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The Alchemical Rede Magazine Into Color

By Clarity 1

Introduction: Closure and opening, always guided through.

2026 October 11th Issue Into Color Autumn hands us the Color, we leave behind the green for the blaze of color reaching us no matter what. And no matter what is where we are, where you are, where we all are.

Before we were, we were all of it, and color was the thing, the thing that reached us, brought us awake, changed our lives, so don’t slip back into the grey, with its anger, its not letting go of what keeps you. 4

Time slips its knot, and you weave a new way of Being that has you in the laugh of being thrown into the briar patch. Not a bad thing when you are Briar Rose. The petals are being to fall, and color is being dried into porporri.

Alchemy, ancient and ne, mastership if you do it right, one that lls you with the Gold of your curiosity, the Gold of your hearth and home, the Gold that goes with you, no matter what.

Color has words, color has sound, color gives to those who give, and color is in the bered thread of Red. The Original Red, the one not diluted, not watered down, not looked to to use for yourself and not share with others. 6

We advance ourselves into the Color we reach for, and nd ourselves without the world we made, when we are made to leave.

Alice says, “We always set the Table, counting on others to attend, we count on other to spread the word, we count on others to share and feed one another. It’s a Long Spoon for a reason.”

The Cheshire Cat appears over the sugar bowl, and tosses in more than two lumps, three to be exact, “There, that ought to do it, just enough for others to begin to show up, count themselves in.”

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum look at each other and say, “ Though we are practically one, count us as two, we are so ready for more company, who’s the one contacting others?”

“Good question,” said the Dormouse, “ wonder who it will be?”

Color comes sweeping in the Door of Fall and says,” You can count me in too, I meaning why not, why would anybody in their right mind think talking color would be too di cult to talk about?”

And round and round and round it went, everybody telling stories of how easy it is to say how color helped them nd their way, how color gave them hope, how color supported them for years and years and years as they travelled their own journey.

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“Who showed them the Color,” asked the March hare, while xing his coat and kerchief.

“Alice,” said everyone at once, “she showed them how to look for what they were looking for, she gave them the language, the color, the weft and weave of it all, and she only ever navigated herself, so they could see how someone is able to do such a thing in a world made up of muchly grey.”

Color, into Color in the Fall, the Fall of down and down and down into the Rabbit Hole of Maths, of letters and numbers, of words and stories. Papered Awareness knows the knowing and feels the feeling, and keeps up with all the print.

The Mycelial Path, the Wooded Way, is easy and di cult at the same time, sometimes up and sometimes down, even inside out if need be. Color Bees what it wants to Be, so the honey comes to the mead and the Comb brushes the Hare.

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Foot of luck, luck of the draw, luck of the color on canvas, color on the mind, color within the eld of endeavor. Alchemy that Souls the need, the want, and the desire right into you, so you can see a moment of fracture, as a moment needing tending to, mending to, attending to.

The sidewalk breaks for a reason, but it is no reason you can make up, its not your own and its not the other’s, as hard as that is to take in. Color is a leaf fallen from the Tree, and can never be glued back on, or taped, or sewn.

It is what it is, and it goes underground to repair, underground to heal, underground to rejuvenate, regenerate, and come back more creative than ever.

Autumn is a time for humming, humming the hum of humming, of making the Light lift and levitate the gravity right o its keister.

Broken is broken because the chip is lost, lost in the eye of the beholder. Shouldering no blame, the chip keeps company with division, and is an incomplete set where no table sits well with Others.

Be the time of what Colors this world with Bees, and honey they give, the hum they emit, the owers they pollinate, so that you can receive the Mead of Living.

Into the into of into, and out of the out of out of, so that what you are seeing is worth the common dime of Ten. Give your coin to the Table, give your coin to yourself, give your coin to Others. Don’t hold back that last.

Keep to the edge of the New and embrace the frequency increase as the open is opening more than more, not less than less. Count the Time and count the space, and count the measure, so you will know the accountment is only for Grace. 15

Totem is as totem, and they are on the hunt this month, beware the ides of October, the 10th has come and gone, and the numbers are adding up. Growl up your Need and feed your Want with the Desire of your Compassion, your Love, and your Well-Being.

Into Color, the ancient way, the way beyond the edge, and over the top, the way of Wooded, of Fey, of The Grove, the Circle of Life, where we set our Table for the Long Spoon.

Beware the White Rabbit with that Pocket Watch, Time ticking its tocking, tocking its ticking, moment by moment until you sit for the Color, but not just anywhere. You know where, but will you say?

The Code of White becoming more a orded in the between in my life. What was once Black is now Coded with threads of White, windows into the beginning threads through the darkness, windows into change shift through the Light. I hear small noises of new ideas enhancing the colors that now thread through me. Black on White, White on Black, Black on White Black, White on Black White.

Diversing the Code, bringing in new Light Patterns that I have not seen before, only heard from a distance. What is Coded mixed is now solid, and a new stripe runs through the distance helping me recognize the di erence, so I can now run new closures needed.

Closing the Garden, closing the House, closing the swinging, closing the Eye to the Garden Grove, closing the Eye to the upset, closing the Eye and allowing a tiny new leaf to grow out of my lovage.

Allowing the zipper to catch the Light of new Space waiting, allowing the tear to fall into the cup of presence. A whole dying of an old pattern, a new one beginning to beat out of my suitcase, a rush of life goes inside with the zipper, and I hold the mark of who I am, and who I will be.

Nick nick, tock tock, swish, zip on through. Becoming willing to let go of old boards, and allow the grieving to end.

More revived than I ever thought so, I had begun to leave at least three years ago, when the willingness for movement was denied. Click click click, tick tick tick, zip zip zip, eying the whole that a new distance was seen from. A new distance that was safe to become in.

No old mold from disbelief, no old plan sifting through the Garden Gate. The river runs through, and I occupy my walk as a child, on the railroad track of the Eire canal. I roll down the hill into the corn eld, and there I invented imaginary ways that would give me new freedoms, like a little house build in the corn, that creates the cure for overwhelm.

A little corn house that feeds the Soul that dreams. Nick nick nick, knock knock knock, someone wonderful has a new Door for us to go through, enabled with recognition, love, loyalty, courage, and a Real New Day.

So I ru e up my feathers each day, pack my treasures, like an old adventurer that is no longer prey. Prey to age, prey to disbelief, prey to misunderstanding that goes inside a brand new Seed ready to sprout.

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Taking the Time with us, we roll up Space, and thread our way through to the other side, and there we unfold ourselves into the Box of Many Colors, the Cube that allows us room to move, room the breathe, room to make our way into the Woods of Color.

Taking a bite of Color, tasting the bite of Color, assimilating the bite of Color, we pause long enough to give thanks to all we are given, and all that good that is coming our Way.

The creative burst is lling our lungs with joy, and the paint is tipping our brushes with what comes next. Next is ready, as are we, as we nd our way home through the Woods and over the hill, and past the last, until we arrive at the arrival place of counted upon.

Magic uses the Wand to color the white of our words, and the Wand is the Wood marker of Make. We etch our memories with the gift of Love, the sight of witness and the willingness to be part of something bigger than we are.

Lend a hand to the Wand, be brave to your witnessing, it has power and Grace, and gratitude that supersedes the limitations of grey that tries to drain life from living.

Magic is the Key, let the lock be turned out, so what turns out is the joy that is released and witnessed of movement leaping free of containment. 24

Folded are the Patterns, Squared are the corners, rounded are the needs. We lick the stamp and send it o to be heard, till we nd our new way to our new Space we call Home, home for who we are, home for who we will be, home for all that we have been, home for what frees, home for what roots, home for what spells out the words that we need to hear.

We make it whole, we make it holy, we make it wholesome and we agree to honor ourselves, to honor our work, to honor our Source, to honor our connections, to honor our freedom, to honor our Grace, to honor our gratitude, to honor our freedom, to honor our recognition, to honor what we feel, to honor what we know, and make one what we magnify to hold us safe till nd our new Home.

We nd you acquire nothing unless you honor these. May the words of our beginnings touch us now, and hold us safely to who we really are. Nick nick nick, knock knock knock, put your purse down, put your words inside your purse and let they become your new carriers, your new money, your new involvement, your new cards, your new extensions, your new listening.

You promised yourself, and so did I, and I promised you, Robert, that we would be the healing sequence of our own needs, and we would caw caw caw for the Ravens, the Wolves, the Bears, the Whales, the Tigers, the Horses, and all the winged life of Eagles, cormorants, Swan and King sher, butter ies and Bees. Hunting Hawks, lizards and snakes, hyacinth and owers, herbs and towers, promises and constancies, moon and stars, suns and praying mantises, sh and scales, feathers and wings, claws and diggers, climbers and runners, ori ces and caves, closures and openings, horizons and seas and moons.

We would go down low and climb up high, like we always have. To close, to be within, to open and rise is no small thing. Blessed Be. Sweet home, you have blessed us each day, please bless us into another.

Closure: Always lets in the owers and herbs.

Publishers: Su.Sane & Robert Hake, Clarity