Mysteries of Isis, part 8 – the Wholeness of Osiris

osiris isis

This  post continues the previous ones about Isis – to remind myself Who she is.  The next  post will conclude this series with Dion Fortune’s invocation of Isis as “the Sea Priestess”.

To label an aggressive militant virus loosely as “isis” is a misnomer, unconsciously perverting and undermining our human-ness and capacity to heal.  The women and girls are attacked, stoned, tortured or infected in that mindset, which mindlessly destroys ancient sacred places.

Our genetic vitality as men and women, stems from the archetypal wisdoms and mythologies of the ancient world.  Isis is – at our thoughtless peril – trampled, forgotten or abused. In the mirror of every culture, she  is what we truly are, the light and the shadow.  As the goddess of the Moon she rules the tides of our psychology;  as Gaia she is our Earth.

What can we do?

Recognise the daily corporate hypnosis under which we lie, under which we dream as slaves, accepting belief – and wake up.  It is better to see and be aware of the venom than to step right into it.  The problem is not in other lands, politics or ideologies – it starts HERE, with what we care about.

Remember who we are.  Find and grow from our roots, and be an example to our children.  Let it spread.  No frozen society out there can do it.  I and you are in HERE – the open reality we create.  Individual awakenings send ripples far and wide, and change things.

Here is another chapter from my “Arcanum Two” (1991, 2011):


The sea near Tintagel

The sea near Tintagel


September 1991 – The Wholeness of Osiris: Precession of the Equinox:
What are the scattered pieces, the fragments of Osiris?   Typhon, the god of titanic entropy or disorder, slew and scattered fourteen parts of Osiris the Law-giver up and down the black land.   Isis wept over, gathered and conceived from them the child HORUS, of herself and her womb-brother Osiris.

Plutarch – an initiate – tells of Horus’s battle with Typhon to avenge his father:
“We are … told that among the great numbers who were continually deserting from Typho’s party was his concubine Thueris.   A serpent pursuing her as she was coming over to Horus, was slain by her soldiers.        The memory of this action, they say, is still preserved in the cord which is thrown into the midst of their assemblies and then chopped into pieces.

Afterwards it came to a battle between them which lasted many days.   But victory at length inclined to Horus, Typhon himself being taken prisoner.   Isis however, to whose custody Typhon was committed, was so far from putting him to death that she even loosed his bonds and set him free.   This action of his mother so extremely incensed Horus that he laid hands upon her and pulled off the ensign of royalty which she wore on her head.   Thoth(Hermes/mercurial) clapped onto Isis instead a helmet made in the shape of an ox’s head.

“After this, Typhon publicly accused Horus of bastardy.   But with the help of Thoth the legitimacy of Horus was fully established by the judgement of the gods themselves.   After this there were two other battles fought between them, in both of which Typhon had the worst.   Furthermore, Isis is said to have kept company with Osiris after his death, and in consequence to have brought forth Harpocrates, who came into the world before his time and lame in his lower limbs.”

Apollo 2002


In Plutarch’s account Horus was conceived before the fragmentation; he was conceived indeed in the mutual affection of Osiris and Isis as siblings in the womb of their mother before they were born.   And Horus became known to the Greeks as Apollo, the god or radiance of the Sun’s (physical) chariot.

What are those scattered fragments of Osiris?

When they are put back together he is brought to life.

Note this: he is brought to life, a life beyond the concept of beginning or ending with the fragments. Instantly it springs to being, and has always been.   It crosses the plane of fragmentary knowledge.

The fragments are perhaps the multiple and illusory costumes, lifetimes, of the body. The fragments are what remains of the Alexandrian Library – the wisdom of the ancient world. They arise among the disappearance of Self-knowledge into ignorance, into the pockets of spacetime called maya, or matter or “separate” incarnations.


arcanum 9, hermit

The initiate, entering the cave of “sleep” emerges as a bird from a tiny opening deep in the heart lotus. The pocket of space and time falls away. The chamber of all the worlds – the whole of the Great Pyramid – is open to his flight of seeing.   He awakens from the trap of time.

The wholeness of OSIRIS is a dimension of which the visible shapes of his body or any of his parts are only sections in time and space across it, apparently disparate.

Apollo 2002 - 2

The reality of OSIRIS is a Great Circle; like a “lunar” or “solar” orbit of human cycles of life on earth towards Reintegration.   It abides beyond and within the visible spheres.   The visible bodies in the night are only allegories.   Osiris and Isis are a Mystery Play of reflected light whose phases, on the Moon, seek unity.   I wonder if this relates to the Great Circle (25,800 years) or precession of the equinox around the ages of history … his story?

The combined action of solar and lunar gravity causes the polar axis of earth to ‘wobble’ or describe a slow dance around itself.   This exposes the terrestrial magnetic field to subtle changes in alignment with the constellations.   The turning of a mystic dervish expresses this.

The rhythmic cycles of our local perception or Universe, the times for plants to grow and for human beings to awaken dormant strata to the light, seem to be governed by Osiris and his sister Isis from a plane transcending that of the zodiac (the planetary/psychological frame of reference.)   Neither of them represents solely the Sun (gold) or the Moon (silver).   Their mystery dance describes their cyclic relationship.   Osiris, known as the Sun of the Dead, appears as the Sun’s light upon phases (death and resurrection) of the Moon, particularly as it waxes.   But he derives from ‘RA’ or ‘PTAH’ of a primordial LIGHT.

The rhythmic breath of Osiris and Isis governs the solar System as a whole.   Perhaps they are analogous to the galaxy or, more locally, to the nodes of intersecting planetary orbits, the petals of the Great rose.   They dwell outside the measure of planetary time, while remaining inside cosmos, the Divine Circle inscribed by Thoth within atoms and stars.   The name of their son HORUS means ‘Time’ and also the eye of the eagle.   The higher the eagle flies the smaller appears the space-time context, and the larger is the view around it.

cross & pyramid

From the raised apex of the Pyramid which is its centre, an edifice can be viewed.   The plane of the base has four sides; at the point ‘above’, where they meet, they are simultaneous.   This raised point is simultaneously the length, breadth and depth of the world around.   It is the stance of rectitude, of truth. The fourth dimension cancels opinion and division, because as there is no separation between things, there are no ‘things’ themselves.

Eye of Ra

The Eye of RA, the primordial SUN, is this hieroglyph for the eagle HORUS, the Oudja“The Right Eye of the Supreme Being is the Sun, and his Left Eye is the Moon.”

In the old stories the left eye of Horus, wounded by Typnon/Seth is repaired by Thoth.   Thoth, Master of writing, of sciences and of time, has again and again to separate the two combatents, gather together the fragments of the hurt Eye and heal them into a unity greater than the sum of their parts.

The Emerald Tablet of Hermes states:
“Thou shalt separate earth from fire, the subtle from the gross,
with prudence, understanding and modesty.
The Great Action rises up from the earth to the heavens
and returns again to the earth,
taking into itself the power of the Above and the Below.
Thus you will obtain the glory of the Whole world.

In the organism of the whole, the left eye has all the adventures for it receives, it is YIN; and the right eye performs the synthesis for it gives, it is YANG.   Healers know intuitively that the ‘energy’ which cures fractions of the body and soul in mass, utilizes a ‘higher power’ of light beyond the small area of their differences.   Isis and Osiris are a profound and esoteric resonance of the solar and lunar pulse in nature; their mutually embracing TAO.

Creation etc


The Great Circle and the Egg
In working with ISIS, the priestess of the Second arcanum, I feel like a ‘broken’ circle, which desires completion into a circuit.  Electrically the current propels this urge over a vaccuum to return to itself.   The divine Circle fell from the edgeless sphere into the elliptical distortion of a mental universe which oscillates between two poles.

This happens when the conjecturing mind pushes harder and harder at its own frontier.   It constructs hypotheses, wanting everything to “fit” and falls exhausted and dead into flat paper.   “So What?”   What is the good of writing symphonies about silence, if there is no silence here, if waves of irritation immediately arise when the telephone doesn’t work, when the water mains is turned off, when gadgets are all-important, when fatigue snaps?

The orbital rhythms of the planets are egg shaped.   Within them shines the perfect golden sphere of their birth, our yearning for them to be simply that.   They move around the Sun, carrying interior Suns.   Every feature of the visible universe is a dance of assymetry towards that unchanging ideal.   Within my door of perception, this moves and changes and becomes the creation of matter and time.   Re-cognition of ‘TWO’ catalyzes a movement towards ‘ONE’ which is ‘THREE’.   The flow of current, its friction into photons or ‘particle-waves’ of light, sets up the paradox of ‘movement’ with ‘not-movement’; a relativity.

Osiris and Thoth

In these explorations, I am driven by beauty. The aesthetic sense has its own limitations, because it wants to make things conform to it. The mind builds castles, and becomes over taxed. The truth, being beauty, has no expectation.   It is better to keep quiet, and to trust that truth is beauty, and needs no grandiose support or justification.   In the absence of these, I become still.

mid wales 4

When recognised, the testament to human beauty – a Bach cello suite, a Botticelli angel, the wind, the sea, the birds, the high pre-Cambrian moorland of mid Wales, and the colours of earth, water and autumn leaves – awakens again in its natural element.   With a scented rose in the garden, who needs to construct one in the firmament, out of sight?   And yet … those ones, those mansions in the subconscious, are special cultivations, seeds of wisdom. They bloom there undying … the garden for everyman to find.

Letter Gimel - wheatsheaf

Letter Gimel – wheatsheaf

small beit

The letters BEIT and GIMEL  echo but are not quite the same as the Firmament which is silence.

mid wales 2

*  *

Gimel – and Into the Street
Going out now, late evening, into the street for groceries, I find – though very tired – an intense awareness of the field of space between me and each other person I see along the crowded pavement outside Waitrose.   The world is differentiated.   My eyesight retreats to within my spine. between the wings, and shows to me each person, each object, with clarity and without comment.  Even the existence of my uppity ego has clarity, without comment.

If I hope to travel into being ‘Not Two’, it makes good sense to know what the condition of ‘Two’ really is.   How can this be done without becoming lovingly interested in it?   How much of life is spent bundling along and totally unaware even of duality and separate objects and the space between us?   Those separate beings, mobile screens of history and inner-life, are comets who trail their births behind them, the invisible tale growing endlessly longer. They register within me with a sensation now of … something like hard diamonds.   Each one is this hard and shiny rock of light… like being a jeweller.   Who cut the first diamond?

Who cast the first stone?

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone at her,” said Jesus scribbling vaguely on the ground when the elders all crowded indignantly round the repentant prostitute and asked what to do.

When I am out in the street like this, words, poems, riddles, fragments of koans come, to be stopped and written down.   They are traces, incomplete, of little fish sliding away, they are mischievous mercurial promptings, of the mind that will not rest.   They are like the voice which delivers an enigma between waking and sleep. It sounds like a perfect capsule for unremembered truth.

I did much free-wheeling with these promptings, for years encouraging and writing them down. They lead to my oracle, the inner ruler.   But if I become too enamoured of them, they no longer guide but exhaust me – the froth and foam, but not the water of life itself.

Mental metal-fatigue is a painful exercise.   What poetic fancies about Osiris and Isis can reach me here?   They seem now to be only a way to pass the time, with a risk of redundancy. They seem to be effluents of arrogant cardinals in the church.   What of my limited aesthetic of circles beyond the circles in the invisible sky, right now, when the birds have flown?   What on earth do I know about it?   They were pictures only in my mind, and now I cannot read.   Creative artists are bored children.

I feel it is up to each of us as we individuate, to discover mythology and follow it upstream in a way which is unique and meaningful.  The paths on a mountain are of infinite variety and relationship;  they connect and lead towards the peak which dissolves them all.

It is natural to be tired, and to let Isis, the oceanic subconscious, sink back into the tide:  to breathe in and out;  to sleep and wake.


quantock trees

quantock trees

At home I read in a little book by Sundaresa Iyer:
“I am the Present ever present, so I am not newly discovered or obtained.   Only I have no delusion about myself.   I am unborn so death cannot affect me.   For me death does not mean the loss of a body, whether gross, subtle or causal.   To me death means only identifying the Self with the non-self.   This is intoxication, and this intoxication is Death.   So has Sri Ramana Maharshi taught.

“ … caught and drew his normal consciousness deeper and deeper inward into that in which nothing but Itself is seen or heard or known, in which there is not the shining of the sun, the moon or the stars, but which is all these and fullness Itself.

“Abidance in the Void is firmness.”

Ramana - my earliest complete sketch of him

Ramana – my earliest complete sketch of him


The Mother of God
I have one more small point to investigate in the interest of these Horns of Isis. My diversions into malleable symbolic history are as satisfying as writing poetry.   As follows:

Hermes Trismegistus in Virgin of the World declares that:   “Over the earth and sea he reigns who nourishes all mortal creatures, the plants and fruitbearing trees and whose name is Zeus Serapis.”   This is Jupiter. This deity symbolises expansion and grace. In the psychological Tree of Life, Hesed is represented by Jupiter.

Tao Tree of Life 17 3 93


I want to look briefly into the idea of the Apis bull, for I read in a scholarly book by the keeper of Egyptian antiquities at the British Museum, that the name “Serapis” is derived from Osiris-Apis.   Apis is a symbol of power and fertility, associated with the god PTAH. PTAH is the expression of primaeval creative power in the cycle of Osiris. Serapis was a Ptolomeic deity who acted as a bridge from Egyptian mystery to Greek philosophy.   He was a benign bearded and Jovian character, with a great interest in death and funerary ceremonial.

the mrs bs, bull & snake

The qualities of primaeval power and fertility were manifest in a bull calf born with special markings in Memphis.   He was kept in the Temple, venerated throughout his life as the apis bull and finally buried with royal pomp and splendour.   From the earth he came, took into himself the divinity of sky and was ploughed with it, back into earth. (“The Great Action rises up from the earth to the heavens and returns again to the earth, taking into itself the power of the Above and the Below”) The pharoahs would bow to this bull as a Great King – the archetype of their virile grace and favour.   “He nourishes all mortal creatures, the plants and fruit-bearing trees.”   He has the forces of growth.

The holy bull must be born of a mother, the sacred cow or Mother of Apis.   She was identified with Isis, as “Hathor”.  The burials in due season of these bulls of God with big throats and long pointed horns, and of their mothers, are very festive occasions.   When the full moon sets below the western horizon, the sun is rising in glory in the east.   And after the sun himself has set, the full moon is rising high and looking for her lord.

Two horns on the head of Isis are creation’s curve, the binary of two poles which carry the current.

taurus glyph copy

To Conclude:
In astrology, the moon is exalted – meaning that its power to respond is at its most benevolent and enduring – when it is travelling through the sign of “fixed earth” – TAURUS the Bull.

Tarot’s Hierophant – the High Priest, Arcanum 5 – is assigned to TAURUS, and the 6th letter, the VAV, meaning “hook” or “that which joins”.   Taurus governs the throat and ears – the faulty of inner hearing or intuition.


Like a happy assonance for a poem, is the blend of Arcanum 2’s High Priestess, whose symbol is the Moon, with the power and fertility of the bull.   When the sun is in Taurus, leaves have burst their buds, the baby birds are hatched and hungry, and spring is in full flower.   Those born with the moon in Taurus often have intuitive “green fingers”.   There is a consistency in their sense of touch with “the plants and fruitbearing trees” in the garden by day or the tao by night.   They love nature and are strong and imaginative workers in their field.   They have the power of concentration.


concentric sefiroth with seal of solomon



So it is by way of thanksgiving to this exploration and enquiry with Isis, that I discover her to be beautifully earthed, and let her rest.   The Taurean glyph – the circle surmounted by a crescent — gives this work its cadence.


bull bird copy





30 I Ching Earth-receptive 2 & Gimel

My adventure invites fellow travellers. I am a poet, an artist and a seer. I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.

This blog is a vehicle to promote also my published work – The Sacred India Tarot (with Rohit Arya, Yogi Impressions Books) and The Dreamer in the Dream – a collection of short stories (0 Books). Watch this space.

aquariel link

All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012-2014. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address

A Wild Mushroom Hunt

I am deeply moved by this post in Dan Riegler’s blog: a meeting in the woods, with his son coming of age. Enjoy!

Wild Mushroom hunt, a father son moment (via

 Wild Mushroom Hunt- a Father Son Moment I have been a single father, for, well feels like, Forever. In reality only for this last incarnation the past 2 decades. There was one incarnation where I was a sculptor, then I did an incarnation as a craftsman…

Continue reading

Tales from the Watershed: “Spelling”


Hermetic Key, 1987

Hermetic Key, 1987

“The Spelling” (1976)

Some dreams are impossible to describe.   I knew, waking from this one, the futility even to try ;   nuances of knowledge, and the “spells” integral to it receded from my conscious language.  To write it down, fetters it in the ‘prosaic’ of ready letters and conditioning.  These are meaningless, without direct access to the tool-room of the psyche.  What seemed then beautiful and vast – the suggestion of extraordinary riches – was it my vain delusion?   I had been some place other, but could not retain enough to know, or judge. 

I found myself willy-nilly starting to note down, even while still dreaming, what I could recall.   The “morning after” the vision, barely outlines what was seen and done.   Parts of it translated into H.P.Lovecraft’s language as an approximate vehicle, as I woke ;  the American writer Lovecraft had got under my skin and blended with my feelings.  Yet the vision had authentic clarity.  Additionally, Mr V  at that time admired Lovecraft’s literary style.   He enjoyed the way different levels of meaning overlapped one another as living entities in the multi-dimensional fabric of the same paragraph,  and the way each paragraph encountered and gave colour to the next.   It was like a walk in the Massachussetts forest.

I think this “dream-story” records the perennial struggle – at birth and throughout life –  with that monster,  language.   For a poet, words, when learning to read and write, as often also in speech, or in the stammered struggle to relate, are “spells”.   They are keys to the inner world, and they live and glow and alter perspective.   A spell condenses an intangible potency into substance and response.   So the title of this story is “SPELLING”.

Many years later, I learned about the elementals – invisible forces of our collective miasms and fears.


Dreams No.265   1 September 1976

IN THE dark gulf of nightmare I called up monsters.

One of their manifestations was as shadowy frog-like creatures that hopped on the sheets of my bed.   I regarded them and my dealings with them with a mixture of horror and triumph.   Many times I made huge mental wrenches of imagery and screamed out “key” words and sounds.

My control or mastery over these dark amphibious entities was touch and go, as if I drove a herd of madly galloping black horses.   I, in mortal combat with these entities, was at the same moment in alliance with them.   The battle and the alliance were synonimous and mutually meaningful, lifegiving to the relationship.   It was all paradox.   The paradox flowed in the lucid river of all that happened.   I must have talked in my sleep.   For I yelled out things like YOG SOTHOTH, and I was sharply aware at one time of the warning in the Lovecraft stories :   “Do not call up that which you cannot put down,  lest it call up something greater in its turn against you.”   I recalled these words ad verbatim in their archaic English at a time when I was very active with these terrifying forces, and very very much frightened.   I woke from time to time and dived straight back into the fray.   I turned from side to side, to realise and explore the things I must do.




There was a battle in a dark cavern under the hills with these entities, it seemed to be an subterranean river, one of them grasped and pinched my finger painfully in its great pincers.   I saw other human beings with me.  There was a titanic anger and destruction.  Yet the alliance with these lethal entities sang of an exquisite and far-reaching rosy folklore, a vast fragrance of dawn, which even in those murky caverns revealed humanity, a human race, the mountains, sunset skies, and untold secrets,  in all of which I was aware.

They had given me a small carved wooden crucifix which I wore round my neck, and which had little points or thorns at its junction.   In the last battle in the cavern it was damaged, one of its wooden arms was broken off.  At some point I woke into my bed and felt for the little engraved-silver cross he gave me and which I always wear;  it was not the wooden one and not broken,  and all was well.   It had twisted round on its chain.

Even in the victorious joy of clear vision there lay a depth of shame in my humanity, for our dark ways of trafficking, for the things that must be exposed and endured before we are free.

Every time I woke I was full of fear.   There might be mud and grass stains on my sheets.  The Lovecraft character walked in his sleep.  There is the local pressure of a cosmic responsibility.   Where had I been?   What had I done or stirred up?


Plutonic Mysteries 1987

Plutonic Mysteries 1987


My next memory takes me outside the caverns, into the steep range of mountains with the other human beings.   My whole being was filled with awe, with well-being and the fragrance of tremendous things seen and done.   I was the leader of this group of people.   I attempted to explain to them what had come to pass.   We journeyed through a forest on a high alp;   across a valley soared a great rosy coloured hill,  the Canadian Rocky Mountains.   We were chasing or being chased by a big brown bear who yet was our friend, from one mountain top to another.   This bear was our guide.   I understood and could explain to my companions everything that was going on, and where we should follow and find the bear; but I cannot now.   I had reached that state of total fatigue which finds the second wind, the air of the heights, rare and pure.   My body, languid and alive with adrenalin, could do what I asked of it, over any distance.   I was free.

We came now to the old hills of Scotland, near Inverness.   In that delicious and serene twilight of the Rose, I ran down a mountainside or almost vertical cliff, followed by the policemen in their blue shirtsleeves and helmets, and all the other people, including my sister.   I set the pace and they followed.   Though I hurtled down, flying from one rock or mound of earth to another, too fast for belief and out of control, I knew I would not fall or trip.   I knew I could slow my momentum when I wanted to.   There was a vast exhileration in this plunging race, my balance barely sustained on lightning footholds:  running, jumping down the falling scree.


We reached an upland lochan or sea.

Its shores were jagged with needle sharp rocks, the waters of limpid pure crystal, infinitely soft and still.   We stopped there.   My sister immediately dived into that lovely water and began to swim.   I did not, because I had clothes on and was bothered about getting dry afterwards, and because I was lazy.   The waters were those of the Scottish lochs and rivers, cold, fresh and transparent.   Golden sunlight spilled into their silvery depth, and near by, arose the Rocky Mountains in majestic peaks of forest.  The policemen too played an interdependent and paradoxical role.   They were there as policemen and as protectors.   They punished and cherished at one and the same time.

I went and sat on the rocks and began to cry, the waters rushed out with the clarity of the lake.   I cried with an overwhelming, yet severely objective grief and ecstasy, for being washed clean, and for the haunting, crucial beauty of a folklore I discovered.   I cried for the love of immeasurable things, in the dawn of the Rose.   Compassion, grief swelled so my heart must burst, and still there is more.   I was cleansed, it was baptism.   The waters poured through me as the world, when I looked into the lake.

The policemen stood near me on the rock.   Whether they tried to comfort me or whether they just stood by, I do not know.   I knew they understood.   They did not interfere.   It was indescribable, blending despair and joyful hope in tears, with the overpowering and sacred presence of … what is immensely beyond and greater than me.

I woke again.  Is that mud or blood?   Where have I actually been?




The remainder of the night was coloured by this experience, which returned in different forms.   I only recall fragments:  I was in America and laughed with an irrepressible hilarity at a certain urban arrangement of leisure persons in glass houses along the edge of a big green meadow – like bathing-huts by the sea:  a greenhouse effect along the wilderness.   I laughed with their entire culture, with an extraordinary welling of happiness.   And my period began with a rush of blood somewhere in a cellar, before its due time:  and so I sorrowed again, because it meant I had not conceived from these extraordinary events.   And I took LSD at one time.   I wondered fleetingly – shouldn’t I have listened, during it, to Messiaen’s Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant Jesus?

There were drawings on my bedroom wall at Manor Farm, which I had covered up with new tight delicate geometrical designs.  I had almost forgotten my Bransdale boys with great heads like ripe pods, and serious eyes.  They could just be seen here and there through the frieze of later designs which overlaid them like crystals of frost on the winter window pane.

Something big had happened.


collage 2

collage 1


I told my parents, both of them, I mustn’t try now to talk.   It’s too big.   It’s unsayable.  I knew this within the dream.   They knew.   They do know.   They smile.  Their very agreement is formidable with the secret.

breck farm bransdale

There came a time, through the days and rooms of my house with them, when I must try to explain.   It – some details – must be communicated somehow.   What if they don’t know, what if it is never known…?   – I’d better write it down after all.   “The brown bear …”  I began,  to fix it in my memory piece by piece  “ …  the Americans live in glass houses, on TV all the time for everyone to see, yet try to preserve their privacy, not throw stones –  that …  rosy dawn,  the sky,  the Cross  – pincers,  they were titan entities –  it all happened in the – yes the water, water the tears – the Word it drowns in grief and beauty,  welling up inside.  God.  Oh yes, dark places, fighting and then the light,  all of it in the waters, it happened like this,  I knew,  I spelled the code,  I did,  I led them,  it …” 

Sunset over Rhum, seen from Eigg, western isles

Sunset over Rhum, seen from Eigg, western isles

So near, so far!

How thin on the ground, like a rime of salt on sand that is left by the receding wave …    words only;  my poverty,  my recall.

My mother’s voice:   “Jane-crane, don’t forget your promise! – it cannot be ‘told’.    You can keep it safe, open bud in the dark, where it flourishes and nourishes the garden.   If you expose it too soon to common currency, you debase and betray it.   You know that.   It’s not yet time.  You might miscarry the just.”

My parents in on this conspiracy? – how so?   But I couldn’t stop talking and trying to tell of this thing.

Other voices from time to time during the night sounded a warning bell.   They alerted me to what could become an infantile impasse.   “That is a narrow world,” they said   “that dreams itself a mighty one.  It is not the craft of love.   You have heard.   Don’t entice to you a Force without the Formation, or it will rule you in a sad mad narrow place.   And you won’t come out.”

 * *

Loch Quoich


I read that the angel closes the mouth of an emerging infant for a very good reason.   To really know is to be all over again the very beginning:  genesis.   To really know – the gnosis – is for vision to grow as the sap – through osmosis – within the Tree of language on earth.

But I tried and I cried against nature to tell.

To spell of the fruit.   On such a Tree.


Kabbalah 1989, Tree of Life

Kabbalah 1989, Tree of Life




Other Watershed tales can be found on their own, or embedded in a post – in the Search box, or in Categories/Watershed tales.

My adventure invites fellow travellers.  I am a poet, an artist and a seer.  I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.

This blog is  a vehicle to promote also my published work – The Sacred India Tarot (with Rohit Arya, Yogi Impressions Books) and The Dreamer in the Dream – a collection of short stories (0 Books). Watch this space.

All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address