‘I am, I am’ — or ‘was’. Death and Initiation via Winding Stairs & Contrasting Squares.
Perfect Love, Trust, and Ritual — just Perfect.
‘I didn’t enjoy that one bit, that’s why I wanted to take my initiation alone, this was a disaster, we were all fighting with each other to respond, so in the end I just shut up’ lamented the Snowflake part way through the Rite.
A smile curled at the corners of my mouth as I listened to her declare for about the fourth time how her husband was an Initiate who was constantly practising and so she ‘knew everything’ about all the degrees. Bless her, she’d only joined a year or so ago and was outraged that three of us were being taken through the same ceremony together.
There was a time I would have bristled and put her in her place — after all, a yearling filly such as she, bucking her Elders disrespectfully, a contingent of whom were septuagenarian to centenarians, would have sent me raging.
These days, however, there is no motivation to point out that even as a middle-aged, fourth-generation who took 20 years to ascend the degrees, regarded the ceremony, in all its flaws, as the Universe delivering exactly what each of us needed, not wanted.
I suppose my ire was tempered by the benefit of having experienced both sides of the initiation fold. The one constant that comports with the lore of wisend elders is that no Rite is flawless.
Recognition of such has left me convinced that apart from the Inner Mysteries associated with the initiatory process being bestowed upon the Postulant, there is the mundane gift to the Initiators that their flaws and the sometimes ensuing chaos, is concealed — a reprieve of sorts from the unattainable demands of perfection.
Indeed, countless are the darted glances of relief after the fact when the newborn Initiate later recounts the profundity of their experience.
Knock, Knock, Knock . . .
The Rite resumed.
The Elder fretted.
It had been such a long time since she’d done this working. Confusion about the sequential order caused fluster and forgotten words. Another Elder quickly came to the rescue.
The Snowflake huffed and puffed her disdain at the perceived theft of her personally-crafted image of the perfect Rite that in her mind she should have been accorded, the corruption of which was compounded by imperfect steps and lapses in instant word recall.
With gentle voice, a fellow Elder placated the other, who settled somewhat, albeit disturbed and justly perturbed.
Hell’s Bells . . .
My teacher quietly hissed her exasperation in whispered tone, ‘I said three, not seven . . .’
Ok, so I can’t count. Actually, the hot, dripping candle wax still stung from my hapless attempts at being candle bearer, and the flummoxed challenges that beset the working from the outset betrayed the fact that we were experienced at the Rite.
Alas, the reinforcement of my teacher’s lore that ‘no two rites are ever the same, so don’t try to replicate’ came to the fore with stark clarity.
The Postulant meanwhile, stood peacefully still, cherub in face, unawares that they were more the eye of swirling chaos than the focus of attention.
Such is the gift of combined lessons and teachings neatly encased in coloured ribbons.
Stairway to Heaven . . .
And when it came to the delivery of the Charge, it mattered not which side of the Cube from which it came; that in order to ascend the staircase, descend to the Underworld, or Square the Circle, compassion; understanding; a touch of mellow; and a healthy respect for Elders, are all necessary to perceive matters other than in black or white.
