegetation from the land, apart from mature native trees, is no solution. The young oaks, chestnut, maple, alder, willow and ash never get the chance to mature.
Several years ago, with the farmer’s permission, we had planted 50 native trees in that patch of land and he bulldozed it all, because it didn’t matter to him and he didn’t want to risk a fine. That was where the pine marten lived and had fed contentedly on mice and voles until his territory was destroyed. Pine martens, weasels and stoats are considered a menace but they are part of the web of life and provide a valuable service to the other animals. We put the carcasses out in the field and watched the crows and hawks pick them clean, perhaps foxes and other animals came at night too. In the past, before the EU rules, if an animal died the farmers would take it to the hills for the wolves and other wildlife, so some balance was maintained. Now that no longer happens and the wildlife is hungry and losing more territory every year.
I dreamed about Arcadia as it is now, with a haunting beauty that is barren and sterile. Lakes form in the summer where the open pit mines were; I saw layer and layer of mining, so much that I could not find the resonance of the Land. But it was just a dream, so I looked for the precious metals and they are still here, just in different places. It is possible to tune into them, to find their resonance and their essence, which is also ours. The concentrations are not the same as they were, the arrangements different and it will take us and the Earth a while to adjust to the new settings, but we are still in resonance with the animating powers of the charged field and the Phoenicians are not. The hordes of gold and silver are useless to the men of iron who know only war and conquest.
There is a window for the creative masculine to take root at the end of February, to early March this year. There will be an arc of seven planets visible just after sunset, Mars, Jupiter, Uranus, Venus, Neptune, Mercury and Saturn. There was a six planet parade in late January, in which Mercury was missing. Mercury is a focal point for activation of the new current-see. Saturn and time-no-time reset, when Saturn’s rings disappear in early March, a regular reset that happens every 13-15 years.
“There’s a difference between magic and sorcery. Magic is inherent everywhere, in everything. It cannot lie and it cannot be deceived. Sorcery can lie, can twist, can delude. It may be that you have a gift for one and not the other.”
In the Forests of Serre, Patricia A. Mckillip
Joseph Nigg ends ends his book with a new beginning:
“As D.H. Lawrence writes in Apocalypse, “Start with the sun, and the rest will slowly, slowly happen.” Springing from human hope for continual renewal and spiritual rebirth, the solar Phoenix from Heliopolis is ageless. The transformations of the classical fable and the meaning of the Phoenix through individual writings and related works of art reveal how the myth transcends historical periods, flourishing and declining with one era only to emerge in another in a different form. The protean Phoenix lives, deaths and rebirths through time mirror transformations of the Western imagination and the broad patterns of history itself, all the while embodying the diurnal. Seasonal, and astronomical cycles of nature. We relive the Phoenix fable in our daily lives – not only in emotional rejuvenation and psychic rebirth, but also in the elemental physical pattern of sleeping through the night and rising with the sun.”
Next post: Utility Switch; use or choose
