Souls

“Ye Are Gods!”

Know that thou too art a God, to abide mid the hurry and haste,
A God in the sunlit hall, a God on the rain-swept waste,
A God in the battle triumphant;…-Norse Legend.

These words, found in an old, old legend of the North, we find repeated in the Vedas of India, the legends of the American Indians, and the Bible of Christianity. This idea, spread through the length and breadth of the land, should not be strange to us of the present sceptical age, for, though clothed in a slightly different robe, it has been placed before us again and again within the last few years, but how many of us have realized it in ever so slight a degree? We had got into a slipshod way of thinking of the immortal part of ourselves —when we did think about it—and it needed words of fire to rouse us from our torpid condition; to make us feel that we are something more than body; that of a truth a bright spirit ensouls the frame which walks about on earth; that from all time the soul has existed, ever taking and wearing other and other bodies, and trying to train those bodies to live its life, instead of living the life of the animal. Recog­nizing the working of the soul, and recognizing the working of the body, we see that, in the vast majority of cases, the body is dominant. Our minds are absorbed by the trivialities of daily life. Sometimes we glimpse something far ahead of us; light is rayed on things that heretofore were puzzles, and sometimes we hear the voice of the soul speaking to us and guiding us when we are anguish-torn and writhing from the forces that seem to be making a playground of us; forces that appear to be wholly evil and from which we can see no loophole of escape.

But the soul makes itself heard through the fury and storm of this internal strife; then, appearing to stand outside ourselves, we view these forces at work, and we know that the soul has power to conquer them, for they belong to a fleeting nature, and the soul is immortal, eternal, imperishable. Realizing this, there comes a cessation from the storm, and then the whole being seems to burst forth into a song of joy, for every time that we conquer ourselves we are helping others to conquer themselves.

Still, we do not always want to fight. Sometimes we feel so tired, and an inclination to drift along on the tide arises in our nature. But having once called on the God within to help us in our struggles towards the divine, drifting, for any length of time, is no longer possible to us. The soul cries: “Arise, mortal, take up thy Godhood. Art thou weary? I will support thee. One longing thought cast up­ward is sufficient to draw me down to thee, for I am ever watching over thee.” Then once again we take up the burden of material thoughts and desires, and instead of giving way to them, we determine to make them subservient to us.

Is it not time we grasped some of the knowledge and wisdom awaiting us? It is ours by right of the long-past ages, when we helped to gather and to garner it. Some mighty ones of the race have gone on before us and found this Wisdom of the Gods; but we—weak mortals—lack the high purpose, the steadfastness and the undaunted will which are absolutely necessary for all those who would walk in the path of the soul. We stretch out our hands feebly, to grasp even the hem of the robe of Wisdom. Never, NEVER shall the feeble hand and the faint heart know aught of it. Only the heart burning with love for humanity, and the hand stretched out to help those who are struggling on, can ever hope to approach near to the great white Flame that burns throughout the ages.

Then let us rise out of our sorrowful state. We are the makers of it, and we have to be the masters of it. We can do it any time that we will. We may fail often, but we will not be discouraged; apparent failure is often success. Do we say that it needs mighty efforts to do this? Who is capable of making those efforts if not we? we who ruled the winds and the waves and the fire and the earth before we forgot our Godhood. And I say we can do it now. Our ancient powers are not lost, they but sleep in us. We may make them living, shooting, burning fires embracing the whole universe.

This great teaching of our immortality, of our divinity, dwarfs all other teaching. It spurs us on to greater endeavor; we want to lose the selfishness which is part of our nature now and gain the selfless­ness which was ours long ago; we want to free ourselves from the garment of flesh and put on the mantle of many colors, “the mantle of flame which sweeps the ends of the universe.”

Now is the time to strive towards perfection; now is the time to work with our minds and our hearts in order that the divine may once more manifest through us, that we may indeed become shining as the stars in the blue vault above us.

All you who are endeavoring by earnest effort and unselfish life to reach the goal, I clasp hands with you in brotherhood; we will go, we will work together in peace and unity throughout all time.

~LAON
from The Irish Theosophist Volume IV. 1895-’96

We, genuine human souls…
What we are is what evil wants to be.

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In New Grange, The Brughna or Temple of the Boyne, Aengus Oge, the young God of Beauty, Master of Love makes his dwelling; he is seen pervading the whole of Ireland; “Angus of the Birds,” he is called by the people, because to those who see him floating over sea and land, round his head appear the immortal rainbow-coloured birds who are the children of his breath. Slieve Namon, County Tipperary, is the Mountain of Sound. Messages are breathed there to psychic ears in supreme orchestral harmonies.

Dana herself is seen—The Ageless Mother of the ancient Celtic gods who pervades the kingdom of sky, who sways on earth and sea the world of energies—the world of yet unknown vibrations— floating irradiant in aureoles of transcendental light,—filling the Nature world with mystery, stepping the Isle of Destiny; brown Mother-Earth, the Great Enchantress of my feet, when wandering up the shifting ways; invoked by the poet thus— “Dumb Mother struggling through the years to tell Her secret out through helpless eyes”; she whose presence in Ireland inspired the lovely lines in the soul of one who sees…

“I can enchant the trees and rocks, and fill
The dumb brown lips of earth with mystery,
Make them reveal or hide the god. I breathe
A deeper pity than all love, myself
Mother of all, but without hands to heal:
Too vast and vague, they know me not. But yet.
I am the heartbreak over fallen things,
The sudden gentleness that stays the blow,
And I am in the kiss that foemen give,
Pausing in battle, and in the tears that fall
Over the vanquished foe, and in the highest
Among the Danaan gods, I am the last
Council of mercy in their hearts, where they
Mete justice from a thousand starry thrones.” *

* “Dana,” from “The Divine Vision,” by A.E.

~Lady Archibald Campbell
from The Occult Review November 1907

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“Aligning with the Awakening of the Ancients…
Of Tuatha… Ruatha… Danu, Dana Lura.”
…

~Valiant

Do you remember, fallen angels?