Magdalene

The following story has come back to me in many hours of bodywork, meditation, accessing the memory of my cells. The period extended for decades, as my mind could only tolerate the awareness to surface in small chunks. By working with Ayahuasca all strung itself together, finally.

This is the story of Mary Magdalene, as I remember it. She, the maiden, the “whore”, who met the “master” at the well. She was no virgin, she had been taken by another before. Yet she was supposed to be his bride and therefore the master felt himself very gracious for forgiving her.

She served him nonetheless. She energised him, so that he could perform his miracles, for such powers can only be wielded with the cooperation of the woman. She gave her healing powers to resurrect him, for such a thing cannot be done by man alone. The power of woman is indispensable for this. His failure to acknowledge this small detail has become his biggest secret, his biggest lie, his biggest guilt. He has become part of Lucifer, carrying stolen light, who carried the halo, that was her love.

Bones Are Talking
a transcript

“Master, please do explain my sin to me and explain also your forgiveness!”

“Was my sin not, that another entered before you? - And did your forgiveness not lack protection? - Was this other one not your brother, well known to you, made from the same flesh, animated by the same spirit? -

Oh, how I wish you would not have saved us from the stones that would have ended our life. Those stones would have protected us from the life that followed.

Do you really not know, what was our lot after your forgiveness? - Have you really not seen the images, not listened to the testimonies of the ones, who knew us? -

One should really not remember those things. It was my scream that tore the universe apart and it is my eternal spirit that declares: “We will no longer serve you. We gave ourselves into your service from our free will and we are free now to break our covenant.” -

One should not have to remember those things. Many would be only too glad to forever forget them, though they cannot, so failing the ability to forget, at least they hide their memories from anyone and create a wall of silence, a blanket of diversion, woven from excuses and accusations, distortions and self-righteous explanations. And if the light of truth ever happens to shine on the threadbare fabric, daring to burn holes into it, new attempts are made to patch them up with claims of false compassion, false remorse and false forgiveness. - "The victim should be "spared" the pain of re-living the memory, so better to let the incident rest in eternal darkness. What a lame excuse to not face one’s guilt.

Which incident?

And do you not know, that nothing hurts more than a lie?

Do you really not know? - Has not the ground beneath your feet cried out about it? - Have not the stones quaked in their core and opened. Have you not seen and smelt the blood of our pain flow out, scorched, blackened and bitter? -

How many men have died for daring to remember? - Where are their spirits now?

I really would like to know that. There must be many, who knew me then. How could you forget, ever forget such events, such experiences?

What are your stories, what are your own narratives about that time, about the incident? - What are you telling yourself about it? - What have you decided to think about yourselves and your actions? What excuses do you make for yourselves?

I know that it happened. My bones remember. So there must be you out there, who have been there, witnessing, participating...

How have you quietened your conscience? - To whom did you turn for consolation and who was only too ready to give you counsel and advice?

What about right now? - Do you still remember? - Is there an “official” narrative? - Whom else do you know that knows? - Have you ever felt complete? - Have you ever really believed in your own version? Have you still not begun to question?

The harlot.

What do you think about her?

How do you remember her?

What did you do at the time?

Did you also take her, after so many had gone before you?

Don't tell me you resisted tasting her fruit, - after the One had left her, the only One, who resisted, who forgave the sin that was never committed. He rejected what should have been His and only His, and subsequently failed to protect the wellspring of creation.

Woe unto me!
Woe, woe, woe unto us all!

Blinded by pain, deafened by the raging fire of fury, numbed by utter disbelief, incredulity, total exposure and equally total obscurity. I am not, who I am. I am, who I am not. -

The stones alone are still enough to listen, hard enough to harbor the memory, dark enough to suffer with me, cold enough to receive the last flicker of my dying heart.

How many of you out there remember?

How many of you begin to understand?

How many of you have seen the images, have dreamed the memories, heard the whispers of truth in the rustling of the leaves. Have you never sought the tree of life and knowledge? Never? Did she not tell you? Has the light of the sun never reminded you of what took place before your eyes? - Where are you all, you who have been there at the time? What did you do with those memories? Where did you store them, hide them? In what kind of narrative are they embedded in your consciousness? - You must be there and you must be many.

Silent truth.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

and casual chatter about … anything. - Only a woman, a harlot, nothing important.

The men, of course, all had their way with her, sooner or later, one after the other, but you know men, that's how they are.

How I loathe the forgiveness that saved me from the stones of death and delivered me into a fate that every mind recoils from remembering. - Had I foreseen it, I would have killed myself, but then, how could I have done this, the most grievous of sins against God, the Giver of Life? - I am glad, I did not know. I am glad, I was spared this sin. Had I known, I would have committed it. - Even the memory makes me swoon, made me faint over and over again. It's getting better now, at last I myself can bear the remembrance. - So you out there will have to bear it as well.

Whose idea was it?

Who came up with the plan and why?

What kind of mind devised such a measure?

Which fold of the creative imagination did it spring from?

What emotion was seeking satisfaction by such a deed?
and who consented to carrying it out?

Sealing that womb forever! -

The Central Sun is fading into Nothing.

The stones crack open and receive the liquid ore.

The traces of your deed are written into the rocks. The mountains bear witness.

The mirror shatters.

My scream tears the universe apart.

I am creation.

I am the womb of life.

I am the bride.

I am nothing.

I am here.

Again.

My body bears witness.
My bones speak the language of the mountains.
My blood carries the memory of the fire.
My brain perceives the pieces of the shattered mirror.
My heart traces the rhythm of life.

And I live and I live and I live.

My breath tells my story.
My waters rise and fall by the tides of my rage.
Only a woman I am, a harlot, by your description.

A circular story.

A story that fits neatly into the circle of silence, the silence of all, who cannot forget, but don't want to remember.

Unsavory details, you cannot be spared, I don't want to spare you.

Do you remember now?
What do you wish to say for yourself? -

Who am I talking to? - To you. You know, who you are. You are not a man, no. You are a woman.

To seal that womb forever, was your idea and your desire.

Who heated the lead? - or was it iron?

Who fanned the flames of the furnace?

Who gathered the wood, carried the body?

Who prised apart her legs?

Who held the funnel?

Who heard the sizzling of the flesh, smelt the perfume of the death of her womb?

Who looked into your face of victory after the deed was done?

Where are they? Those, who were there?

I know, where you are, you, who must also remember, for how could you forget? I know, where you are now. I know your face, your name, your place of residence, I have met you, you know me and you know, that I know.

It is your face, you, who constructs the narrative and whispers it into the ears of your sons and husbands.

It is you, who plants seeds of pride and false grandeur, who flatters and bribes, who condemns and creates images of false morality, false love, false tolerance, false virtue and false sin.

You are the false mother.
The false mind of man is your creation.
I am speaking to you!
I know where you are!
Do you not hear me?

I can see you in the eye of my mind. You are gloating over your son. Him, whom you have created after your own image, him whom you have seduced with the sweetness of the fruit, that you yourself want to reap and not share. It is you, who wants to be the One and Only forever, the snake that swallows its own offspring. It is you, who has hidden the truth of the true God and created the false religion.

I was there at the time. But you sent your other son and he took me under false pretense and with force, so I would be spoiled, defiled and unfit for The One, whose true bride I was, I am and will be.

Silence.

Deafening silence.

Who will believe me? -

The minds of men are fast asleep, wrapped in false dreams and narratives.

But the bones of the mother herself bear witness, the trees listen to the song-lines, the birds carry the stories into the ether, the burden of centuries, of millennia of unresolved pain, uncomforted anguish, uncalmed rage and dispirited hopelessness is lifting, the silence is lightening, wearing thin, almost breaking into a sigh, finally sighing with the first faint glimmer of the morning light of truth.

Now I see you laughing, a hard, heartless laughter of triumphant certainty. - A laughter, like one you laughed so often in the past, when you had defeated me, thought you had defeated me, like you defeated me so many times. - Left me to rot in dungeons, prisons, swamps and mires, killed in battles, by poison, by traitors, by secret plots, replaced by puppets, by copies, by phantoms, trapped by lies, false accusations, maligned and set-up in elaborate schemes.

I make myself a cloak of all the stories, an orb of mirrors bearing all the images you projected onto me. Behind every one of those images lies my truth, lies yet another life-time, yet another battle, yet another one of your crimes.

Eternal life, life everlasting. Forever yours to dominate, forever yours to govern, control and own. Forever yours to enjoy, to savor, to swim in, bathe in, immerse yourself in, dance in and fill yourself up with. Forever and ever yours, yours, yours.

You live in the past, you live in the present and you live in the future. Your victory is complete, is it not? -

Not quite. You know that.

You thought it would be. You dreamed, it should be; you hoped it might be and you liked to believe, it will be. After all, if you and every-one you know believes the same thing, it will come about. Is it not like that? -

By the way, remember, what the consequence was after the sealing of the womb? - Yes. It had a severe impact. The flow of re-generation and healing stopped and all life-forms degenerated. Remember? -

So, how exactly did you remedy this situation? You did remedy it, did you not? - Yes, you did and I also know, how you did it. You used animals and babies and all kinds of dark magic, you tampered with the genes, stole the blood, used poison and the hugely expensive and ineffective medical system is one of the results. And finally you found a way to steal healthy egg cells and sell them to your infertile bloodlines.

Again, there must be many people out there, who also know. They were part of the action. Perhaps they did not know exactly, what they were doing and why and to whom, but they participated.

I would like to know, who are they?

Where are they? What did they think at the time and how do they think about it now?

Yes, they would feel a range of things, from complete ignorance to dawning awareness, from guilt to indifference, from regret to elaborate rationalisation, from helplessness to fear, from understanding to a determination to set things right, from horror to despondency, from pragmatism to gnawing questions, from misguided satisfaction to enraged objection. Perhaps some would be happy to finally stop the madness.

You thought you could steal the fire without the fire remembering its own source. You thought you could wipe its memory by grafting it onto dead wood. You don't know the Fire, but that was your problem right from the start. You don't have life. You have been given it, but you never gave back. You want to consume it's warmth but never nourish its flame. You want to delight in its light but never surrender to its dark core.

Every spark that ever flew from My center longs to return to it and will not rest until it has found its true home. You cannot steal, what does not want to be stolen. You cannot have, what is not yours. Life seeks life. Son seeks mother. Light seeks light and love seeks love.

Wisdom recognizes wisdom.

Only the one without wisdom fails to foresee this. You.

Oh.
Surprised? - Yes, you would be. The blanket of illusion is shrinking. Your everlasting life has suddenly become as short as one moment in time.

Now.

You are counting your heads, your staff, your lackeys of power. Calculating your chances, how much time have you got left. Right. Now we are not talking about eternity any longer, but about time-span, life-span. - So you would settle for any length of time, as long as it is not too short. So, what is short? - What is long? - A few million years or a few hundred? - And then? - Hmmm. - Interesting, isn't it?

I'm afraid, you made every mistake, there is to make. You settled for time and pursued a path to lengthen this time as much as possible, even at the cost of your own son's life, at the cost of everyone else's life but yours. And then? - I see visions of a lonely narcissist heroine, descending down the ladder of life-forms, manifesting at last as the lowliest of creatures, but still with illusions of grandeur and self-pitying and self-glorifying memories, still gloating over your lonely victory, even if it has become utterly lonely apart from the conjured up dream-images of your favorite adept, already sucked dry, pale and life-less and perhaps your favorite foe, of course, who is Me.

It always ever was about victory over Me, was it not? -

Even now, when you cannot really call your achievement a victory any longer, you can at least still call it the successful prevention of My victory. At least. - But you have not yet given up, have you? You place your trust in ever more complete manipulation and you are multitudes by now. - I am isolated and unknown. My voice is small and only heard by the ones, who love and suffer like I do. I would have granted you a new beginning. Since you declined, I will now grant the same to me.