Saved by the oracle chime…

Nearly every morning, I reach for oracular medicine, I seek to be saved by the oracle chime. It guides my day by building a theme around which I may heal, I may see clearer, I may break through from hell to heaven. As it is often said in so many different spiritual traditions, hell or heaven is a state of mind. As such, thankfully, oracular medicine saves me and others from myself (and god forbid, others) too often to count.

I noticed the ensemble of my cards this morning and I thought it was eloquent… how the written word, with accompanying art, can help you steamroll through your day. I use oracle cards, as well as the tarot, because I’m aware that this world is a spiritual jungle, as Sai Baba of Shirdi once called it, or an atheistic consensus, to paraphrase the numinous Anandamayi Ma. I most definitely would not be where I am today if it wasn’t for messages that often seem to carry perennial, timeless wisdom, as well as timely insights that later reverberate and kick my dreamy head out of some illusion.

As it stands, since we’re all fallible people floating about with our lower selves (to some extent, that is) as a counterpoint to our higher selves (also to some extent), I don’t trust anyone… not even myself. I’ve changed too much to perceive any kind of reliable consistency with which to take too firm a stand on, let alone lend my keys to anyone for a car I don’t even own. I’m reminded of Anthony de Mello calling himself an ass, in fact calling everyone an ass, how wonderful it really is from this viewpoint, and to never trust anyone, even your best friend… or Alan Watts calling it the element of irreducible rascality… and how we take ourselves much too seriously for our own good.

Well, this is so until the day I can stand on my two feet and not get blown over by the wind of the day, if you catch my drift. And so, when something is needed to knock me out of an illusory torpor of sorts, up until the day where it is no longer needed, I can’t stress too much the importance of getting one’s own misguided head out of one’s own misguided ass… than with medicine of this sort.

My soul, it feels, is always the better for it, and a sort of gladness of mien usually takes over for a short while, imbued with the youthful energy of hope after suffering for this or that reason, perhaps advising me as to what fresh or repetitive version of hell is to come next. Anyone interested in inner alchemy, or a system like the I Ching, will know what I’m talking about. Those of us wise to the ways of this upside-down world must learn how to surf on its metallic waves and land intact… with requisite smile… with a rose in our mouths, right?

And so, it’s often more rewarding what I go through here in a day with my cards, in terms of healing, than what I would count as the sorry totality of what I experienced, vis-a-vis healing, in this completely vapid and inept system, and what it offers regarding healing… which is mostly setbacks, naturally… setbacks as grist for the mill, mind you… but setbacks nonetheless.

I rarely, if ever, experience setbacks with this kind of medicine. Sometimes the truth is too much to bear at first, but with time, it sinks in, and I’m deeply humbled. I always break through, miraculous as it may seem at times, and level up. Always. And the extent to which one may level up can only be felt by oneself or another… it’s not to be spoken of… and I feel that’s because at this moment in time, at the end of this Kali Yuga, that we can hardly be trusted, that we’re all crazy to some extent. And in my estimation of where things are at in our peculiar, collective experience, intuitive feeling is always a better gauge of what’s really going on, with its power of manifestation in the Tarot or with oracle cards, than with words spoken about something or someone by someone else, perhaps even a psychoanalyst (or even me) spouting words like projection and repetition and whatever else goes for healing in the insured system.

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Patrick Rosewood, Goy Scout.

Patrick Rosewood, Goy Scout.

Rosicrusher

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