My Sacred Prayer

One day this bubble of existence will burst into a million pieces, sending fire and light, and spread it all through creation.

Or maybe it will dissolve into the liquid nothingness of the solar waters that flow from that sunset that’s been waiting to come for all eternity.

It will then be so that every experience I ever had, every word I ever said, every pain I ever caused, and every hope I ever gave will turn to be just the vibrant resonance, just the booming ocean, just the happy dance, and dissolve in that ocean of experience and move amongst your shadows as meaningless signs and sights.

May I never live through that!
May the memory of me fade away in time.
May my soul not be important.
May my life not be object of remembrance below or above.
May I not be significant.

May my shadows be forgot and go their way, where the shadows go and the light of Her eyes shine brightly.

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The Teacher is a Spider

Here’s a note I found from a dear friend after a performance of The Telling:

“It occurs to me this morning that the teacher is a physical manifestation of the Great Spider who endlessly is eaten by her children, only to willingly come back again and again and again.

This sacrifice is for the Great Work. Likewise, the student is a developing spider who is learning the practice of death, rebirth and service through observing her Mother while simultaneously partaking of her, often greedily.” Katheline Dreier

The Great Magician and The Black Sheep

We tell a story of a sheepherder who happened to be a magician, and a very lazy one. He didn’t want to bother to build a fence to keep the sheep inside. The sheep were always escaping and exposing themselves to danger. The magician decided to employ his abilities to keep the sheep inside, hypnotizing them. He made them believe that they were free and safe inside the fence. In fact, he made them believe that whenever he fleeced them, that it was for their benefit. Once in a while, one would disappear, and the sheep were conditioned to believe that she had gone to a better place. In fact, he not only convinced them that he was acting for their benefit, but that they were not sheep at all, that they were human beings. Some thought that they were doctors, lawyers, priests, business people, seekers on a spiritual quest—all approved by the great magician, of course. They thought they were attaining powers and learning secrets. Of course, if they did not know that they were sheep, they would never try to change their situation for real; they would never try to escape; never attempt to evolve. Some even thought that they were magicians and knew the secrets; and all of them had the same fate.

Now, there were a few sheep whose fleece was not as valuable because they were black. Black wool was not as useful as white in the marketplace, so the magician did not pay as much attention to the black sheep, only the white. So, some of the black sheep woke up because the magician wasn’t making sure they remained hypnotized. They realized what they were and what they were doing there. If one black sheep knew the truth and tried to tell the others, the hundreds of white sheep would not listen. Why would they? After all, they were having good lives. They had their problems in their fake realities, but they were fine. Some black sheep managed to escape, and many of those succumbed to predators, but they were free.

Eventually, you had some spotted sheep. With those you could never tell: sometimes they would learn their nature and sometimes not. Of those who knew, some would decide to stay with the white sheep and become completely white.

Most of us are spotted. Part of us wants to be free; part of us wants to be taken care of by the Great Magician. That’s why I say, be careful with your gifts. Some of those are fake, given by the Great Magician. Someone said to me, upon hearing this story, “Be careful with your words because they can get you in trouble.”

I make my words so they get me in trouble. I am at war with the Great Magician. I am the black sheep. I am black, all black. My wool is not for the marketplace. My wool is the obsidian black of the eternal night sky, and its shine is the silence of the endless.

Read more in Teachings of a Toltec Survivor

The Kindly Ladies: stories before civilizations and the wars

I heard the stories as the world who was old was disappearing.

I heard the stories with the unequivocal assurance that they were true exactly as they were told. It made me wonder how many stories were hidden in the darkness, after the light of humans came, after the subconscious myth of gods and voices was erased from the light. Made me wonder what was lurking in the shadows of my racial memory.

What remained behind corpses under the ground and what was to come out if I was to open my mouth bigger than my face and look at the sky with eyes of infinite sadness?

What would happen if I would let something spin and spin and spin around until I became centered and everything disappeared and fell and moved?

What would happen if I spun these stories not with words, but sensations and moments with small movements and gentle spans, and the darkness within illuminated through infinite spaces?

(To help maintain this podcast: www.paypal.me.com/koyotetheblind)

Check out this Telling!

Holy Spider Mother of God

I learned a lot from the Jesuits. From them, I learned the obscure history of the Catholic church. None of my friends’ Catholic schools ever talked about the inquisition, the burning of the witches, the persecution of the Jews, the suppression of science, the utter corruption, and the waged wars that plagued the history of the Vatican.

The Jesuits, however, where exemplary in their brutal honesty, their relentless questioning, the ruthlessness of their historical analysis, and their commitment to true education.

It was from the Jesuits that I learned that there were at one time one hundred and fifty six femurs of the Virgin Mary in the Vatican vaults—each one considered authentic by some church or commission. Collected throughout history, along with enough fragments of the cross where Jesus died and so many prepuces of his penis incensing the lust of his nun brides, these holy bones were sacred relics once belonging to our Holy Virgin Mother of God.

So, my friends and I called this otherworldly virgin who had carried the seed of the Angel of the Lord, the Holy Spider Mother of God.

In my mind, I visualized this image of beauty, extending in tiny, tiny legs touching the different spaces of the universe. I wondered if all around there was this motherly womb surrounding me, touching with spider webs every nerve ending of my body.

Sometimes, when sitting on the roof of my house, overlooking the star-rich Salvadoran sky, I could feel the tiny quiet legs pulling at my brain. One day, I heard a cracking sound and felt the touch of the Holy Spider Mother of God digging its way into my head.

Mama Spider

It is said somewhere that the mother spider, when the hunting has not gone well even after building the perfect tapestry of a thick, sturdy, heavy and sticky cobweb, she still manages to feed her children. They wait, somewhere unseen and protected. She walks towards the center. She lays down. She wraps herself up with her own string. Once she is completely covered, the way she would bind a fly, she taps on her web. She taps a signal designed to tell the children that there is game. The tinny little children come running. They need to feed this night or they won’t survive. They come to the mother and they begin to devour her, not knowing it is their mother. Thinking it is just an insect, just another nurturing bundle, they open her up. They go inside her belly and eat her from the inside out, devouring her completely.

Her sacrifice allows the children to grow into adulthood, to live one more night so they can go and hunt. So they can go and have other little children who would devour their mother.

Mama spider. Mama spider.

Weaving and forming. Teaching and feeding.

Out of your bowels we ate.

Out of your spirit we grew;

to hunt one more day,

and tomorrow.

So was the spirit of my mother, even when I did not see her.

From the depth of her corpse, I grew and came out.

The ladies of fate always seemed to be weaving a strange web around my mother: strange happenings, magical, astonishing and weird. A teacher in a school for poor children, she took it upon herself to help a child who reminded her of my younger brother. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to take him under her wing, to buy him a pair of shoes, to bring groceries to his mother. It was pure compassion, or motherly love springing from unknown currents in her soul. She wanted to take care of him and protect him. She brought this little boy to play with us. We took an instant liking to him. I took him outside to play soccer, to meet my friends, to talk, to be one of us. With his confused eyes full of wonderment and restrained joy, this boy joined us for a moment in our lives. A few months later he disappeared from our lives. He became a ghost, a shadow, a memory––like so many people in El Salvador, never knowing why, where, or when they went.

Years later, my father was in exile. Death squads came after him, and he managed to escape. One day, my mother was coming out of the school for rich kids where she was also teaching (she always worked at a rich school for the money, and at a poor school for the government pension). She was about to get into her car, when two cars with tinted windows blocked her in front and behind, and men with dark glasses came to her with even darker motives. They told her, “Ma’am, you’re coming with us.”

Those simple words filled her spine with a chill. She knew what was coming next. She knew. She could almost experience the ride in the back of their car. She could almost feel the boots on her face. She could predict the raping and the flame. She knew the cutting of the nipples. She knew the breaking of the teeth. She knew of the brutal interrogation of “Where is he?,” “What else do you know?,” and “Where are the others?” She knew the longing for death. She knew it was all coming to an end. She knew what followed. That time line was flowing right in front of her, and she was just about to be carried away in its current.

Her body paralyzed, she couldn’t move. It was just the coldness of certain death for her. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t react.

She only could say, “Me?”

“Yes ma’am, you’re coming with us now.”

Once again she repeated, “Me?” and the “Come with us” was the only answer, with a hand grabbing her by one arm, leading her to a sequence of events that were long ago written, and nothing at this moment––nothing, no one––could come to her rescue.

She was in that space where we found ourselves so many times in that jungle, when reality had become so hard, so heavy, that no escape is possible. No light, no hope, no brilliance seemed to exist, just the pulling into heavy hardness. This was the harshness of reality. And here she was, knowing that all she could do now was to follow this thread.

At this moment, at this exact moment, the driver of the car in front comes out. Dark glasses. From some remote whisper of awareness, she felt she recognized him. One day, a year or two before this, she went to the house of the little boy she had taken under her nurturing love–because he looked like my brother perhaps, or compelled by unknown oceanic depths. She had come to see the mother of the little boy that day, a year or two ago. She brought the child’s mother some food, shoes, shirts, love and compassion. When she was leaving, the father was approaching the house. The father of the illegitimate boy, in a suit and dark glasses said to her “Ma’am, I know what you’ve been doing for my son and I want to thank you for everything. For the love you’ve given him.” It was a brief encounter. She left. He went. And here he was now, again, same dark glasses and suit, driving a car for men of money and death, looking at the woman that was about to die under torture. There he was, telling the other men: “That’s not her. We’ve got the wrong one. Lets go.”

They left, and the specter of death vanished, and the lightness of being filled the flesh of my mother; tears coming out, of pain and joy; but more than anything, tears for having recognized the silver and red threads of the tapestry being woven by fortune.

And, as she tells the tale, the magic of the Kindly Ladies becomes entrenched in our consciousness, and our words. And so the mother spider weaves a thread. A chance meeting one day, a voice heard another day… moving… changing… Creating a knot here, a thread there. And so it went, this tapestry of light. My mother, always silent; always absent; always inside her cocoon of happenings; always surrounding us as we devoured her. Always giving. Always threading. Whispering. Silent. But providing the legs and the thread and the moving.

 

http://thetelling.libsyn.com/the-kindly-ladies-mama-spiders-invisible-story