giovanni-di-paolo-madonna-of-humility-ca-1450-pinacoteca-nazionale-siena Giovanni di Paolo, ‚ÄúMadonna of Humility‚ÄĚ

In the new issue of National Geographic there is an absorbing article on ‚ÄúMary: The Most Powerful Woman in the World.‚ÄĚ The article, which I cannot recommend enough, can be read here:

The holiest woman, even in the Koran, until the 12th century had been portrayed as a royal, imperial figure but later on evolved into the universally accessible force of Love that knows no political or social boundaries, as we know Her today. She attracts millions to shrines, where her apparitions have been recorded, though only 16 have found the official acceptance of the church. There is no one, self-proclaimed skeptics included, who can resist the force of this archetype. From the symbolic standpoint, I have not¬†seen a better account of the meaning of Mary than the one in The Lost Language of Symbolism ‚Äď An Inquiry into the Origin of‚Ķ

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Coming Home to the Self


Matrignosis: A Blog About Inner Wisdom

A rainy winter day in the mountains A rainy winter day in the mountains

Here in the mountains it’s a gray winter day. We arrived the day after Christmas for our annual holiday visit. We hoped for snow, but the weather’s so mild that the windows are open. Over the roar of the creek, swollen from a solid week of rain, a single crow caws somewhere nearby. Welcome home, she says. Downstairs the grown-ups are finishing a jigsaw puzzle we’ve been working on since summer. The grandchildren are playing a video game. I’m upstairs writing this, tomorrow’s post, my heart warm with the comforts of home, family, and love.

This place, this now, this beauty. These tears of wonder and gratitude. For this sacred moment, this simple awareness of being at one with my Self, life and love…this is all I want or need.  This is the grace and blessing of the Self, a moment that needs no words. Yet now I am searching for words to fill this page. I don’t fight it. After all…

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Stamped on the Underside of My Memory



‚ÄúEvery aurate woman I have loved in my life, and I use the word loved in its widest sense, has left her impression on me, as the old gods of creation are said to have left their thumbprints on the temples of the men that they fashioned out of mud and turned into us. Just so do I retain a particular trace of each one of my women‚ÄĒfor I think of them all as mine still‚ÄĒstamped indelibly on the underside of my memory. I will glimpse in the street a head of wheat-coloured hair retreating among the hurrying crowd, or a slender hand lifted and waving farewell in a certain way; I will hear a phrase of laughter from the far side of a hotel lobby, or just a word spoken with a recognised, warm inflection, and on the instant this or that she will be there, vividly, fleetingly‚Ķ

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