Ceres, the High Priestess & the Rite of the Pomegranate ©

You called to me, I listened.

     Standing in a large hall watching the Roman goddess Ceres I could hear instructing others in how to tend the countless halls where marital unions took place. There were ceremonies faced with ill planned itineraries; others by awkwardly matched couples, while in other instances, unions appeared well matched. In all of these cases, Ceres did not pass judgment, for her job was to ensure there were plenty resources available for the celebrations to follow. The goddess tasked me with cleaning her house and informed me of our forthcoming move. Unsure about this passage of “ours,” I carried out all duties despite feeling that only I would be the one moving. Her eyes were attentive to my tasks though there was much for her to administer. Was she my mother? If she was, I felt our connection to be distant. Why did I feel this way? Regardless of this feeling, I continued the errands which were endlessly abundant.

     As I worked, situations arose and were brought to my attention, frequently interrupting and prolonging the ability to absolve my own chores. Lined up on a narrow table before of me were swords that were each distinctly decorated and of innumerable lengths. Sitting aside each other in a long line, I soon understood how each situation required a specific blade, requiring meticulous selection by my hand, to resolve mishaps associated with the festivities. After spending extended periods of time in sword selection, I decided to rise and give myself a break. Looking down at my body I saw I wore a brown linen skirt and sandals. My body and mind begged for time away from my arduous tasks. Walking out of the house of Ceres, I was met by others similarly dressed. In an instance, I was greeted and invited to engage in a delightful pastime of warrior games. Playfully, others ran around me. Delighted by their disposition, I joined the game. I heard the roar of other kin who cheered us on. A heavy rainfall commenced without warning, though the sky had been overcast for part of the day. Our feet pounded the ground as leather sandals mixed water and soil, covering our legs from the knees down in mud. In this manner we continued our games of chase and attack.
     Hesitantly, I bade farewell to my companions acknowledging the importance of my return to the house of the goddess for whom I needed to carry out my final tasks of the day. Upon completion, I bathed only to find my clothing replaced with flowing garments of white linen. Looking around, I was unable to see or hear anyone who may have entered my quarters. Nevertheless, I slipped into my gown. In doing so, the sun peered through a large break in the clouds. Looking down into my clean hands, a cluster of pomegranate seeds appeared. They glistened in the early evening sun like freshly polished rubies. I noticed these seeds appeared when I thought of something in particular or felt a certain way. This idea drew me deeply into a state of contemplation. These seeds were a key. Ceres watched me from a short distance and smiled at me with joy of my personal realization. She was not my mother, yet in her house I resided for this period of time. My mind was clear, my hands were clean and my clothes were fresh and new. The goddess wished me well on my trip, blessing the seeds with her essence of abundance and prosperity. Plenty would always be provided.
     Lastly, the Priestess who accompanied Ceres said: these are the seeds which you have earned through labor and humility. Your brethren have worked in the same manner as you, awaiting passage into the other worlds. This is eternity. This is power. This is the grace of the gods shinning down on those who’ve labored to gain entry. Your work was never in vain, though at times, you felt it so. You now begin anew. Unique challenges lie ahead; take up the appropriate sword for its' warranted action. Remember the law. The king smiles upon you. You are accompanied by eternal brethren. Cross the worlds. Exercise prudence. This is the contract. The goddess and Priestess fade away, signaling the end of the rite of the pomegranate. Instantly, I “awoke.”


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An Illusion of the Seven of Cups, Part 2©

Better to be simple and under control than the object of someone else’s sideshow.

     A man of which I was unable to take my eyes off placed me upon a stool. Unattractive as he was, he was quite familiar with fame. Acclaimed for his talents, particularly his singing and guitar playing abilities, I wondered why he situated me on this stool in the manner he did. He was on tour and asked me to be a part of his show, a venue which sold out weeks earlier. I inquired about his request for my participation, as I did not possess talents for singing or playing an instrument. Confused by his fervor for my involvement, he reassured me to stop worrying as he waved his hand in the air towards himself, a gestural order for the staff to immediately approach and take me away to a predestinated dressing room. Soon I would find myself covered in hands of those who placed their makeup and styling skills into high gear while dressing me to play the part the musician had in mind. The staff emphasized how much the musician needed my assistance on stage, careful to avoid disclosing the true nature behind his request. I remembered the mention of “how my talents were discovered from afar some time ago.” They took equal care not to divulge the talents referred to in particular.
     Now ready, the staff guided me beside the staircase near the back stage. From this position, I would await the cue to make my entrance. Surveying my black outfit, I saw a green and yellow bow tied around my neck. Angered by the sly manner this bow was placed around my neck moments before stepping onto the stage I ripped it off and loosened the uppermost buttons of my shirt. Looking further down at my body, I was outraged by the uncomfortable short black skirt that I certainly did not deem appropriate for an audience. I pulled the skirt down the furthest it would go, but, at that precise moment, I heard my cue. Quick to regroup my efforts, I took care to ascend each of the steps leading to the front stage. The short skirt made matters difficult during my ascent, but with care and grace I reached the summit and stepped onto the shiny onyx black stage where soon the musician would flamboyantly motion me forward, as he yearned to bedazzle the crowd with his antics.
     Upon reaching his position on stage, he picked me up, demonstrating to the audience how easily he cradled me in his arms, as if I were an infant oblivious to the world around me. Showing me off at stage left, followed by stage right, it was apparent the makeup along the musician’s jawline was beginning to smudge too early in the show and soon would be noticeable to others. He headed to the tall stool at center stage and placed me upon it, forcing me to sit in an awkward position. The stool felt unstable and any quick or uncalculated movement would have me losing my balance, thereby falling off of it. Besides balance, I took excessive caution to keep the short skirt under control, and overall, found myself displeased at the provocative manner my legs were displayed. Sitting down on his wide and stable stool next to mine, he motioned for his guitar. His guitar needed piecing together before the audience, as this was a part of his stage act. A staff member handed it me the pieces which I passed along to him. I needed to remain nimble for the reason I was placed on such an uncomfortable stool and forced to wear such an intolerable outfit became clear. I was the side show that would make everyone laugh, the one who would divert attention away from the musician. After the guitar was pieced together, I motioned for him to commence playing while holding a microphone in my left hand that he used for singing. Without any warning, the guitar fell apart in his hands as he failed to apply gentle pressure to the instrument. Without notice, the musician could not muster the ability to sing. All the while, I watched, while holding the microphone in disbelief. Storming off the stage, the musician hid from the public out of personal embarrassment, and I was left alone, before the world, with microphone in hand. Things could not be any more ironic than this.
     I saw many friends who came to see me at the show. They felt bad the venue was cancelled due to the musician’s disappearance. When I effortlessly dismounted the unstable stool, the audience applauded, shouting phrases of approval at me. I smiled and waved at both the audience and friends who were present to support me. I uttered a brief thank you into the microphone and placed it on top of the musician’s stool. Everyone continued to clap as I exited the stage. Friends lined up along the aisle beside the staircase to greet me. They were apologetic as my chance to shine was stripped away from me. I smiled and told them not to worry, as evidently, I excelled the moment I held my ground with poise. My cheeks were warm and blushed in a soft hue of peach-pink as the audience continued their heartfelt display of encouragement. I walked away from the lip service of the musician, feeling fantastic like never before. By resigning the position of the side show act, I was empowered. The musician promised me the world but delivered an illusion, an illusion he could not maintain.

In seeing the seven of Cups, will you remain an illusion in the world of another? Is someone paying lip service via an illusion of promise? Our father, the Hierophant asks: can you break the illusion you have been cleverly placed under?

The Vision: The right hand of a person “plays” with constant rearrangement of articles around a pentacle on an altar. The individual’s hand is tied with a black ribbon/cord, as elements are moved about in an indecisive manner regarding final placement.

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An Illusion of the Seven of Cups, Part 1©

     I dreamed I walked through an outdoors Arabian market where I perused many tables. Merchants eagerly pushed to advertise unique artisan items, while others promoted articles which gleamed in the sun, sparkling like gold, but gold, they were not. After spending an entire day sifting through tables of this congested market place, I was drawn to a merchant who largely sold regional fruit. I became intrigued by one of the trays on his table which held figs of various sorts. Many had traveled from afar to meet this trader as he was well known globally for acquiring the juiciest of figs. It was apparent many had arrived after a long journey, to his table earlier than I, as they had picked through the finest of the figs. All that was left were two figs which have blackened, entirely over ripened for my taste. Though this was obvious, the merchant in his grey pants, beige shirt and grey head dress tried his very best to persuade me to buy the remaining fruit as he claimed they were in perfect condition for consumption. Repulsed by his attempt to feed me over sweetened words, I rejected the two figs on the tray and announced my intent to depart his stand. The merchant stopped insisting and fell silent, as he waited, watching for something else to occur. I did not know what to make of his silence. A thought popped into my mind, and soon I found myself wondering, was he in disguise? Somehow his facial features were familiar to me yet I could not place him, in particular, to any place or situation from my past. He looked at me as if he knew me, yet an unspoken oath of silence prohibited him from revealing the nature of our last encounter. He realized I was scanning my memory, searching for the key of our last conversation as he remained still on his withered wooden stool. His slight smile cued me, from sheer instinct, to redirect my view back to the tray of over ripened figs. The second I laid eyes on the tray I saw a new fig appear. I looked at it and without question, reached for it. It emitted a tantalizing scent, a testament of its freshness. This fig was ready to consume, picked freshly just moments ago, and now, here it was. I let the merchant know through a particular hand gesture that I would buy the fig which I securely held in my right hand. As he shook his head up and down in acknowledgement, a pomegranate appeared on the tray, the only pomegranate in the entire market.

     Extending my left arm, my fingers quickly found and wrapped around the bright fruit. I could feel, through its thick spongy skin, the many seeds contained within. I could smell the sweet juice which waited for me to devour it. Holding each fruit before me, I communicated to the merchant my intent to purchase. While sustaining his smile, he finally broke his oath of silence by expressing to me how long he waited for this moment to arrive; waiting for the day that someone would reveal the truth about the figs, which many bought and purchased blindly. Countless people traveled in vanity to reach the merchant merely to say they arrived to partake of the worlds’ most luscious figs. It was a journey made mostly for personal bragging rights, out of the sheer reputation of the merchants’ name. The genuine process of discerning quality fruit, unfortunately, fell by the waist side. After paying, the merchant, along with his table and the entire outdoors market of this desert town disappeared into smoke. Soon, I would see myself indoors in a place far away from this one, continuing the saga of discovering the truth behind the smoke of an illusion created for many to believe. Upon gazing at the seven of cups, one must confront the task of dispelling the illusion of promises conjured by another; promises disguised as gleaming, fresh and new, a mirage that leads nowhere. The person in the seven of cups is a manipulator of illusion and care must be taken to not become part of that illusion.

The Vision:

     After much reflection, I received the following vision: a small fox coyly hides behind a fallen tree deep in the woods. The more I watched it, the more it tried to hide its face. The fox continued this game of watching and hiding, yet, it did not run away. Passing my hand over the mirror, an image of a small bird appeared. It would not be too long afterwards before expedient arrival of news regarding the sly fox would reach my ears. A week later I received part two of this journey, discovering more behind the fox’s secret.

To be continued…

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