Temple Oracle

I am sitting with a thing called Mystery.

When we work with Mysteries, with things not published in books and magical tools not yet analyzed under the neon light of critical analysis, sometimes the reflections feel… feel core?  Feel true?  Feel.

So tonight I am sitting with a thing called Mystery.

Last week I went to a temple space, set off from the road by an open field with a few statues.  I went to a temple after visiting a smaller temple, and at the second temple found a space within a space.  In that temple within a temple I found a River, I cast my lot upon the Altar, and we held hands and dived in.

This is a thing called Mystery.  Do we write of Mystery?  Do we put pen to paper and process?  Do we set the map down for others to follow?  Do we speak of bone and form and plane in a way that makes the Material and the Mana become as one?  Or do we stay silent?

There are many Paths to the lands of the dead, many Paths to the stars.  We worked within and between, we dove deep into one.  I handed over keys, I tied lines, the Priestess before me cast the circle and set the protections.  We dove in.  What else could we do?

It is deeply refreshing to work with those who are working at the same level as us I think, or are further on the path.  A few months back I sent a book outline to three folks who I was considering collaborating with.  One said it looked amazing, and wasn’t sure what they could add.  One said that there was nothing to add, and that they would love to help co-write.  The third said that it was good, but needed some serious reorganization and that it needed some additional thought, but that they could be game to be part of the project if they thought we could work well together and within their crazy schedule.  It is deeply refreshing to work with those who are playing at our level.  Let me not settle.  Please Gods, let me not settle.

So I didn’t settle.  I sat with the Priestess under flickering lights as hearts open wide and we drank deep of our open wills.  Our open minds.  Dance with me.  Tell me more.  I am open to your Transmission of Truth, I am open to hear your words and see your forms.  See me here.  See me here.  See us both here at the river’s edge and let us dive in.

I am sitting with a thing called Mystery.

For two days and three nights we worked in the Temple within a Temple.  Each night we cast the circle, we dove deep, we worked in and out and through.  Each morning we slept, and each afternoon we woke, processed, decompressed, and shared collective memory to the page.

When we work with Mystery this is important.  To recall.  To share.  To see what was dream and what was shared dream.  To understand the lines between our own perceptions and shared reality.  What was our understanding of what Revelation meant?  What words will we use to untangle the truths from beyond the veil?  Let me not forget.  Let me not transpose.  Let us not look back three years from now and use the technology in a way that will not function, that might explode.  Esoteric Technology, Magic as it is often called, is indeed Technology.  And I have no interest in blowing out my own mind.  My own spirit.  These things must be done the right way… lest we lose ourselves and the machines we have made.

This is, after all, what Books of Shadows are for.  Journals.  Tomes.  Grimoires.  These are not just for finished technology, but for our experiments.  If I do not recall the details of my experiments, even the failed ones, especially the failed ones, I am far more likely to repeat my learning curve time and time again.  Oh, and as a note to self- remember to go back and look at the ones of the past when doing each line of research.

So here it is.  So here we were.  So then I am.  Time folds as I look back on two days and three nights, because it must.  Because Monday night is also just over five years ago.  I touched her life deeply so that she might touch mine.  We are chrononauts.  Time is now.  Yesterday is Tomorrow.  We fold, we dance between the veils.

This is my shroud of death.  This is the petition of my former self.  For even in death the woman I was will not lay still.

This is a thing called Mystery.  The Mystery of death.  Of a place beyond death, for here, look at me, I am still walking.  She died when I was 16.  She died when I was 26.  Will I die when I am 36?  If so, then so be it, for I do not fear the waters of the Styx.  For on the other side of the veil she that was me is waiting… and I am free to do my work on this side.

2 years ago I had a plan to do an art show called “Wake: The Erotic Life and Times of Bridgett Harrington.”  I sat with a curator, we sorted through stacks and boxes and files.  We catalogued artifacts of my life, her life… the life of the woman I was.  And- I could not.  I had medical adventures and sorrows deep and I could not hold this Wake.

And I do not need to.  Because she who I was is dead and yet still working.  By her passing beyond the veil the essential essence of who I was and who I am still has doubled in its’ capacity.  She will work and I will work and the world will be better for it.  I asked for more hours in a day and I have been given it.  I asked for more capacity to do the Work given to my spirit and I have been given it.

Our reason for working, the Priestess and I, had nothing to do with the Mysteries of death and this work beyond the veil.  But the reality is, we cannot do the deeper working if there are heaps and piles of Work that lay between us and our goals.  I cannot unlock my potential if the door before me is inaccessible.  Yes, the key was in my hand… and yet I could not reach the door!

What is in the way of your doorway?  What is in the way of mine?  I drink deep and I roll up my sleeves.  I stack, I sort, I cry, I wail, I plea.   I sweep, and clean the way to my heart.  Let me find a route to my essence.  Here, see me.  I carry in my hands the weapons I need to fight my way.  I carry in my hands the coins to pay my way.  I carry in my hands the maps to find my way.  I carry in my hands the secrets to bribe my way.  Let me clear the way.  Let us all clear our ways.  The keys are NOT enough.

I am sitting with a thing called Mystery.

This is precise working.  Both the Mystery work itself and the processing and sharing afterwards.  I have pages of notes.  They are in my tongue, my symbol set.  I can only work in the symbol set of those I am sculpting reality and body for.  And yet, here we share with the world at large, every one of us.  Thinking that we each are communicating.

I am sitting with words that Tannin Schwatzstein once said to me as a joke.  “Just because you have gone to the Underworld does not make you a deathworker, any more than going to a Garage makes you a car.”  Yes, I know it is based off a similar Christian–based quote.  And here I sit… not a deathworker.

I am river-working.  I am star-working.  I am plane-working.  I see wrinkles upon wrinkles and within each wrinkle is a star.

I am shadow-working.  I am love-working.  I am form-working.  I feel blood within blood and within each drop of blood is a truth.

Two days and three nights.  Pages of notes.  Bruises.  A difference of shape as I look in the mirror.  Understanding.  How do we measure the effect of a Mystery?  How do we determine quality of time spent?  Work undertaken?  Work completed?

I measure it in this thing called me.  I measure it with I AM.  I measure it in the knowing on an essential level.  These were three nights well spent.  These were two days well spent.  These days were years ago and are a number of years from now as well.  These days are within days, a temple within a temple.  These are tiniest of athames, smallest of wands.  These are truths unfolding, yet to have their ripples hit the river’s edge.  And oh, how they will ripple.

I am grateful for collaboration and reflection.  I am grateful for new skills, and passing on my own to those who are working with others who need them.  This is the truth of interstitial collaboration- that together we make something that apart could never have been dreamed.

Dream me.

Dream Mystery, and give it form.

Give yourself Form, crafted from your map, your essence… you deserve it.  We deserve it.  The world deserves us in our greatness.