The Day Before Our Darkness Made Itself Known
Further Explorations of the 9 Oscillations of Magic
In my last post I shared how, in my opinion, I’ve written two truly great poems in all the years I’ve been writing (my measure-how the poems affect you); and that upon examination, I figured out that both poems were structured on the nine parts of the oscillation of Mū Hawaiian magic (Heka), which I unknowingly tapped into in a workshop led by the poet Li-Young Li and somehow accessed once again in a second poem.
Here’s a link to the first article if you need to catch up:
I also made the connection between the nine properties in Heka and the seven properties of light recognized by science, and wondered why science left two principles out-revelation and completion. This is probably not on purpose. I’m not suggesting a conspiracy of scientists who want to keep us from knowing the true nature of light to keep us from accessing our power and potential as conscious creators, aka magicians. The scientists are just going along with the program and the abilities of their tools. A more interesting question is to wonder how this is serving humanity’s evolution? I remember hearing Starhawk say that magic is the ability to shift consciousness at will. We have been conditioned to believe we are victims of a material world we have no control of, and this loss of Revelation/Disclosure and Completion/Convergences in our understanding is light is a symptom of our amnesia.
Why have we collectively chosen to forget something that would enable us to consciously create in the world of form? What are we as a species missing by omitting revelation and completion from our understanding of light?
Revelation is the experience of disclosure. Completion, the experience of convergence. Without them, we are like horses with blinders who rarely embody the full spectrum of our power to know the truth found in the convergence that occurs in completion.
All that time meditating on a yoga mat, reading holy scriptures, praying in church-all attempts to regain the knowledge through fully experiencing the light that’s all around us. Light is free. The sun gives it to us. In a gift culture, repayment isn’t expected. The proper exchange is another gift. How can we honor the sun’s gift? Take the blinders off. A full-spectrum poem can help. I offer it first without annotations, followed by a second annotated version that shows how the poem is structured on the nine properties of oscillation and thus becomes a spell.
That Which There Are No Words For
-in memoriam, Sandy Hook, December 14, 2012
All afternoon on the oyster farm a great egret watched me work hoisting bags of oysters out of the shallow water onto the dock to sort. It was dark of the moon, tide lower than I'd ever seen it, exposing rocks, a pile of culch I'd dumped at the edge of the marsh, mud speckled with dead slipper shells, crabs that could be hibernating. Oysters, sealed tight, holding their mouthful of saltwater in deep cups polished smooth inside by flesh, passed through my gloved fingers, sorting for market. I wasn't thinking about thresholds, how often we cross without knowing, doors opening and closing without a creak or a click as the latch catches and we wonder what side we are on now. My body had taken over: bend, hoist, dump, sort, back into the old bag to grow another winter underwater, or into a wider mesh strung on a line close to shore for market. I broke apart the fused ones, pulled the beards off mussels and tossed them overboard, rescued small crabs who clung or froze, imagining then I couldn't see them. Minnows thrashed in my palms, a surge of pure light and muscle. When I released them back to the muddy water through. my cold fingers joy flashed like quicksilver. I wasn't thinking about thresholds. I was on my hands and knees pushing oyster bags through six inches of water, sucked down when I tried to stand, forced to crawl, laughing as I cursed. The egret, who had not moved in hours, took a few elegant steps, rippling the calm. Sitting up, kneeling in my waders, waist-deep in mud, I closed my eyes, not because I knew what was coming, but to see in the dark as well. The white feathers of the egret so fine and smooth. The marsh, golden in mid-December. It was the day before our darkness made itself known, that which we'd say about after, There are no words for. Crow call in the east answered by one at my back, Prepare to be emptied. The death of innocence is one way to learn how to love. In the dark, I pray for another, pure as white feathers, a breath passing with ease through my body, turned to the low sun moving across the marsh.
Next, the annotated version showing how the 9 properties play out in the poem:
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