Category: Fragments
In a culture paralysed by its own irony, where the sacred is either aestheticised or annihilated, the mere suggestion that a nightclub could function as a church is met with a sneer. Cultural critics and self-declared rationalists mock the notion as delusion, as metaphor stretched beyond its capacity. But what is being ridiculed is not…
In the reckoning of cycles, no moment is more charged than the solstice,when the Sun halts at its zenith, and the visible world, for one day, teeters between triumph and return. Beneath the cult of solar glory, another current moves: the silent sovereignty of the Moon. It is She who governs the threshold, She who…
There is a night every year when the Sun trembles on the very cusp of the heavens. It neither truly in Gemini, nor yet arrived in Cancer. This is the solstice threshold: a razor’s edge where the cycle of light itself hangs in the balance. To the ancients, the 29th degree of any sign, but…
Every sacred feast is also a map of absence, a liturgy of what remains at the threshold: longing, hunger, and exile. In the drama of Corpus Christi, as in the entire Western tradition, the body has so often been the absent guest: spoken of, disciplined, abstracted, and yet never fully welcomed to the centre of…
Beneath the shimmering surface of Corpus Christi, a feast that proclaims presence and unity, there lingers a drama of estrangement whose chief victim is the body itself. For centuries, the body has been the shadow-guest at the table of the Sacred, acknowledged in symbol but disciplined in practice, spoken of in ritual but denied in…
There is a strange dignity, even a peculiar radiance, in those who keep faith with the lost cause. In every spiritual tradition worth its salt, there is a space reserved for the moment when every rational hope is exhausted, when prayer turns silent, and even the Gods seem to have abandoned the seeker. To persist…
Hidden beneath the clatter of ecstatic tongues and the blaze of Pentecostal fire, a subtler current moves through the feast, one older than the Church, deeper than doctrine, more patient than miracle. Pentecost, in its forgotten strata, is the holy consummation of a cycle governed not by thunder but by moisture, darkness, waiting, and ripening.…
From the earliest cults of the Divine to the veiled incense of Byzantine churches, myrrh has always marked a crossing. It is perfume and medicine, wound and healing, the fragrance of desire and the anointing oil of burial. Throughout centuries, this resin, one that is thick, red-gold, bittersweet, has been both currency and secret, a…
At the edge of memory and ritual, a figure veiled in incense and paradox stands, shimmering between the worlds. She is known to the ancients as the hierodula, the “sacred servant”, the temple’s living altar, both flame and vessel, as well as lover and initiate. Her feet tread the threshold where the flesh is not…
Within the living architecture of the Hermetic cosmos, there exists a moment of sublime equilibrium, a fulcrum where the act of giving and receiving is a rite. The Six of Pentacles stands as the seal of this mystery: an image of the physical world transfigured by loving action. To understand this card is to understand…
