THE GOLDEN STAIRS, by Sir Edward Burne-Jones

c. 1880

DIVINE GENERATION, by Anne Francois Louis Janmot

-from her stunning series of paintings entitled, Poem of the Soul.

from THE TRANSCENDENT UNITY OF RELIGIONS, by Frithjof Schuon

True affirmations, being concerned with sacred facts - such as, for example, the person of Christ - that necessarily and by definition manifest universal truths, are liable to become false to a greater or lesser degree when artificially removed from their providential framework. So far as Christianity is concerned, this framework is the Western world, in which Christ is "the Life", with the definite article and without epithet. Modern disorder has destroyed this framework and humanity has outwardly expanded in a quantitative and artificial manner. As a result, some people refuse to admit other "Christs", while others arrive at the opposite conclusion and deny to Jesus the quality of Christ. It is as though certain persons, when faced with the discovery of other solar systems, continued to maintain the view that there is only one sun, our own, while others, perceiving that our sun is not the only one, denied that it was a sun and concluded that there was no such thing, since none was unique. The truth of the matter lies between the two opinions: our sun truly is "the sun", but it is unique solely in relation to the system of which it is the center; just as there are many solar systems, so there are many suns, but this does not prevent each being unique by definition. The sun, the lion, the eagle, the sunflower, honey, amber, gold, are so many natural manifestations of the solar principle, each unique and symbolically absolute in its own domain; the fact that they cease to be unique when detached from the limits which enclose these domains and make of them so many closed systems or microcosms, the relativity of their unicity being then revealed, is in no way inconsistent with the fact that, within their respective domains and for these domains, these manifestations are really identified with the solar principle, clothing it in the modes appropriate to the possibilities of the domain they belong to. To state that Christ is not "the Son of God", but only "a Son of God" would thus be false, for the Word is unique and each of its manifestations essentially reflects this Divine unicity.

The Golden Ladder

c. 1851, by Anne Francois Louis Janmot (1814-1892)

SOUS LES FLEURS by Edmond Francois Aman-Jean

How dreamy is this?

Snowflake: a Faery Tale

Snowflake lived in a vast castle all alone; yet she wanted for nothing. Every morning a steaming bath was waiting for her in her deep, white marble tub. There were colored soaps like melting jewels, and towels like clouds….and the water smelled like heaven. After her bath she always found in her room the most beautiful dresses of velvet or silk laid out on her neatly made bed; and on the table by the window a bowl of piping hot oatmeal, a pitcher of cold milk, and bunches of green grapes or oranges or pears.

How these things appeared, where they went, or who brought them from place to place, Snowflake never saw nor knew. Toys she had in abundance, but no one to play with: books most magical and rare, but no one to read to. In fact, utter silence reigned in the towers, the rooms, the stairways and long, empty halls of the great castle. Only the lonely sound of the wind or the cheerful arguments of birds in the castle garden disturbed the great silence which was solid and heavy as a sleeping cat.

As for the castle itself, it was built of snow white granite high on the side of a tall, craggy mountain. All year round outside the castle the rocks were covered with snow and ice, and the paths were so slippery and steep not even a skilled mountaineer could safely climb them. When she looked from the ramparts of the walls down, down, down, Snowflake saw eagles flying far below like golden sparks in the sunlight. Often the clouds themselves were not as high as the place where Snowflake stood, her pure white hair whipping about in the icy wind.

But in the walled garden of the castle, flowers bloomed and birds trilled every Spring and Summer; and in the Autumn it was filled with gold and red and orange leaves and flowers until it seemed to be the very garden of the sun. In the center of the garden was a fountain in a round marble pool. The birds would drink from it, and often in the Summer, Snowflake would lay her silken dress carefully on the green grass and float in the clear water with her eyes on the blue, blue sky above.

In the Winter she was never cold, except for her fingers and toes when she played in the snowy garden, or slid on the frozen, bird-deserted fountain. Fires crackled merrily in every room of the palace, though who built them or tended them, she could not say. All throughout the Winter she drank hot coca from gold and white porcelain cups, and played with her magical toys, and looked at the living pictures and letters in her magical books. Sometimes in the night it would storm violently. The wind would scream around Snowflake's tower room, and thunder would rattle the cup and saucer on her table. But she was seldom afraid. Often in the bright flashes of lightning, she seemed for a split-second to see mighty angels standing near her bed with calm faces and gentle eyes, and then she was at peace, and knew she was safe for all the wind and storm could do.

And as she slept in her bed piled with feather quilts and woolen rugs, she would dream of the woman who held her in her soft, golden arms. Love flowed from her eyes like light from the stars, and it seemed in her dreams as if Snowflake's heart would break for pure love. "I am your mother, dear Snowflake. I have been with you every moment of every hour, and I always will be." Then Snowflake would awaken as happy as a bird in Spring, and find the golden light of the rising sun streaming through her window.

So life went on for Snowflake as calmly as a lonely walk in the park. The birds, beetles and butterflies in the garden were her only playmates, and though she was not sad, she was never so happy as she was when she dreamed of her mother.

One morning Snowflake awoke and jumped from her bed. "This is the Day", she said to herself. She bathed with more than usual care, and brushed out her hair 'til it gleamed in the white morning light, Then she donned her long dress of white velvet and pearls with the soft fur collar, and her cap of diamonds and pearls. Like a river of starlight, her hair streamed straight down her back to the marble floor. She climbed, climbed, climbed the tower stair; stair after stair of pure marble until her little legs ached. At last Snowflake stood upon the very edge of the very top of the very tallest tower in her tall mountain castle, with her toes hanging over the edge of the wall.

A bright white mist was all around her; above and beneath in the infinite abyss. Snowflake closed her eyes, tipped up her face, and with a tiny, secret smile fell forward and down from the tower. Down and down Snowflake fell, singing all the way, and every second seemed like a happy hour. When Snowflake opened her eyes she saw the air was full of happy children, twirling and singing in the wind. And the song of each became part of one vast song; and the joy of each became part of one vast, limitless joy that seemed to go on forever and ever.

THE END

- by Wayward Disciple

Rembrandt's "The Blinding of Samson".

What can one add to this masterful production of Rembrandt's genius? Listening to Bly's poem while contemplating this great painting is an interesting experience. I think there is some validity in Bly's insight that Samson is a solar figure, especially if one considers that the sun is a symbol of full, Divine, consciousness. In that context - thinking of Bly's marvelous poem - the men who are coming to blind Samson represent those persons and forces which have an interest in destroying, obscuring and veiling consciousness in our world, because the accomplishment of their desire requires that destruction.

In Rembrandt's picture, Samson is wrestled to the floor of a tent which looks, for all the world, like a cave. There is a blaze of intense light at samson's feet, outside the cave, while inside all is increasing darkness. Is the tent Plato's cave bereft of light? Is Samson the judge - the philosopher, the lover of wisdom - who has been seduced into believing that the ephemeral world of the senses is the real world, and has thus been blinded to the realm of divine ideas?

The Blinding of Samson

Bly is the greatest poet I know of still alive and writing in America, and his genius simply increases with age. I think I should really have included him in my list on the previous post. He's better than comic books!

Mid-Summer's Day

Today is Mid-Summer's Day, also known, in churchy circles, as the Feast of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist. In honor of the day, I post one of my favorite paintings by the great French Symbolist, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes: "The Decollation of St. John the Baptist." (His nativity unto Eternity.)