Elemental Mysteries
Elemental Mysteries Energy, Number, |
The heavens, Pythagoras "taught, are the realm of pure number, where objects move in perfect, unchanging circles, the realm that can best be perceived through pure reason. . . | "Our only release from our earthly body, 'the tomb of the soul,' is withdrawal from the world to dispassionate contemplation of reason and mathematics." 1 Perennial Tradition explores how Divine Consciousness manifests as energy, through such ordering principles as number and frequency. Perennialist teachers Hermes, Pythagoras, and Plato explicated how energy, number, and frequency comprise the elemental substrate of Reality. |
| "The deeper secrets and laws of our being are self-protected; to learn them requires an adaptation of character and purpose, and a humility of mind and spirit, inconsistent with those displayed by the perverse or merely curious enquirer. To understand, let alone practically to explore, the Hermetic Mystery is not for every one--at least, at his present state of evolutional unfolding. . . . Only to those whose spiritual destiny has already equipped them with a certain high measure of moral and intellectual fitness will even a rough notional apprehension of it be practicable." |
via: hermes-press
9 Comments:
I don't think much of Plato but you can find the Golden Verses of Pythagoras here.
I like that picture that illustrates this post.
Sometime in the delirium of last week I came here to read Yeats' The Second Coming... to read it over and over like some demented prayer...
This place is so full of beauty...
(So why did you have to put that fucking turd statue up?)
hahaa, do as you will
So, you think that since you swept out your cave you can go around, in all your incarnations, making rude comments and vaunting your delicate newfound sensibilities?
You should think more of Plato, and, if you were a true fan of this page, you would've seen my post of that very reference to the Golden Verses of Pythagoras.
There are more than one gold-plated and/or solid-gold turds on this blog: hidden and overt. But that painting is nice. Rarely are abstract images of this sort done in watercolor. I wonder how big it is? Paintings like this should be large, but I fear it's not. Nice image, still.
If I were in England, I'd kick your ass...all of your asses.
Ahhh... missed that... probably nodding off in a chair with a cigarette burning fingers...
That's a bad sign, i.:.s.:..
Uh, I think I finally figured out what you meant. I'm never quite sure.
On Plato, Allama Iqbal in the Asrar-i-Khudi (secrets of the self):
PLATO, the prime ascetic and sage.
Was one of that ancient flock of sheep.
His Pegasus went astray in the darkness of idealism
And dropped its shoe amidst the rocks of actuality.
He was so fascinated by the invisible
That he made hand, eye, and ear of no account.
"To die," said he, "is the secret of Life:
The candle is glorified by being put out."
He dominates our thinking,
His cup sends us to sleep and takes the sensible world away from us.
He is a sheep in man's clothing,
The soul of the Sufi bows to his authority.
He soared with his intellect to the highest heaven
And called the world of phenomena a myth.
'Twas his -work to dissolve the structure of Life'
And cut the bough of Life's fair tree asunder.
The thought of Plato regarded loss as profit,
His philosophy declared that being is not-being.
He natures drowsed and created a dream
His mind's eye created a mirage.
Since he was without any taste for action,
His soul was enraptured by the nonexistent.
He disbelieved in the material universe
And became the creator of invisible Ideas.
Sweet is the world of phenomena to be living spirit,
Dear is the world of Ideas to the dead spirit:
Its gazelles have no grave of movement,
Its partridges are denied the pleasure of walking daintily.
Its dewdrops are unable to quiver,
Its birds have no breath in their breasts,
Its seed does not desire to grow,
Its moths do not know how to flutter.
Our recluse had no remedy but flight:
He could not endure the noise of this world.
He set his heart on the glow of a quenched flame
And depicted a word steeped in opium.
He spread his wings towards the sky
And never came down to his nest again.
His fantasy is sunk in the jar of heaven:
I know not whether it is the dregs or brick of the wine-jar.
The peoples were poisoned by his intoxication:
He slumbered and took no delight in deeds.
Naturally, you should hear the original in literary Urdu/Persian to appreciate the poeticism. As salaam aleikum.
Of course, the better to appreciate many things, I reckon.
Very lovely, wise and well-taken...though I wonder if it was meant a word or a world steeped in opium?
God help me, I'm with Plato, and all those who could not endure the noise of this world.
Wa 'aleiku-salaam.
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