Don’t panic. No, not yet.
I know I’m the one you want to forget.
Cue all the love to leave my heart.
It’s time for me to fall apart.
Now you’re gone, but I’ll be okay.
Your hot whiskey eyes have fanned the flames.
Maybe I’ll burn a little brighter tonight.
Let the fire breathe me back to life.
Kicked out of my apartment and temporarily sprawled all over my grandparents’ space, I find . . . quite a lot that I’ve forgotten I’ve owned. Mostly my Egyptology books, all loaded in a bag, feeling like a sack of rocks for all the weight.
And still there were more I wanted to get, because I loved the Netjeru. Because I loved Bast most.
I had a dream awhile ago that She’s still in my life. For the most part, I don’t doubt. In an oracle reading, She was also the “penultimate” card I pulled. But the fact is, it’s been quite a long time that I’ve really . . . I don’t know how to word it.
Rumi once said that where our wound is the Light enters. I’ve been feeling wounded and disgraced since the beginning of May and Bast is wandering through the through–and through. She is the “Invincible Summer” that lives in all of us. She casts a healing light whose function, the more I think of it, is to illumine the darkness, not banish or destroy it. Bast shows us our darkness so we can see the shape of it. Like mouna for Shiva, the Invincible Summer (and there’s another name for Her) puts you face to face with the emptiness. She does that because the emptiness is the Fallen One, who eats everything, leaving nothing behind.
We have to fight that darkness ourselves. All we can do is use the tools we’ve made and, on occasion, been given after much effort.
I don’t think I believe it’s actually Bast stopping by; however, I’ve found myself missing Her light when I’d been okay without Her before. And for sure the Invincible Summer has servants to pass along messages, and that, I assume, is what I’ve gotten: a message. A lightly perfumed message, beckoning me to lose what little focus I’ve managed to gain for the sake of the blue-throated god. It’s not that anything means anything–I just feel listless and sad.
For sure, I’m not Hers anymore. The necklace that I once wore in Her honor broke shortly before I put aside all my Kemetic things and Shiva called. And again, I just feel listless and sad.
Baby, you were my picket fence.
I miss missing you now and then.
Chlorine-kissed summer skin–
I miss missing you now and then.
–FOB, “Miss Missing You”
I think I’m going to have to get used to the fact that I’m incredibly sensitive to major “tonal” shifts in the energies around me. That’s what this basically is. And it’s hard not to let it sweep me off the narrow road.
The message doesn’t seem . . . particularly urgent? It doesn’t impose itself upon me much at all. It’s more like the vague halo of uneasiness that follows after a moonlight tryst. It may, in fact, be best to brush this one aside. No more Kemeticism, because I am not Kemetic. I’m not, in particular, Hindu either. Nor am I a pagan, or a polytheist, or a monist, or a monotheist, or an atheist, agnostic, apatheist–whatever. I want to be a sort of lover, I suppose. There’s no better term for it.
Anyway, there was no real reason to write this other than it helps with the focus to write things down. I guess one of the underlying messages here is the past, while you may be done with it, may not necessarily be done with you–and why would you want to escape the summertime?
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.