Our Mother, this planet, may be weary of the fissures we wrought upon her in our teenaged tantrum throwing. But she is not tilt-weary.
Our Mother may be churning by the externalizations of our psyches, our inner worlds now neck-deep in artificial light… the digital wasteland… dreams that are supposed to illuminate a silvering path, better seen in a woodland, in the dark.
She may be churning, but she holds the wooden spoon. And the truth of it is… we are unmoored in her cauldron. The holy Grail.
I do not foresee mayhem. Although mayhem there may be. I foresee an awakening … an organic bubbling of dreams, held in the womb openings of every person who dares to wax poetic, who will not walk bloodless, and with a bit of dirt under their fingernails.
I foresee sacred, intentional, slow, movement. Pilgrimage.
Seed protectors. Water protectors. Earth builders. Sequesters - roots of the plains. Tree lovers entwining their legs in a branched silence.
I do not see a king’s puritanical salvation… but a manger filled with matter… life… flesh and bones humility. Mary the inexhaustible fountain.
My spirit exalts.
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Today is a potent day in the liturgical calendar.... we light the shepherd's candle, and we celebrate the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Something to note about both of these observances, is that mysterious appearances take place in the soil and flesh of reality. The veil is parted between this density, and the more dense, yet energetically free realm, through which the angels, and Our Lady might offer revelation.
The trouble with the parameters of our current paradigm is that any of us who don't want to live out literalism, often find ourselves building rigid walls around metaphor... which ought to always be allowed to be fluid and alive. To maintain control, we need to freeze metaphor, to colonize it. A half-assed attempt to be liberated from literalism. This is a deeply unfortunate binary.
I am nearly finished the early stages of composing a Folk Opera that I will be recording and filming for the year of 2022. The last piece that needs to be written, will either be a telling of the ancient story called The Lindworm... or I will be writing a lament that tells the story of the Bean Sidhe (Banshee)... whatever the case, the intention of the piece will be to explore how whatever we exile, whatever we banish, whatever we send into the cracks, does not disappear... it mutates in the shadows and comes back, often with a vengeful fury.
Remember: the Orc's ancestors were tortured Elves.
We have banished the magic mythic realm... have been cut off from our stories... and I believe wholeheartedly that not only is the ever-growing radicalization in part due to lack of access to education... but also because of education. When there is no room for real metaphor, for magic, for the mythic proportions we so desperately need, watch out. We think education is about eradicating superstition. But what if superstition and conspiracy are a direct result of the banishment of myth and metaphor? Of the actual, over the literal vs. the false.
What if nearly all mutation comes from the energy of eradication?
The angels revealed themselves via this realm we have banished. Our Lady revealed herself through this same channel. What revelations are we shutting out by banning this realm?
We still haven’t reached the stage of surrender or humility to recognize that science and the magic mythic realm are Lovers. Myth strokes the soft crevice below Rationality’s Adam’s apple… so we tighten the tie, button the top button, clear the throat, and avoid intimacy. Our Lady pulls out a guitar, and begins to serenade, crooning up to the balcony of possibility. So we self-righteously close the shutters with an arrogant chuckle. Anything but what is beyond our control.
A form of inerrancy keeps the key to this realm under its pillow, and to attempt to steal in, and take it, is to risk exile.
So… some will find a tool that doesn’t fit the lock, and jimmy it open. Groups will build battering rams. And the more they are ridiculed for wanting access to the realm, the more mutated the ways we open the realm become, and the more mutated what was exiled will be, when it crawls back out, seeking a place in the conversation.
When we shut off this channel in the hope of exiling radicalization, we are only deferring it, and simultaneously, we are shutting out the channel where miracles can travel between the realms.
Puritanism, no matter who is wielding it, never does the necessary integrative work needed for the shift we long for.
Poetry keeps us humble.
Dancing keeps us open.
Painting cracks the window... lets some fresh air in.
Singing opens the throat... undoes the top button (at least).
Paradox holds the key to dynamic peace.
Today, as we mark the 2nd Sunday of Advent, here is a song for today.
We invoke the perspective of the angel... the intelligent presence... whose visitation and Mary's receptivity to that frequency, changed the course of awareness of Christic presence in the world.
The lyrics are:
Her heart beat in time with my wings
Her heart beat in time with my wings
Hail Mary, full of grace
The Lord is with you
This is from my brand new album Liturgy.
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Alana Levandoski is a song and chant writer, recording artist and music producer, in the Christian tradition, who lives with her family on a regenerative farm on the Canadian prairies.