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Child of Worth: A Meditative Experience
Nov. 5th, 2008 08:51 amYesterday, after voting, my nanny came over to entertain Graeme for a few hours and I slipped away to the serene solitude of my new office at the other apartment. This month I am beginning a year long apprenticeship with Christopher Penczak on his foundational work, The Inner Temple of Witchcraft. It will be a year of psychic development, energy work, and intentional focus that I know will hugely impact my practice. It is also a landmark of renewed independence for me as I'm able to invest in myself again, outside of my role as a nursing mom.
Before the work begins, I wanted to retrace some steps from a Goddess and God meditation that Penczak leads in his Outer Temple or second level work. It has been a long time since I did any sort of involved meditative journeying. I wasn't sure my squirrely mom-brain was ready for that!
The room was cold and traffic labored and roared outside the windows. The floor beneath my body lightly bounced with the rumble of a passing tractor-trailer. My sight was dim and spotty. I found myself wandering to thoughts about Graeme's welfare, had I left enough instructions, when was the furniture delivery going to be made, why did I eat that much for lunch, oh I'd wished I'd worn warm socks. As Penczak's familiar voice spoke in my ear, I felt almost hopeless about the success of the journey. I was way too spacey for this to work, wasn't I?
The image of the World Tree was familiar and comforting. I'd worn an unmistakable path in my mind to that place. As I spiraled down into the Underworld, I worried that it looked too much like the last time I'd done this meditation. What new would I get from something if I was just reliving the old? The path through the dark woods was the same. The heatless fire at His feet was the same. And then I looked up and He was different. Subtly different, and it wasn't memory anymore.
Gone was his London Fog trenchcoat, his long and sparse steel gray hair, the greenish light that tinted his gaunt face. Osiris stood, illuminated by the flickering light of the silver blue fire at his feet, in something more befitting his Egyptian heritage. He stood strong and empowered in folds of linen. Upon his head was the golden, motionless mask. The sounds of traffic and the concerns of my day-to-day buzzed around between us like bothersome insects. He didn't speak and I felt that I was missing out on an opportunity to have a big, chatty conversation.
"How do I recapture this? There are so many distractions.", I said in frustration and plea.
Unmuffled by the mask he wore, he said, "Wear the shroud of death."
A length of unbleached linen draped over my face, instantly hushing the outside sounds and worries I'd been swimming upstream against during the meditation. I could see him better, hear him better, be more present in that space outside of space.
"Death filters out all that is not important."
I could feel that. The linen brushed against the curve of my cheekbones and settled across the delicate hollows of my eyes. Very little existed under it from my life. Love. Gratitude. The Experience of the Divine. Peace. Stillness. Nothing else made the cut. The minutiae was no longer of consequence.
We existed together in peaceful silence awhile longer. He in his Death's mask that allowed him to see only what was True, me in my Death's shroud experiencing a sense of that calm distance.
When it was time to go, the shroud was softly tucked around my neck, ready when I needed it. He tugged at the obsidian hook that had been placed in my chest as a gift last visit like this.
"Remember."
The point of the hook momentarily picked and jabbed next to my heart. That uncomfortable feeling of doing something while afraid, that sensation that was his reassurance to me of his presence.
The hook and the shroud, gifts of Death, felt powerful on and in my body. I retraced my steps and went to the Overworld to see the Goddess.
The Tree's passage opened up to a sunlit, open court of the Lady. Birds sang and the sky shone an impossible blue as I stepped out onto that wide ceremonial path to her Throne. Animals lined the path as I advanced to where Isis sat in her outdoor, roofless temple. The last time I'd been here, she'd been surrounded by children and laughingly distracted. This time, she sat perched alone on a slightly elevated throne and watched with a gentle smile as I approached. She wore flowing white robes, stunningly white, and her heavy, glorious hair hung in braids and beads, scented with an oil that smelled incredible and intoxicating. I took the last few steps in a rush, stumbling to her feet and dropping my tear-stained face to her skirts.
"Isis", I said with a choke. "Mama!", I cried with a sense of homecoming and reunion. I cried and clutched at Her, she quietly soothed me.
I poured out, in a rush at last, my deepest feelings of inadequacy and unimportance. I've messed up and not done anything of value in my life. I feel alone and low and powerless and unnoticed. The tears pooled into my ears as I lay on the floor and in meditation I felt the soft expert weave of her gown and the glossy weight of her hair in my hands. I didn't say it, but there was a "Why me?" and a "What now?" and a "Help me!" and a "I'm lost!" implicit in my confessions.
Her words, warmly spoken, wrapped around my throat as a collar of gold. She held me close and kissed my temple and said, over and over again,
"Child of Worth. My Child of Worth."
All the children from before were gone, I alone had the audience of a Goddess, One who'd made time for me and my troubles, a Goddess who cradled me and stroked my hair and smiled at my tears and called me a "Child of Worth". Yes, everyone, even me. Not as I hope to be but as I am. Me. A Child of Worth.
Before the work begins, I wanted to retrace some steps from a Goddess and God meditation that Penczak leads in his Outer Temple or second level work. It has been a long time since I did any sort of involved meditative journeying. I wasn't sure my squirrely mom-brain was ready for that!
The room was cold and traffic labored and roared outside the windows. The floor beneath my body lightly bounced with the rumble of a passing tractor-trailer. My sight was dim and spotty. I found myself wandering to thoughts about Graeme's welfare, had I left enough instructions, when was the furniture delivery going to be made, why did I eat that much for lunch, oh I'd wished I'd worn warm socks. As Penczak's familiar voice spoke in my ear, I felt almost hopeless about the success of the journey. I was way too spacey for this to work, wasn't I?
The image of the World Tree was familiar and comforting. I'd worn an unmistakable path in my mind to that place. As I spiraled down into the Underworld, I worried that it looked too much like the last time I'd done this meditation. What new would I get from something if I was just reliving the old? The path through the dark woods was the same. The heatless fire at His feet was the same. And then I looked up and He was different. Subtly different, and it wasn't memory anymore.
Gone was his London Fog trenchcoat, his long and sparse steel gray hair, the greenish light that tinted his gaunt face. Osiris stood, illuminated by the flickering light of the silver blue fire at his feet, in something more befitting his Egyptian heritage. He stood strong and empowered in folds of linen. Upon his head was the golden, motionless mask. The sounds of traffic and the concerns of my day-to-day buzzed around between us like bothersome insects. He didn't speak and I felt that I was missing out on an opportunity to have a big, chatty conversation.
"How do I recapture this? There are so many distractions.", I said in frustration and plea.
Unmuffled by the mask he wore, he said, "Wear the shroud of death."
A length of unbleached linen draped over my face, instantly hushing the outside sounds and worries I'd been swimming upstream against during the meditation. I could see him better, hear him better, be more present in that space outside of space.
"Death filters out all that is not important."
I could feel that. The linen brushed against the curve of my cheekbones and settled across the delicate hollows of my eyes. Very little existed under it from my life. Love. Gratitude. The Experience of the Divine. Peace. Stillness. Nothing else made the cut. The minutiae was no longer of consequence.
We existed together in peaceful silence awhile longer. He in his Death's mask that allowed him to see only what was True, me in my Death's shroud experiencing a sense of that calm distance.
When it was time to go, the shroud was softly tucked around my neck, ready when I needed it. He tugged at the obsidian hook that had been placed in my chest as a gift last visit like this.
"Remember."
The point of the hook momentarily picked and jabbed next to my heart. That uncomfortable feeling of doing something while afraid, that sensation that was his reassurance to me of his presence.
The hook and the shroud, gifts of Death, felt powerful on and in my body. I retraced my steps and went to the Overworld to see the Goddess.
The Tree's passage opened up to a sunlit, open court of the Lady. Birds sang and the sky shone an impossible blue as I stepped out onto that wide ceremonial path to her Throne. Animals lined the path as I advanced to where Isis sat in her outdoor, roofless temple. The last time I'd been here, she'd been surrounded by children and laughingly distracted. This time, she sat perched alone on a slightly elevated throne and watched with a gentle smile as I approached. She wore flowing white robes, stunningly white, and her heavy, glorious hair hung in braids and beads, scented with an oil that smelled incredible and intoxicating. I took the last few steps in a rush, stumbling to her feet and dropping my tear-stained face to her skirts.
"Isis", I said with a choke. "Mama!", I cried with a sense of homecoming and reunion. I cried and clutched at Her, she quietly soothed me.
I poured out, in a rush at last, my deepest feelings of inadequacy and unimportance. I've messed up and not done anything of value in my life. I feel alone and low and powerless and unnoticed. The tears pooled into my ears as I lay on the floor and in meditation I felt the soft expert weave of her gown and the glossy weight of her hair in my hands. I didn't say it, but there was a "Why me?" and a "What now?" and a "Help me!" and a "I'm lost!" implicit in my confessions.
Her words, warmly spoken, wrapped around my throat as a collar of gold. She held me close and kissed my temple and said, over and over again,
"Child of Worth. My Child of Worth."
All the children from before were gone, I alone had the audience of a Goddess, One who'd made time for me and my troubles, a Goddess who cradled me and stroked my hair and smiled at my tears and called me a "Child of Worth". Yes, everyone, even me. Not as I hope to be but as I am. Me. A Child of Worth.
