a promise of devotion: weeping for the Ensouled

‘But Hel answered that a test would be made to see whether Baldr was as well loved as some say: “If all things in the world, alive or dead, weep for him, then he will be allowed to return to the Æsir. If anyone speaks against him or refuses to cry, then he will remain with Hel.” (Sturluson, 2005, p. 68)

“An object bears witness to itself in the image it offers, and its depth lies in the complexities of this image.” (Hillman, 2014, p. 74)

Listening to the sound of ripples is a way to capture the essence of someone quietly weeping. It is an encapsulating motion, revealing the eternal within all beings, that is animal, persons, landscapes, and especially the sea. For the sea, beckons us to weep. And we should all weep more, so as to create the image of music, a lyrical cadence that breaks us into a million pieces, a timbre that is, as deep a scent, as amber resin, a sound that collides so eloquently, that its complexity melts into the lines of your skin, becoming an imprint that reveals the layout of soul, the expression of your psyche, forever indelible… forever a mark on your memory. Inescapable.

Her voice is inescapable, “Would you…for my heart doth sigh?”

I know, it sounds like some sort of riddle, but really it is the beginning of a tale, a telling moment, a spark that ignites her descent, a beautiful tone that conjures the Ensouled and mythical figures to be present, for she will finally say farewell. Alda, another name for waves… my twin sister, who stands head to toe with me, will finally dissolve grief and sorrow so she can bring forth that which is dwelling in the ripples. She has been concocting an alchemical potion within her dream-soul for the last three nights. Maybe it was the words spoken by the huldufolk that inspired her; the hidden people who live in the boulders near the Reykyavik lighthouse. She spoke to them more than I did when we were children. I suppose that is why they have been visiting her dream-soul each night, since Lilja’s death. They tell her that death is not meant to be kept in a box like a trinket. She must dissolve it, but first, she must make it visible. Excavate the imaginal.

Find a mirror and weep, they sing.

So… she summons me to her, “Would you Albin, would you follow me to the sea?”

I nod, wondering…will she leave us as well?

But then, she takes my hand… and you must know… she has not done this in awhile. And so, she says, as if her soul is returning to a place that she remembers, “You will never know, what it means to watch your beloved die, then dissolve your own soul, and then make a resolution not to follow that love.”

Within her palms, I search for the weaving image the fates painted upon her hand as a child, that picture that propels Alda to her destiny. But rubbing her palm does not magnify the lines; it just reveals that her once delicate palms are now rough and stained, so many days carving clay into visible creatures… And so I say to her with a wink and a smile. “You are so right, Alda dear… I would dissolve with Aslaug.”

And then she giggles… “My heart doth sigh, and I will say good-bye… or farewell… I shall tell…” her voice breaks off.

And then she is prancing out into the sea, creating soft ripples, while Draumr, her hound stands at the edge, guarding her, for all of us need the hound by our side when we enter the underworld. This underworld of darkness, illuminating the presence of the unknown that which, most fear and most certainly, never come to witness, as the Ensouled; the collective unconscious, beholden with offerings.

So Draumr and I, watch and wait, gaze at Alda’s head surface eight times, as if diving into the depths that many times are some magic infinite dance for the dead. I would like to tell you, she is searching for Lilja’s bones, but truly she is re-creating a moment. This moment where she saves her beloved, but certainly, you must also know, she is really trying to get a look at her soul… that particular aspect of soul that is transfixed in a memory. Do you get what I am telling you? … We must imagine with her, we must dive with her… For I do, not because I am her twin, but because more than she knows, I understand the meaning of mixing balms for the wounds of the soul. I do it every day… every day that I pull the notes from the weeping tones of the gods. The ancient ones, the huldufolk know this, that’s why they come to her each time she closes her eyes… for, if she can find that reflection, then she will not feel so invisible, she will leave her loss at the bottom of the Arctic sea. And if she can see the manifestation of Sorrow, then certainly, she can see the formation of Love, and know this… it is not an invisible creature; it is a reflection of what we miss most in this dreary world, to be with the Ensouled, to laugh, to cry and imagine with them. I suspect Alda lost their image, discarded their presence, the dwelling of the Ensouled, within the lines of her own palms, when she lost Lilja to the sea.

Now… what does she see? Well… to know this, we must imagine with her. Do you know, what it feels like to give your psyche to the Ensouled? (Yes, I am whispering). They like it when you whisper. Do you know what your soul looks like? Well… it may seem invisible to the eye, but within the realm of the underworld, it is more textured, a spider’s web, a labyrinth… possibly… an emotional charge that explodes like a weapon. You just have to observe… like you’re viewing a film in slow motion.

So imagine… this is what she envisions, as she dives…first, there is a yellow-black aura filtered through the room, a sort of warehouse. And the only sound, a melodic seduction and offering from the Ensouled, is a voice behind her that says, MOVE, yes… simply MOVE… and before she can even turn around, with a great force, she is catapulted across the room, as if her body is some sort of boulder, leaving the warriors hand… yes… it is slow motion… but still she does not have time to wonder what is behind her… or what will happen to her body… so she wraps her arms around her belly, closes her eyes and collides with the wall. Do you hear it now? A contralto “A” closest to middle “C” at the back of the throat shatters the black and yellow aura, settling into cobalt blue.

Yes… my heart doth sigh, for that is what I here… me, Albin… this is the tone I imagine, as a message from the Ensouled, who wander this earth, through the fjords, the mountains and streams, reminding us to weep, so that we will sense them as a melodic note, a weeping note that breaks through the web of psyche.

But wait… Alda is smiling, for what comes next is the moment where she opens her eyes. Nei…it is not light, not some spectacular light show, but it is dark, opening up into a grey light, with an amber hue hovering around her. And she understands now, what the voice means… já… the huldufolk… they can trick us, but they mean well… you see, when she hits the wall she does not crumble into a thousand pieces, but rather, she becomes the lines within their hands. Her psyche crumbles, melting into the wall that is truly psyche, the soul of the dream underworld: the Ensouled. This surrendering to the tones of the underworld, embraces her within the grasp of the Ensouled, the ones who want us to be conscious of consciousness, as it greets the unconscious… já… psyche takes a form in the underworld… and so, it is in that moment that Alda dissolves. It is there, in that moment that she is no longer invisible… well… not that she ever was, but she now knows, she is caressed and perceived in the depths of sorrow and grief.

And there it is… move… four letters to cause a ripple in a wave… a tone that offers solace to the grieving soul, a motion to change the shape of a living disposition that dwells within us. Now ponder this, what happens, if we cover mirrors when death, the Ensouled makes an appearance? Perhaps, it creates forgetfulness within the soul, and we forget to imagine.

But there it is… an aesthetic tale that reveals dissolution of liquid into stone that mirrors the gestures within the sea; its rapture, an image of weeping, for us to remember, what they look like, for us to return to the knowing, that they have not left us; they are enlivened, ensouled within all things, all beings.

And so, I will not say farewell, or see you soon… I will continue wandering, as I leave you with one more foretelling….

Alda takes my hand, pulling Draumr close to her side, as we wander pass the lighthouse. And she whispers an intonation, especially for the Ensouled… She professes, “I will always love Lilja… já…my heart doth sigh… it opens, it shatters, for the ripples beckon… they reflect another wanderer Albin… she is near.”

Ahhh… I think to myself…the ripples are weeping.

(gina rochell, 2016)

~dedicated to my Icelandic tribe. I am honored that you have summoned me to return, and as I move through this soul of the world, I will always hold your beloved memory as a weeping note. You are breathtaking, and so I bow in everlasting reverence… kisses…~

Hillman, J. (2014). The thought of the heart and the soul of the world. Putnam, Conn: Spring Publications.

Sturluson, S. (2005). The prose edda. New York, NY: Penguin Books.

A promise of devotion: The melody of soul

“We must die because we have known them.’ Die
of their smiles unsayable flower. Die
of their delicate hands. Die
of women.”
(Rilke, p. 139)

“Ekki mukk… you sense it right? Ekki mukk… it’s quiet here,” Lilja said, smirking as she gazed down at me, standing on a ladder. I know this now, this sense of silence that yearns to burst forth; that melts into the mosaic tapestry that she painted on our living room wall. A black background splattered with eight “sapphire blue flower[s] of the hermaphrodite” (as cited in Jung, p. 154), flowers with a white center in the shape of daisies, an offering from the Nordic gods. “There,” she pointed, “This is where my soul lives.” I know this now; it is reflected in the primordial patterns that energize the soul. Do you know what I mean? This song that she listened to for hours as she painted… stillness… yes quiet… it too knocks on my heart, beckoning me to engage with its presence. It does not feel like she is gone, for she is always standing in the underworld, a young child with a blue-black overcoat, pricking my skin, just as the call of ekki mukk, never fails to lift the hair on my arms. These reminders are chilling, but I embrace them, it’s the only way I know how to live without her.
Já, I hear it, in this slow steady cadence and her cacophonous voice that undulated back, as she harmonized with Jonsi, as if singing along with him would remind me later that she is always living in the notes of a quiet sound.

“Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.”
(Yeats, p. 17)

This calming death, dauðalogn lures me into the embrace of the sea, where I here Lilja call out, I fall prey to the web of words… I am at the mercy of the sea (TRB, p. 299). I try to imagine each time I walk into the waves, if she was at the mercy of these inchoate waves… forever changing… (TRB, p. 299), for she swam along these waters since she was five, and twenty five years later the coast guards are dragging her from the seas embrace, seaweed entangled in her hair and around her legs. How could this sea, the realm we call home take her to its depths? I am not mad to want to swim to her each day, even if some call it lunacy, for it is not lunacy for [us] who come[s] from the sea (TRB, p. 299). The sea is my beloved.

“Imagination works by deforming and forming at one and the same moment… It is the pathologized image in the dream, the bizarre, peculiar, sick or wounded figure—the disruptive element—to which we must look for the key to the dream-work.”
(Hillman, p. 128)

The deformity of the psyche mirrored the body, or was it the other way around, for I am constantly rubbing it… this scar. It might appear to most people that I am scratching or playing with my nipple, but that is not the case, for I have no nipple, in fact, I have no left breast. This void on the body is mirrored in the void within soul. Was it part of the plan, that she should fall away from me, and then I would lose a fragment of my body? What is it that I am supposed to see, know, and remember from such an image? Lilja drowns and my imagination grips the mythological figures in the dream underworld… It’s one of those fragmented dreams, where I am not in the modern world. I watch myself sitting in a chair, in a dilapidated house made of stone with a roof constructed from twigs and shrubs of the ancient trees: Yygdrasill, the ash, as if this house is my body and Odin is spreading his arms like wings over me, and Idho: the yew, roots reaching up below the earth, for my body was already a corpse that needed to be made sacred. I am staring at a bowl of soggy spongy balls… a soggy hummus sauce, and I am pulling out the green Friseé leaves, but I can’t put it in my mouth, even though Aslaug is screaming at me to eat it. Já, she is there in this underworld haze, and I can’t make her stop.
But I stuff this secret away in the back of the closet, just this one I keep away from Albin, as if my already withering body would protect him from death, shelter him from such natural rhythms of life. He doesn’t know about the tumor in my uterus either; they wanted to take it out, but I told the doctors to leave them be; it was more than I could bare, giving up bits of my body, piece by piece, letting them cut away at one breast was enough. It is only because I imagined them tossing it into the sea for Lilja… an offering to the gods, an offering to Sedna… she would know what to do with it.

“Swallowed by a viscous vengeful sea,
darker days are raining over me,
in the deepest depths I lost myself,
I see myself through someone else”
(Of Monsters and Men, 2015)

This alluring cadence of a song that suggests my solace is found in the black water, is also mirrored in the window image, a photograph of a shadow… in the deepest depths I lost myself… this shadow coddles me, an embrace so startling that I am rendered in stillness, surrendering to the melodic tones, inviting memories of this vengeful sea. This photo that suspends my gaze, conjures Lilja’s eyes and I see myself through someone else… nay, not Lilja, but the figure that holds my wrists in the sacred shadow realm of sleep, for he wants me to see… to see through him so I see soul in everything.
I suppose I should not be surprised that he wandered in the night before the anniversary that Lilja became an offering to the sea, for he simply whispered into my ear, his breath a hint of raspberries and honey… I will wander with you and ascend to my solitude… (TRB, p. 232), such familiar words from a man who placed all of his mythical figures into a red book. I almost dropped to my knees, but he pulled me closer to him, holding my face in his hands… Já… those hands were telling… a man of Iceland indeed… a warrior elf with strenuous long fingers, and arms that seemed to wrap themselves around me, reaching to his own back. He was a tower, standing six feet five inches, he was certainly not the young lad I knew from my childhood days… his sandy blonde wavy hair now touched his shoulders, and he had become a druid knight.
You are Essex, I whispered.
Já, he nodded, but call me Bok.
I giggled, because it reminded me of the German beer, Maibok. He smiled; satisfied that he could shift the sorrow just a bit.
The tone beckons again, darker days are raining over me…and I know I will be pulled back to my bedroom, where the young woman’s voice emanates from my iPhone, comforting me with her melody, summoning me to breathe for another day without Lilja, yet, I ponder and whisper out loud to the stillness in the air, these are living dispositions, emanating from a big red book, What words should I use to tell you on what twisted paths a good star has guided me to you? (TRB, p.232)
Bok smiled, daringly… We will wander together and descend to our solitude.
And for now, I ponder Bok in this photograph of my shadow because I am avoiding the inevitable, telling you about my twin Albin, “the union of the sames,” we are, except he is the wing-footed wanderer in love and I… well, I am just trying to figure out how to stay amongst the mythical characters in the sacred shadow realm of sleep, for it is Bok’s parting words that mimic Yeats’, Anima Hominis… I shall find the dark grow luminous, the void fruitful when I understand I have nothing, that the ringers in the tower have appointed for the hymen of the soul a passing bell (p. 331-332).
Ready or not, I ring it.

“I believe the dead will soon become extinct… I am no longer threatened by the dead… I thank you for your love. It is beautiful to hear you speak of love. It is music and old, far-off homesickness. Look, my tears are falling because of your words.”
(Jung, pp. 322-323)

Let it be said, that Albin came into the soul of this world to be embraced by love, to know its follies and beauty, but I, Alda know only death: I am of the living who summons the dead, for I must pay obeisance to their existence. Surely Albin knows it too, for our father died when we were eight, but he puts those emotions in some sort of treasure chest, to peak at its glittering presence from time to time. I am enamored, exalted by death; these shadow figures following me around surely want me to know something. It is no surprise that I reach for answers, befriend figures and words in books in order to find solace and affirmations that allow the soul to grieve, to be tossed in the midst of a storm, so that I too can know love, know it furiously through death, reflected in the image of my daimon, who visits nightly from the dream underworld. Jung said that image is psyche, while Yeats mirrors the idea in a poem, by the help of an image I call to my own opposite, summon all that I have handled least, least looked upon (p. 321), for who wants to look upon your own shadowy figures, those elves and “little people” that bring ancient stories. Outside of Lilja, such figures, these elves were my friends, and now that she is gone… well… it’s the realm of the imaginal that I seek the most pleasure, for it is in their words: soul, which intoxicates me like a virus, a homesickness that I can only purge by confronting and creating a dialogue with such images that come from the depths of the soul of the world.
So it is not that I don’t believe in love; it is that love and death lead me in a dance through this life, and remembering to speak to death honors its existence and forgives love when it falls away. Lilja’s death reminds me daily that love moves on a pendulum and perhaps it is better not to hold steadfast to the manifest realm. Or perhaps believing in both is what it means to be alive in this world.
The other night, as I wandered the dream underworld, I saw a man killed in front of me. But I did not sob or have those horrendous emotions I had when Lilja passed on to spirit, I remembered it was just another image I needed to confront, engage it, then encourage it to move into another realm. That is, that needy shadow that was stepping on my heals during the daylight hours, causing me to grieve when I could not connect with friends and family showed me that the my solitude keeps me close to the ancient ones, whereby I am given stories to write. The woman’s voice, an exotic intonation in this song creates a cavernous well for me to dive into, for if I could face them, if I could make amends with my shadows, I’d bow my head and welcome them… (OMAM), I would and I do. But certainly, you must know this too, it is Albin’s undeniable, paradoxical love that holds me steadfast to this daylight world, even when I am clamoring to get to Lilja in my dream underworld… again, such catapulting words acts as a bridge between my soul and the anima mundi… are you really going to love me when I’m gone… I fear you won’t… I fear you don’t… (OMAM)

To be continued…

~merry merry my lovely dreamers~
As a writer, I am entrenched in soul, that is, the psyche of the world moves me to explore the depths, the breadth of my soul that lives within the soul of the world. So I must bow to my muses, to the ancient ones, to the shamans, druids, and healers who encourage me to honor the language of the dead, for the dead are eternally with us, and I don’t know about you, but I cannot live without their presence. So below I pay tribute to the guides that were present, as I wrote this section of The Tales of Albin and Aslaug… kisses…

References

Graves, R. (1948), The white goddess, New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
Jung, C.G., (2009), The red book: Liber novus. (TRB), (S. Shamdasani, Ed.) New York, NY: W.W. Norton
Hillman, J, (1979), The Dream and the underworld, New York, NY: HarperCollins.
Rilke, R.M., (1980/1989), “We must die because we know them” in The selected poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, New York, NY: Vintage International.
Yeats, W.B., (1903/1996), “Two Trees” in Selected poems and four plays, New York, NY: Scribner Paperback Poetry.
Yeats, W.B. (1959), “Anima hominis” in Mythologies, New York, NY: Collier Books.

Sigur Ros, Hfratinna, https://youtu.be/8AuJdkZkgCw?list=RD8AuJdkZkgCw
Sigur Ros, Ekki mukk, https://youtu.be/INWZy3-Vw80
Sigur Ros, Dauðalogn, https://youtu.be/RWtx0AvGAlw
Of Monsters and Men, Black water, https://youtu.be/gEaaazkAynE
Of Monsters and Men, I of the storm, https://youtu.be/tlCkafSYNJI

A promise of devotion

I believe in love… I truly do, but I prefer watching it happen to others from the sidelines, especially if it’s a happy ever after kind of love. Don’t laugh… they do happen… sometimes. I watched it happen to my twin brother Albin and his great love, Aslaug. I say great because it’s the sort of love that emanates from ones soul; the other person is a genuine reflection of you… the complete you, not half of you, but all the elements of your psyche; the sum of the parts, including the rage that bursts forth when you least expect it, or the outpouring of tears, when you are overtaken by laughter. I have to be honest about something else, I have a great love, but she is gone… well… she is dead, or as I would like to think of it, living with other beings in the sea off the shores of Iceland. I know this because that’s where I scattered her ashes. And… well… I believe, wherever we leave the remains is where the soul lives.

So… with that said… this tale is not about me, per se, but about Albin and Aslaug; the moment it was clear, the moment when a spark ignited and they proclaimed their love to each other: beloved, betrothed… forever after.

And on that particular day, between the summer solstice and fall equinox, we are in their kitchen. They have been renting an apartment together for about three weeks now. I am sitting at the kitchen table, facing the window. The morning light is warm. It beams through the window, over the sink. I am blowing into my cup of tea, gazing at the tiny whirlpool that I create, and then I look up as Albin sinks to the floor, his eyes are puddles of blue, and he sits with his back against the mossy green cabinets, with a weepy look upon his face. His image is not reflected upon the wall in front of him, but in the face of Aslaug, who has tears streaming down her brown cheeks, kneeling down before him; an outline of her back and head projects her shadow, a misty cloud, upon the pale yellow walls. Her nose turns a shade of pink and her eyes glitter with red veins from the outpouring of relentless tears. He is silent. He does not know how to express his emotions to her: the anguish of losing her. She pleads, as always, and he can only retreat deeper into the cave of his mind.

She says, “Ask me,” and he reaches out with both hands, trembling, as he removes her glasses. She squints; closes her eyes, and opens them, hoping the flooding tears will create a delicate and clear image. She holds one of his hands against her cheek and says, “Tell me anything,” but he still cannot speak, and can only release the air that suffocates him, bars him from telling her what he longs to reveal. So he looks down and when he looks back at her, there is a tear, a tiny drop of moisture seeping out of the corner of his eye. She separates his bent knees, moves in closer, so his knees touch the edge of her breasts. She tastes his tear with the tip of her finger, and she says, “I will do it.”

Now… I know you are wondering what that means. What will she do? I didn’t know at the time, not until a few weeks later, when they called me over for dinner… but let me continue, for I knew this for sure… that love breaks through the darkness, shatters the sorrow, even when you believe that person you hold most dear will leave you.

I watch the bits of tea leaves settle at the bottom of the cup, and I see in that moment the wish come true as Albin touches the bottom of her lip with the tip of his finger, then taking that kiss back to his own lips. He then sighs and smiles, but he still does not speak… yet begins to hum a melody that calms her trembling heart. Finally, the words return, rolling lightly, gently, and with grace from his spirit. She smiles and laughs, for it is always the music that soothes, it is always the tone that endures, teaches her that all can be rebuilt from wreckage. His song’s tone rises into the sun’s beam, now glowing upon her face, and the three words she has been waiting for, ignite from his soul, Eg heiti hollustu, for his devotion soars from the music into her soul.

To be continued…

gina rochell (April 2015)

varuð by sigur ros

merry merry my lovely dreamers…

would you like to learn to write a short story?… when we are creating a story, we are playing in the realm of alchemy and dreams: “the telling of the tales of our souls,” (a blue fire, Hillman, p. 29) and the elements we use in, The Art of Dream Alchemy: Creative Writing Private Sessions are archetypes, anima/animus, and the shadow.

we are now offering a discount on private sessions for the month of May, if you sign up by April 30, 2015. visit www.beansidhealchemist.com/contact/

kisses…

~merry merry my lovely dreamers!~

I am delighted to present, The Art of Dream Alchemy Creative Writing Scholar, Cynthia Stewart. It gives me tremendous pleasure to congratulate and honor the creative wisdom that she created from the sacred shadow realm of her sleep.

Visit our MEDIA PAGE to read her courageous and innovative story: The Flood

kisses…

The Art of Dream Alchemy Workshop:
Exploring the Antagonist and Protagonist in Creative Writing

Saturday, November 29, 2014:10am-12pm
*Location: Venice, CA or Online
Cost: $45 or more
Bring a Friend: $80
Café Gratitude/Kiss the Ground Employees: $35
**Win a Grant Award

Are you a Dream Alchemist? The Art of Dream Alchemy teaches you the tools to become a Dream Alchemist. It is a creative technique that guides you in the process of using your dreams as a template for creating and healing. In this innovative workshop, you will be given the tools to write a short story based on your dream memory.

What is your story and are you living it? We are all storytellers and we each have our own story that lives in our soul. The characters in your dreams will assist you in understanding the dynamics of your psyche, and express your spirits’ destiny reflected from the images of your dream.

Do you want to heal the planet? We are all healers, but we must heal the traumas or repressed wounds within our own mind, body and spirit. The universe is a mirror of who we are and just as we heal our personal wounds, so will the wounds of the collective unconscious heal.

If you are interested in participating in the workshop in person, please email Gina at beansidhealchemist@gmail.com to reserve a space.

If you are interested in participating in the workshop online, please visit our website: www.beansidhealchemist.com and pre-register on the DREAM page. Please make your donation by using the DONATE button.

The beansidhe alchemist is a nonprofit organization and we give back to the community. A percentage of your proceeds will go to our Creative Writing Fund. At the end of the workshop, a Grant Award will be given to a participant based on their story.

The Art of Dream Alchemy Creative Writing Contest

Submissions accepted: October 3 to October 31, 2014
Winner announced: November 28, 2014
Grant Award dispersed: December 19, 2014

Guidelines:

• Provide your name and email address (Phone number is optional)
• 1-2 page description of dream
• 2-3 page short story based on dream: Choose the antagonist or protagonist from the dream image and create a short story using a first person narrative voice. The character, plot or scenes should be a reflection of the dream description.
• Answer the question: What is my relationship to the antagonist or protagonist?
• Winner receives Grant from our Creative Writing Grant Fund, and a Gift Certificate to take The Art of Dream Alchemy Creative Writing Level One course. (The gift certificate is valid from January 2015 to November 2015)
• Winner’s dream description and story will be placed on our ALCHEMY page for three months and then it will be moved to our archives on the MEDIA page.

Please go the the ALCHEMY page to upload your submission. If you have questions or comments regarding our contest please email us at info@beansidhealchemist.com. kisses…