Folding Walls With Paper And Painting Through Signals, We Stop

The Alchemical Rede Magazine

By Clarity 1

Alchemical Rede Magazine 2024 February 4th Issue © 2024 Clarity Visit us at: www.situlacodex.com

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2024 February 4th Issue Folding Walls With Paper And Painting Through Signals, We Stop Introduction: Upside down, inside out, crawling it through, closing the book, opening the door, nally a Repose.

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Folding Walls With Paper And Painting Through Signals, We Stop

We stretch ourselves awake, wiggle our way out of sleep, and step forward, with the foot put upon the oor of our dreaming. What we need awaits us and we begin to fold the walls with paper.

Our Papered Awareness anchors our wants and desires into a surrounding protective and nurturing place we call Home. The Paper is folded, cut, glued, stapled, and tacked to whatever is available.

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The House of Magic, lled to over- owing with the pages of creased and folded, sewn and bended into what will ll the library of our life; books, books, books, both ours and others.

The rounded shapes of letters tumble across the pages, creating movement, motion, momentum and speed, for the stories that are forever making themselves known.

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We paint this picture for you, for us, to be able to take in the reality of what magic can to for us, turn one life into another, change one direction to another, inform and entertain your own life to you.

We grab the paints for ourselves and create the color, shape, and feeling of what wants to emerge. The stop signal is always on, but we have learned to go beyond the fear of what the unknown makes available to us.

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We stop only to begin again, and as we thread the parts of what is gathered, we begin to piece the peace back together, and make whole what was thought separated.

The Red Thread weaves itself onto our ngers and we digit the way forward, one step at a time. As we unfold our ngers and relax our grip, the bers take shape, and the shape opens up our imaginal realms to expression.

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Expression enters us, as we crease and fold what we have managed for ourselves, and this puts the pieces of our longing back into place, and the notes return to their nestial habitat.

We are part and parcel to the entire story, and we come into the claiming of our notes, through the need to hear for ourselves the color of each new day.

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Never have we decided not to be in our dream, and neither have you. To feel as though you are not, is to know you are currently on the path of discovery, one that sews together the panels of stories that you have heard that support your dreams.

We cannot no longer abide by the stories that were laid out to discourage, distract, and waylay those of us, who know there is the better of more, coming toward the words as they lay themselves out, as a paved avenue, waiting for the rest of the letters to connect.

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When you fold the walls around you, you nest into the feeling of Home, and Home is what you get that nurtures the creative spirit, as it sews, and weaves, and threads the sentences into place.

Draw, paint, and write. The mantra that says, you are able to create the new of your own thought out into a eld of non-receptivity, and change that eld, so that what was becomes what is.

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Time escapes the con nes of being confounded, it eludes the demands of demand, and that is why creativity is timeless, when coupled with the want, need, and desire aligned with compassion.

There are never enough minutes in the day, days in the month, months within the year, and certainly not enough years to create all that the universe has to o er us, but should we align ourselves with the heart of it All, then what was thought too small becomes immense.

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The Red Thread has already woven the path way, and the Pulse carries us along, if we are willing to savor the taste of what unfolds from nothing. The nothing of Black is everything beyond imagining, and we call it to us as a Muse, and she is the soft sweet Voice of the Mother Tongue.

She comes to you, when you feel, lost or found, it does not matter, what matters is you. You are the Matter, the ber and sinew, the meat and bones of it, the content that tells the story you hear.

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Piece by piece, you convey the color, shape, and tone, you draw yourself out, you paint yourself in, you write your way through. All these positions of endeavor, are the pieces you’ve heard, seen, been a part of, that inform the story of its esh.

When you make someone laugh, and they are in stitches, you’ve loosened the threads that are too tight for them to breathe in, when you pull on their emotions, you tighten threads that may have been forgotten. Solomon Seal is your ally.

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Gather the Flowers of Nature around you, and they will ll your ears to over owing, so much brought to them by the Bee. The sweetness in the sounds, are the clue to the path of compassion.

In order to set your world to rights, center your center within the Center, breathe in, hold for a moment. There is your center, and from around it you run rings around yourself.

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Each ring, like a tree’s growth, counts, and counting the measures of rotation, the distance from the center to the circumferic edge, allows you to venture out further each time.

Folding the paper, with your Papered Awareness, you are able to draw upon the color within, which then emits light onto a surface of re ned de ned shape, organic and lled with digital content.

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The galaxy outside your window shows up most easily on black, the stars much brighter appearing, and as you rest into sleep, you count on your dreams to ful ll the ‘rest’ of your day.

Cobbled together, patched, pieced, and sewn, the daily becomes the yearly, into in nity, and what counts for limit, becomes more than that. We are what we are, and the threads woven are to remind us how advanced we are.

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Each day an advancing forward, never a return, but rather an expansion, and expression of how stars move. We rotate, vibrate, hum, and turn our backs to the light and from the light. Our faces to the light and from the light.

We are a zoetrope, a life turning, a Cat with Nine lives, Bastet watches over us at all times, as we tick and tock our way forward into the Mystery. Alchemy calls us an element that matters.

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We step into the cauldron, the slotha, the singing bowl, and we hum a few bars. We make up tunes all the time, notes to follow sew, we thread our way through each moment and space allows us the room to move.

Spindled and connected to the Wheel of Life, our Tree Root System digs deep into the underground of rich soil, and we bring up the nutrients we, and others need.

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The Mycelial threads the rootlets embody, are nding us planted here, on this planet, this Gaia, and we are Home to the birds of our imagination, the wing of ight, the soar of wind, the gust of sudden acceptance.

We are Bird to our Cat, we are Lion to our Bear, we are Snake to our Frog, we are multiple within the singular and our many bers are a tapestry of story. To tell the story of the Mystery, without knowing the outcome, is be in cahoots with the Source.

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What stands to reason is not reasonable, what reasons reason is incomprehensible to the yield that story requires. We are made up, simple as that is, and our prints across the page are telling.

Crowding rooms, with more pictures that are actually allowed, remembering more of the lives than we are supposed to remember, we actually unclutter the clutter of criticism, guilt, doubt, shame, and we open up real wall space, dream space, sacred space.

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We uncurl the taped on tape, that taped on our feelings to everything. We roll out the doorways, and roll in the hallways, and we become less negligent of ourselves.

We go the way of tiny, small, enduring, hidden, as we uncover what was not made room for. It takes time for the circulation to return, the memory has folded many times since it ran through.

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Insynculation, interpuation, interruption, fractualizing event, insecure inaugurations, all keep the circulation from returning to the hidden.

There is much loneliness, unimportance, forgetting, in the small hidden away places. There is a lack of light, there is a lack of importance, there’s an inability to reach up and master the key to the door that you need to open.

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So hidden away, are your smallest parts, even though they were meant to be immense. Roundfulness, strong and vital.

Why did they agree to close all out, why did they agree to become part of the Mystery instead of the profound, as we wiggle through the tiny door, we can hardly t into the space?

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We do not feel vitalized here, we do not feel ecstatic, we feel claustrophobic, unreal, unwedded, uninsured, unfollowable, so we need no road out, just a road in.

We are part of the great rodeo that fell way down under itself, and all the celebration fell down with it. Yes, this is the time of coming out, and what comes out might be a bit scary.

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But when it does, and it comes out with all its yelling, crying, and screaming, that you thought didn’t live there anymore, take another breath. It’s afraid of the knowing not knowing us, and us, not knowing the knowing anymore.

And for the rst time we ask are we not going to ever be a saint worthy of a small wing, maybe a fairy with a wand, or a great voice patronized and remembered?

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Oh, the swelling of this small hidden place begins to interrupt our day, even our strong days have little windows of interruption. It begins to shake our bodies in fear of sleep, so that maybe we will not even remember ourselves.

This is the sadness of falling into, falling out of, falling away from, falling for. Does not falling have any good news? Any great steps into the Light?

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You fall until you fall up, and you fall up some more, and you fall up some more, and nally you fall out. You fall out of love with the secret fears, fall out of love with the scarcity of more. Then you begin to fall open to what you feared, because it is scarier than what is.

And you cry open, and you cry open, and you cry open, until all your breath of fear is used up, and you cannot breathe anything but release, and then the small of you begins to grow large once again.

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You take in hope and vision, clarity and purpose, con dence and competence, and once again you are up and running, running into, not away.

You are running into color, little moments of ecstasy, growing new roots, little taps on your tapping shoes, as you tap away the lies, and you tap into the taproot of your deep watered throat of expression.

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You express your small, you express your large, you express your odd, you express your clarity, and nothing can hold you back, because your back, that was broken, is now healed. It climbed over all that was stepping on it.

So, soup’s on, and we must quit pretending that we don’t know how to eat anymore, we don’t know how to make room for nourishment, we’re too busy to fold into ourself, too busy to gather a word in a moment.

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We’re too busy to take in a complex thought that might create a good thought within you. Soup’s on, take a moment, soup’s on, I’m taking a moment to nourish my roots, to nourish my ears, to nourish my heart, to nourish thoughts that are sproutable, and can give me green all year around.

Oh, yes, we save all that, to squat in a corner and nourish ourselves where we don’t have to share, we don’t have to move over, we don’t have to have a talking stick, we don’t have to have a grader, a watcher, a markie downer.

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We do need a cone to pyramid our space, to conalize our space, even though we thought it was for naughty ones, with naughty words out.

When we were babies our little cooes and whistles were loved, when we were toddlers our little nos were being snipped, and as we grew older, sitting in the corner was no little nourishment space, it was punishment for the undone, the unsaid, the not said enough.

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As we grow older and older, the words once again return to the naughty one out, the one who awakens to the sprout, and begins to lean in to knowledge that roots deep, and this knowledge makes us hide into the dark space.

But we won’t give them up, and everyone says they are too naughty to have taught, so we’ll make them losing ow, losing sense, losing memories, that should never have been there.

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Our ancestors checked out more and more, until we have their history of forgotten and I wonder why. Was there sense in that chatter, that I didn’t listen deep enough into, so I could listen to the code, which was all that was left.

All so afraid to forget their minds, or the minds forget you, and you remember that someone just made that up, because there are places in the world that that never happens, and the female is not made to launder clothes, to have a way in the world.

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We have come to it, we are the stories even beyond the Mystery, we are simply the expression that threads and weaves, always.

Remember to tie your shoes, afterall, you must put your foot forward, one step at a time, either that or leap like a Frog, and nd the Hopscotch of your loyalty in each move.

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Conclusion: Wintering West, nding the Code, nding the gesture of allowance. The cauldron revives and we are once again warmed by the Mother’s Heart.

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Publishers: Su.Sane & Robert Hake, Clarity

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