PHOENIX AURORA MOON (8). A beautiful name. Not many of us know her. The Controller (2), Old Self (2) and Gabriel (3) do. Belle (3) created her. We would love to change our name to that.
There’s a sense of light, sparkling, a “purely mythical pseudobird ... evolved from primitive sun worship. ... a heron sacred to Osiris, symbolizing both the human soul and the god’s cycle of rebirth or resurrection. Sometimes the bird represented the morning star.” (Paradox and Healing” by Michael Greenwood & Peter Nunn) She is bird and young woman.
A memory from Tir. It relieves some of the volcanic pressure. But Shell (1, 2) says she feels rather confused more than anything. It’s all too absurd. Someone asks her – do you not believe Shell?
She answers - I guess I do.
Our fingers feel itchy as Tir’s (1) urge to take a bunch of pills surfaces. But it’s an act of aggression on ourself. An inward turning hatred and we just get this urge to dump all that stuff down this throat. As usual though, we don’t. There is always a reason not to. And every day, waiting as the doors open one by one, the layers are peeled away to the raw core of us. Who is it in there? Who is the monster that abides within, where the beacon of light flashes off and on?
Phoenix has been waiting for us. She lives in Dead Center. In the city of Kereth. Who or what is she? Was she abused or does she have, instead, a specific function to help us survive?
Fear lives in our stomach and in our heart. The pain is intense.
An ancient legend. The phoenix builds a funeral pyre, lights it with her wings, burns and then rises again from her ashes. She is a symbol of immortality, and renewal, of cycles in life and of life. Our Phoenix, bird and woman, wears all white, her hair light blonde. While Tir wears all black and her hair is black too. They are opposites. Life and death. Off and on.
The Controller, Old Self, and Gabriel built Kereth. They built the towering walls. And Belle gave the gift of Phoenix for the Center. The symbol of Hope. She slept and waited there until she awoke in a dream 3 years ago. Then she waited for us to find her. Our journey leads us here next, to the Center and to her. Now ... inside the mountain. Lying on the ground is Phoenix and Tir, curled into each other like yin and yang symbols. We stand around them. Phoenix begins to stir. Old Self speaks quietly to her, too softly for the rest of us to hear. Phoenix nods her head with understanding. Old Self is asking her if she is ready. Then it begins.
A blinding stab of pain assaults us but it is not Raven (3), our body, that withstands it. Rather it is received by Gabriel and Phoenix together. We can feel their enormous strength, their ability to take this pain. Neither are afraid but how can they not be? Old Self builds a fire, while the attacks continue. The smoke rises straight up through the top of the mountain. The old woman mumbles to herself, sometimes singing, sometimes chanting. The smoke coils itself around Gabriel, spiralling up his tall frame and continuing upward. He spreads his arms and once again releases the Shout, the call for Power, the call to all beings to help with the pain of so many. Big birds of prey, herons, swoop in. They move in synchronization, always together, in tune with one another, around Phoenix. Then upon a hidden signal they fly up and out of the mountain.
Being dead is nothing, simply the absence of life. But this is a white death, a death of Light. Phoenix is here and so is the sense that she now carries Tir’s pain, carries our wounds, still bleeding. Tir remains still lying on the ground, has not moved throughout the ceremony. We surround her and watch over her until she can wake as well. She will soon. Of that we are certain.
Even our peaceful moments are filled with a restlessness. An impatience. Waiting for something.
Synchronicity. A healer talks to us about the raven as healer. Out running errands we come across a store window. In it is a huge black bird, an art piece. It’s clearly a raven. Next door is a music store. The speaker in the window has a label on it --- Raven. We continue on to a bookstore. A book in the window, the author’s name has “raven” as part of it.
Synchronicity. Krishnamurti. A friend of ours has suddenly and shockingly died of an aneurysm. We used to talk about Krishnamurti. In Lyn’s office a few days later, she has a book “Think on These Things” by Krishnamurti. Downstairs in the laundry room, in the free clothes area, a book. Yes. Krishnamurti. At an intersection, beside a man waiting for the light. In his hand is the book. Again.
Signs and symbols, superstitions and omens. Three times the raven, four times the book. Does this mean anything? Maybe so. Possibly it all means we are in tune with something bigger than ourself. Something bigger than all of us.
There must be.
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