Primordial Egg Of Atomic Desire

Curl

“Just as life gestates in the egg, so in ancient healing rituals would initiates withdraw into a dark cave or hole to “incubate” until a healing dream released them reborn into the upper world, in the same way the chick crawls out of the egg. Alchemy depicted the germ of the egg contained in the yolk as the “sun-point”, the infinitesimally small, invisible “dot” from which all being has its origin. It is also the creative “fire-point” within ourselves, the “soul in the midpoint of the heart,” the quintessence of golden germ” that is set in motion by the hen’s warmth” of our devoted attention”
— The Book of Symbols —

It’s been 28 days since Lucy died.
It feels like forever ago.
It feels like just 2 days ago.

Time heals all wounds, she says.  I wonder if that’s true.
Maybe there are some wounds that always feel as fresh as the day they were born.
Maybe ‘healing’ just means we’re distracted from the wound more easily over time.

It’s been 8 days since I lay in bed for 5 days straight, puking my guts out.
It’s been 5 days since I lay in bed for 2 days with no voice.
It’s been 7 days since I’ve been able to eat a proper meal.

It’s been 2 days since I lay in bed with my 3 year old nephew, cherishing the way his foot barely rested on my calf. Almost afraid to breathe for fear he might move it.
Filling with tenderness at the sound of his stuffy-nosed breathing, the flutter of his tiny heart.

It’s been 2 months since I began this transition.

In the place I go to be in the womb of Great Mother,
in the place where my brain goes to die and my third eye opens wide
I pulled a card from the deck, cicadas buzzing.

What I pulled sent chills through my spine.

The Queen of Death.

I felt my womb brace herself. I felt her breathe and open to surrender.

You cannot cheat death. You cannot outrun her.
You can only ride the River Styx in her skirts of surrender.

Okay. So this is what I’m in for now.
Okay. Okay. Okay now.

This was August.
It is now the eve of the New Year.

The Black Queen is still with me.

In the shape of a vulture she has walked
beside me with a pomegranate in her hand,
the sickly intoxicating scent of jasmine pours from her eyes,
fixed straight on me, drawing a five-pointed star on my heart.

In the beginning, the god Chronos placed seeds within five corners of the earth.
From these corners the cosmos appeared. Out of pure Desire.

I was preparing to speak to a room full of women about desire.
I was preparing to speak to a room full of women about Desire.

In my meditation, the white owl handed me this key,
“you are the keeper of the primordial flame”, she said.

And in my investigation of 15 different creation stories, I found that all
except two, started the same way.

In the beginning, there was the void.
In the beginning, there was blackness.
In the beginning the Creator lay fallow and empty, reclined.
And from her longing sprung the seed, the seed sprung
from Desire. And the seed grew and multiplied.
All of creation sprung from the fallow lap of nothing.
All of creation sprung from Primordial Desire.
The seed is Desire. Desire sprung open the seed.

I think of the seed. I think of the egg.
Which came first, the seed or Desire?

Inside that tiny hole, inside that yolk of incubation there is the bright point
of longing. There is the orange flame of desire, germinating.
From this tiny dot of light comes all of life.

At the center of the atom, there is a tiny dot of energy, so powerful that when
released it can obliterate an entire city, country, planet.
This miniscule spot of illumination has, since the beginning of time, destroyed
planets and from their ashen bones and carcasses new stars have come to life.

The Queen of Destruction, she places the open pomegranate in my hands,
she says ‘think of what it takes for the seed to become life, the egg to crack
open into a living, dangly-limbed thing…Of course you’re tired.”

I’ve just experienced a loss.
They tell me I shouldn’t be alone right now.
They tell me I am supposed to distract myself.

But I remember this from a book of symbols I read a long time ago:

“[In regards to the symbol of the Egg], alchemy depicted the germ of the egg contained in the yolk as the “sun-point”, the infinitesimally small, invisible “dot” from which all being has its origin…[this point of light] is set in motion by the hen’s warmth” of our devoted attention”

“Think of what it takes for the seed to become life, the egg to crack
open into a living, dangly-limbed thing…”

A complete turning inside.
Turning the great eye of our attention inward, to the center point of the egg.
All energy must be saved for the process of the nucleus bursting forth into life, light.

Think of the energy it takes for the living being inside the egg to crack open the shell and take it’s first breath in its new form.

“All of your energy must be reserved for this process”, she says.

My brain has stopped working. “I cannot access my brain”, I tell her.
I’m having trouble making sense of what it is that I’m supposed to do.
“I’m on the brink of something huge, something huge and I need to figure it out”.

Now is not the time, she says.

Now is not the time.
Now is the time to become the egg.
Now is the time to lie, suspended and reclined.

It is winter. It is the eve before the New Year.
Everything is barren and twigs.
The ground is hard and fallow.

In the beginning, the Creator lay there, reclined and fallow.

Now is not the time for pushing, or birthing.
Now is not the time for yellow bursts of energy or
solar flares of Sun.

Now is the time for black holes and dark matter.
Now is the time for Ereshkigal to hang you up in the underworld,
naked and heaving on her meat hook, your rotting mixing in with
the scent of the jasmine laced around your neck.

It’s been 2 weeks since I was seized with an uncontrollable urge for pomegranate seeds.

I brought them home, anomalies in this obscenely fertile third world country of mangos and papayas. I held both of them in my hands, gently carving the seeds out, swallowing them whole, while the blood red juice ran down my chin and stained the corners of my mouth.

I could not get enough,
watching my belly grow,
full of pomegranate seeds.

If you were to enter a black hole, within seconds you’d be ripped apart and there would be nothing of you left. But the most amazing thing is, the rate at which you are ripped apart is so intense, that the very act of your destruction emanates light.


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