Journal The Druid’s Way

[Romolo]

May 17th

With my back on the floor, feet towards the open door that leads to the porch and the front garden below. In this horizontal position the sky and pine trees appeared to be at my feet, like the reflection in a lake. Dying, the threshold. The dead body in a coffin, when flipped upright, is standing inside a doorframe. Reminder to always flip and tilt things and concepts 90 or 180 degrees. This helps to reveal hidden layers.

On a lighter note: the spring reunion (and wedding party in disguise) of my brother was a big success, although when we arrived, the cracked tennis court was covered in pine needles. I was able to unleash my inner Gurdjieff (without the tantrums) with the decoration and set design. All the other helping hands were constantly “asleep”. I managed to guide them and give clear tasks. We ended up with lances and colorful slender banners flowing in the wind, an imaginary entry hallway of chopped tree trunks, dark bowls with flowers floating on water.

 

[Romolo]

May 21st

No sense of focus, no sense of self, little to no self-remembering. I drift between activities, leave all things unfinished, scattered towels, cold tea. Old addictions like giggling gnomes hiding behind the doors, teasing me. Sparkling water helps. I read Ursula Le Guin. Ursula never fails to remind me what it means to be human, to stay whole in a broken world, "holding fast to the one noble thing".

The artist produces. The audience consumes. The magician transforms.

 

[Romolo]

May 26th

Yesterday I found a dead raven in the garden, or what was left of it: only the head and wings. I thought of Aesop's tale The fox and the raven, where the raven can consider himself fortunate that the fox only ate the cheese. I believe the tale serves as an illustration that real tragedy is often foreshadowed. Knowing your omens definitely helps you to stay out of harms way. Life, like the fox, gives us one warning, but rarely a second.

I dug a small grave in the north of the garden. I noticed how the dead head hung down heavily onto the frail neck, like a black rose onto a frail stem. The similarities with the Commedia dell'Arte mask of Doctor Pest were so striking, that I found it hard to keep my nerve. I was too nervous to formulate appropriate prayer, but I did place a piece of lavender between his beak and some sharp blue cornflowers between the wings. Into the pressed soil, by means of tombstone, I pressed down a triangle of branches and stones, with an eye-shaped wooden shape that I associate with Odin.

 

[Aeternus]

May 26th

Yesterday I found a dead raven in the garden, or what was left of it: only the head and wings. I thought of Aesop's tale The fox and the raven, where the raven can consider himself fortunate that the fox only ate the cheese. I believe the tale serves as an illustration that real tragedy is often foreshadowed. Knowing your omens definitely helps you to stay out of harms way. Life, like the fox, gives us one warning, but rarely a second.

I dug a small grave in the north of the garden. I noticed how the dead head hung down heavily onto the frail neck, like a black rose onto a frail stem. The similarities with the Commedia dell'Arte mask of Doctor Pest were so striking, that I found it hard to keep my nerve. I was too nervous to formulate appropriate prayer, but I did place a piece of lavender between his beak and some sharp blue cornflowers between the wings. Into the pressed soil, by means of tombstone, I pressed down a triangle of branches and stones, with an eye-shaped wooden shape that I associate with Odin.

I am sorry for that raven. You did a kind act of burying him.

And, even though sad, I agree with the fact that life doesn't give us a second warning often and knowing our omens will certainly help fighting easier with the struggles we have all have in our lives.

May Odin and the Nordic Gods bless you

 

[Romolo]

May 28th

The damask rose in bloom has the same texture as the rainclouds above: layered petals, charged flower. Rain drops on the rose. Splattered hymn.

This morning I drew the Two of Swords from the Haindl tarot. Truce. Forced co-existence. The blades don’t touch but seem to walk through a snowy landscape. This helps. I don’t own this house. I am just a tenant. The card is the answer to a question that needn’t even be asked. The tarot offers the answer before it can even be called an answer, because what you see was always already inside of you. It unlocks itself. It detaches itself.

 

[Aeternus]

May 28th

The damask rose in bloom has the same texture as the rainclouds above: layered petals, charged flower. Rain drops on the rose. Splattered hymn.

This morning I drew the Two of Swords from the Haindl tarot. Truce. Forced co-existence. The blades don’t touch but seem to walk through a snowy landscape. This helps. I don’t own this house. I am just a tenant. The card is the answer to a question that needn’t even be asked. The tarot offers the answer before it can even be called an answer, because what you see was always already inside of you. It unlocks itself. It detaches itself.

Tarot does indeed show us answers before even calling it.

Like you can see on my profile posts, all the tarot drawings I did were corresponding to what questions and feelings I had, without even thinking about it.

After all, the essence of magic is this mystery which will make the practitioner interested in discovering more about it

 

[Romolo]

June 6th

Sometimes I think that I went dormant, that I went "dry" (as Crowley would say), that the flame went out, but then I look around and I see how the magic has transformed the way I live (quite literally my appartment, our garden), my body, especially my feet and hands, and also my thoughts, my routines. To use a druidic metaphor: the ritual is burrying the acorn, the effects are what is visible to yourself and the outside world, but the real magic happens under ground. Those roots go deep and they grow over time. When no acorns are planted, ever, no roots can grow.

I not only self-remember often (which, as Gurdjieff pointed out, is just the trigger) but I find myself aware and conscious without realizing it, or rather, until I realize it, like when I find myself very attentively (lovingly!) cutting potatoes into fries, full of intent, like I imagine my grandmother would have done, or my father still does.

 

[Aeternus]

June 6th

Sometimes I think that I went dormant, that I went "dry" (as Crowley would say), that the flame went out, but then I look around and I see how the magic has transformed the way I live (quite literally my appartment, our garden), my body, especially my feet and hands, and also my thoughts, my routines. To use a druidic metaphor: the ritual is burrying the acorn, the effects are what is visible to yourself and the outside world, but the real magic happens under ground. Those roots go deep and they grow over time. When no acorns are planted, ever, no roots can grow.

I not only self-remember often (which, as Gurdjieff pointed out, is just the trigger) but I find myself aware and conscious without realizing it, or rather, until I realize it, like when I find myself very attentively (lovingly!) cutting potatoes into fries, full of intent, like I imagine my grandmother would have done, or my father still does.

Very good sharing. I like the druidic parable, it really fits your situation.

Imagination and also energies we attract during our magical workings do let us be conscious yet feel very real results.

 

[Romolo]

June 9th/10th (past midnight)

I was not sure I would have what it takes to actually dig up the raven/crow (see entry May 26th), but I did. It happened on Friday during the day. I managed to "extract" the skull with rather artisanal methods and let the ants and the scorching sun do the rest. I later sprinkled rose petals over it, tied it to a string, and I hung it on a stick near the camomille.

What struck me was the size of the brain, and the color of the skull there. It has bluish marks, like marble. On the back of the skull, there is a hole (I imagine this is where the brains were connected with the bodily functions through a thick bundle of nerves) and right under the hole I spotted an enigmatic "bubble". Also fascinating are the nose holes inside the beek and the eye sockets. They have almost the same size and seem like a double pair of eyes when held vertically.

Today I sat down under the peach tree where I had found the bird. Wind and sun played/skimmed through the huge, thin pages of my A2-size sketch book. I heard corvine sounds but did not look up as I drew the following sketch. Initially I thought it was a wind compass rose, or maybe some sinister clover, but I decided to name this piece "the trap", in remembrance of the +-200.000 Palestinians who already died (trapped) in the past eight months in what will be remembered as the biggest tragedy of humanity of the 21st century. It was this skull who allowed me to deeply connect with the genocide, like a necromantic vision.

 

[Aeternus]

June 9th/10th (past midnight)

I was not sure I would have what it takes to actually dig up the raven/crow (see entry May 26th), but I did. It happened on Friday during the day. I managed to "extract" the skull with rather artisanal methods and let the ants and the scorching sun do the rest. I later sprinkled rose petals over it, tied it to a string, and I hung it on a stick near the camomille.

What struck me was the size of the brain, and the color of the skull there. It has bluish marks, like marble. On the back of the skull, there is a hole (I imagine this is where the brains were connected with the bodily functions through a thick bundle of nerves) and right under the hole I spotted an enigmatic "bubble". Also fascinating are the nose holes inside the beek and the eye sockets. They have almost the same size and seem like a double pair of eyes when held vertically.

Today I sat down under the peach tree where I had found the bird. Wind and sun played/skimmed through the huge, thin pages of my A2-size sketch book. I heard corvine sounds but did not look up as I drew the following sketch. Initially I thought it was a wind compass rose, or maybe some sinister clover, but I decided to name this piece "the trap", in remembrance of the +-200.000 Palestinians who already died (trapped) in the past eight months in what will be remembered as the biggest tragedy of humanity of the 21st century. It was this skull who allowed me to deeply connect with the genocide, like a necromantic vision.

That was very profound. R.I.P. to the 200.000 Palestined who already died.

Truly a tragedy of 21st humanity.

 

[Romolo]

June 18th/19th (past midnight)

Made a hermit staff with a glass pot dangling at its tip, which I installed above my sandstone altar in the garden. I hope to collect some rain water that has never touched the soil, and put it to use in the upcoming solstice. I realized that most (all) water we ever touch, no matter how consacrated and pure, has been in contact with the earth.

I actually never felt any affinity with the solstice, even the word itself feels alien to me, but I am open for change. This year's solstice coincides with the full moon and the end of my 9-day work with The Hanged Man and Odin, so with those conditions I might feel brave enough to cast my first real spell.

(Have been rereading my journal and @Aeternus, gosh, this last page starts to feels a bit too much like a 1-on-1 chat conversation!^_^ I appreciate reactions and comments, it is great, but I also feel like I want to keep the flow (visually/graphically?) to keep it engaging for other readers, or to keep the illusion that it is really a diary/journal/logbook. Love your dedication and this is meant as a heartfelt comment. Thanks for your understanding!)

 

[Romolo]

July 7th

A wood elemental followed me home when I returned from a trip in Münchewald. I softly cracked it off its mother branch and wrapped it in a leaf which I had picked up earlier. The elemental seems to outstretch one leg like a drinking giraffe would do, and lifts its head to the left. Tonight, in front of my altar, I was driven by a curious desire to explore "the profile". Tilt a skull 90 degrees and it becomes something entirely new.

According to Dion Fortune, the profile is the magical image of the first sephirah Kether: an ancient bearder king seen in profile. Only in Chokmah, the king turns around to face us. The head as profile precedes the beginning. It is the other before we have spoken to them, before they have observed us. Or: before they have spoken to us, before we have seen them. We are constantly profiles to each other, floating coins. The frontal face is the exception.

Exercise: imagine you are seen from the sides at all times. Pay attention to the neck posture. No bump. Chin in place. Be worthy of being printed on a coin. Be worthy of being found millenia later. Become a hieroglyphic profile. Train self-awareness of that which precedes the beginning.

 

[Romolo]

July 8th

Hate is a strange thing. It grows slowly, almost imperceptibly, but then at once: exponentially. It's interesting to be aware of this curve, and to stop it before it is too late. Put your ear on your own chest and listen, listen very carefully to the seismological activity of the heart. What part of yourself is it you see reflected in the other? What part of yourself suscites your hate? Then, as Gurdjieff says, get closer to the people you want to reject. Put your antipathy aside. This is no hipocrisy, but a preventive measure. When it is too late, when the exponential curve has begun, there is no way back.

 

[Romolo]

July 16th

Today I thought about the water wheel, or rather, the metaphor of the water wheel suddenly emerged. It happened as I felt myself getting "looser" again, lifting up water from the river of time, then carrying down the water again. This happened as I was pulling weeds, installing a wooden climbing support for berries, swiping the tiles, effortlossly shifting between tools, kneeling down and getting up at the right moments.

My body knew what to do, just like the blades/buckets of the water wheel cannot do anything else then moving in the flow of water. Up till a few moments before, I had felt so stuck, uninspired and even snappy. My day was not flowing at all. And now it suddenly was. The resistance had gone. The wheel had been stuck, and now the water was flowing. A sudden release, like a soft crack inside the rusty axis.

I like the image of the water wheel because it litterally cannot do anything else than move in the flow of the river. It just completely surrenders. It is zen: it is one with the water. Some (who believe in free will) may say the water wheel is doomed or trapped to turn in circles, but I believe it is set free by the motion of the water. Every bucket is a different task at hand. The buckets are the moments of the day. It is time set in motion.

 

[Romolo]

July 24th, early morning

Powerful dream. I was in the desert to undergo a ritual/test/exam. Numerous others were also invited to attempt the same. Before leaving (don’t remember where I lived), I decided to take one of my wands with me, a black (or scorched) branch. When I arrived, I befriended another novice, a bearded man wearing a black djellaba. Just before stepping into the cave entry where the test would take place, someone (a guard or examinator) spotted the wand and told me: “Not you. You have already passed.” I was taken to an abandoned sand marsh where the others were supposed to gather after the rite. I planted the wand in the sand. I knelt down and waited in solitude. I was told no one else passed the test, and the ceremony was completed.

 

[Leviathan]

Don't dox yourself, but I have to ask, in what general area is this garden you found the stone in? I had a garden with the plants you mentioned, with a large orange/red/tan sandstone much akin to an anvil. I found this stone on moonstone beach, and lugged it back several miles to my truck after finding it. It was as if it was calling me because I wandered for hours until finding it, at which point I knew my reason for going to that area was fulfilled. Sadly I had to leave this stone when I moved across the country for the 4th or 5th time, despite lugging it through a dozen other states before hand, and it would be comforting to know it has once again been found for a purpose.

 

[Romolo]

Beautiful story, Leviathan, and thanks for sharing. I live in Berlin (Germany) and the stone has been in that garden at least since the 80s, possibly earlier. From what you described, they must be part of the same family! I will give mine a gentle scrub this afternoon to make it shine in the sun, as some other folks would wash their car. I hope you find another rock one day. They emit a soft and healing music for those with ears to hear.

 

[Romolo]

July 27th/28th (past midnight)

Rereading Fortune's Mystical Qabalah, but this time in rewind, starting from Malkuth, and then up the Tree (so in the "traditional" sense), paying special attention to the way the sephiroth are bound together. I am still struck by the lucidity of her writing, the precision of her metaphors. Like Schopenhauer, she firmly believs that an alluminating analogy will lead on to advancement in understanding, and often demonstrates this, but never too much, so that the metaphors have space to shine. There's for instance her genius comparison of Malkuth to "the marking-buoy in a yacht race":

"Any yacht that puts about on to the homeward course before it has rounded the marking-buoy is disqualified. And so it is with the soul. If we try to escape from the discipline of matter before we have mastered the lessons of matter, we are not advancing heavenwards, but suffering from arrested development." (page 270)

Every word in this passage is brilliantly chosen. The soul cannot remain 'stuck' in psychic or etheric realms, in mere ideas, it needs to touch, express, smell, experience. This is also my objection to what I call "mind viruses" like non-duality: you feel how the marking-buoy is skipped. The person "understands" the idea (or think they do), but they do not let their body tremble like a harp string, they do not let sand hiss through their fingers, they do not arrange the crystals and the candles in symmetries of beauty, they do not know the smell of myrrh, they do not understand that the reflection of the sunlight on the water in the sacred vessels, the transubstantiation, is the mystery, and is at the core of the religious experience.

At the heart of matter lies the occult node of four elements, like the 4-digit code on a lock, opening in all possible directions.

 

[Romolo]

August 4th

Describing how a spell was cast will "crack" the receptacle of ether that holds the elements, just like ice cracks under thaw. It is something that all magicians will understand. It is the great, near-impossible challenge of anyone who writes or talks about magic. If I have been able to do so up till now, it was because I was not really doing spells, but desribing preparations, rituals, experiences, thought-work.

New Moon, but I missed the midnight mark. I will wash, go shortly outside and stand under the great sky for a while. I will say my prayer to Hekate three times, make a small offering, light a candle for Palestine, then go back inside, brush my teeth, and go to bed.

 

[Romolo]

August 7th

I rent part of a free-standing 19th century house which miraculously survived two World Wars. When I open the backdoor and the front door, the wind can blow through my rooms, from threshold to threshold. I love to leave both doors open till right when I go to bed, so that the spirits can move freely in and out, or decide to stay to dip into my dreams. My house is an orgue where air flows through. I regularly place offerings on my altar. I light dried sage or exotic incense. My own demons are at all times invited to leave. As I wrote before (January 9th), demons love closed spaces. ("They like everything rectangular: boxes, walls, ceilings.") Open doors suck them out again, back into the open.

There is something odd with the doors. What I call the "backdoor" is actually, technically, the front door: painted jade green and with a medusa door knocker; but since it opens onto the inner courtyard at the back of the house, I call it the backdoor. This door faces the North, and once you step into the miniscule entry hall, every visitor, guest, thief or spirit immediately faces the sigil of Hekate, under whose Titanic protection and power I decided to put this house. The "front door" is technically the back door, but it has no key hole: it is a French door with built-in glass and faces the South. I usually leave one half of the door open, so that fresh air reaches my altar. From this living room (where I also work, read and make music), another door leads to the bedroom (with my writing table facing the inner courtyard), which meanders into the kitchen, and back out again, past Hekate's sigil, through the backdoor. The rooms are strung together in a coiled snake.

Above me, and everything I just described, lies the first floor, which hosts a small co-working space for four people. I do not have access to this part of the house anymore, but I used to work there too, last year. Back then, the ground-floor apartment where I live now was inhabited by a widow whose bony hand sometimes dangled out of the window. She always kept the aforementioned doors shut and lived behind curtains. When I leave the doors open, I also like the idea that fragments of her can still enter. We never talked much, but I know that behind the rings and lines that marked her face, a very different woman was still present.