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At midnight I awoke with this dream:

The Eyes of Isis has just been published and drawn rave reviews. I’m eager to buy my own copy.

 For the remainder of the night, sleep came in fits and starts, given my body’s memory of touring the Egyptian Temple of Isis with a Jungian study group in 1996. It was the last temple built in the classical Egyptian style, with construction beginning around 690 BCE.

 

 

Overwhelmed then and now by the Sacred Feminine, my psyche thrummed with energies opening onto vast realms beyond imagining. Who would have thought I would revisit this sacred site of Isis in my dream? Would find such nurturing as I await my transition? Would again feel at home within Isis’s protective arms?—No matter the centuries that separate us, Isis first mentioned in the Pyramid Texts, c. 2350–c. 2100 BCE. The priests of Heliopolis developed her myth that spread throughout the Greco-Roman world, its mysteries practiced in her Temples.

 

 

Isis’s devotees yearned for spiritual growth in this life and a high place in the afterlife. In this striving, they leaned into her motherly wisdom and compassion, sought the succor of her healing, and welcomed her presence at the weighing of heart ceremony in the underground Hall of Osiris. I share their yearning.

The dream seems to invite deeper penetration within the eyes of Isis opening out upon bliss, and not lose heart with the rigors of my transition. This is working out.

 

It finally happened! Yesterday, two speckled white eggs filled the nest outside my study window; in their place today, bob three naked chicks patched with gray down, their yellow beaks splitting with hunger, awaiting insects caught by their cardinal father; their mother keeps guard on a lower branch of the viburnum shrub, the afternoon sun shadowing its green leaves. For the next two weeks, frequent feedings will feather out the chicks and enable them to eat parts of berries or seeds softened by their parents.

Similar drama is enacted all over the world, the replication of the Genesis story: On day five, God created every winged bird…blessing them to multiply and fill the waters and the sky with life. It is precisely this unbroken chain of life that heartens the weary. Often when I used to walk in the nearby woods, a bird trill would seize my imagination and transport me to the wordless realm of the Sacred. A later blog told the story.

Never before this cardinal family appeared in my viburnum shrub, had I observed their instinctual caring, how it fosters fresh life with darting colors. It’s like Creator God orchestrated this event for up-close learning in my present circumstances—A more than timely lesson for me to assimilate.

And if Creator God set all this in motion what have we to fear?

 

New learning continues illuminating disorders long buried in my psyche that had kept me in bondage and stunted my psycho-social-spiritual development.

From earliest memory I had intuited something very wrong: ridges across the top of my large head, bruises, skinned knees, my broken arm. Unwept tears crusted my lungs, constricted my breathing, crimped speech. In my inner world a NAZI enslaved me to compulsive rituals that hollowed me, that messed with all learning. Only in fantasy did I feel safe. An absent God, nevertheless, companioned me through this caustic landfill.

Decades of 12-Step work have unraveled many of these conditions. Yet, until now, a shadow, teeming with the unacceptable, still held sway in my psyche and instinctively harmed myself and others; its articulation, lost on me.

My recent discovery of the energy work of Barbara Ann Brennan, American author, spiritual healer, and businesswoman, throws light upon this aberration. In her first book Hands of Light: A Guide to Healing Through the Human Energy Field (1988), she maps five major character structures that delineate disorders in the human condition. The schizoid caught my attention—She was telling my story: my unconscious rage from having experienced the world as hostile and cold, together with my subsequent retreat into fantasy for much of my life.

That was it—To survive, I could not have done other than what I did. In some respects, my splitness remains, but knowing its configuration draws my self-forgiveness and compassion. I’m just human—and God knows.

 

 

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