Category Archives: Stories

Challenges in the Life of an Occultist

I have been a member in the Star of Azazel for some three and a half years now. Recently in the archives I came across my membership application and decided to revisit the person I was when I wrote it. Reading the application again was not so bad; it wasn’t quite as embarrassing as I had expected. I could still connect with that person, even if some things had changed.

The seeming shortness of my time as a Soror surprised me as I thought about it; so much has happened in the span of these three years, both on my every day life as well as on a personal, spiritual level. Being a member has pushed me off my comfort zone and as a result I’ve acquired new skills and knowledge. Indeed it feels like I would have been a member much longer and while I am so pleased and grateful for having found my way into this Work, it has not been and indeed still is not an easy path to travel.

Each of us face a different set of challenges based on our previous actions (whether we speak on a karmic level or simply of the life that we are currently living) and our temperaments. It is true that we will often have to face what we left behind, sooner or later.

It is very common for fresh members to undergo a crisis soon after joining the fraternity. Some get a nasty flu that lasts for weeks, others notice that they face challenges with work or relationships. Having observed the phenomena for a while now, I believe this has something to do with the shifting of one’s energies. After all, in a occult society, a certain shared energetic pool affects us all and the moment one joins the fraternity, their energies begin to shift.

Profound change is never easy.

Gradually, if one chooses to venture deeper into occult work the challenges get harder; these are the gifts in disguise from our Master. Each accomplishment raises the bar slightly, and each time we must better ourselves in ways that are a bit more difficult, that demand just a bit more, that challenge our capacity for empathy, the ability to love, that test our patience more than the previous challenge. Slowly, one’s reflection in the mirror begins to seem clearer and more real as we step closer to truth, to understanding.

It is not easy facing the real you, with all its imperfections, pettiness and hubris. Each scar and wrong course of action is forever reflected from the mirror that the Master holds for us to see. One must muster the courage to see, dispassionately, steadily and without looking away, what the reflection really is like rather than how one would like for it to be like.

My only advise is, do not forget the virtue of good humour on your travels. While nothing is more serious than the work that one undertakes as an occultist, it is a mistake to lose the ability to laugh. Allow it to comfort you on your way. That is at least what I did when, writing this blog, the doorbell rang and I was paid my first ever door-to-door-preaching visit from elderly women who came to talk to me about God’s kingdom.

On Remembering the Dead

 

Winter snow

 

Hermann Hesse notes that when artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something last longer than we do. It seems that the ancient Egyptians, obsessed with death, were much wiser than the contemporary man in this aspect, as they understood the importance of death in the development of human life.

A person’s life becomes defined at the moment they die. It’s a strange feeling, looking at their phone number and knowing that no one will answer should one try to call. It feels even stranger reading an letter from them- it was, after all, only a few months ago that this was written by warm, moving, living hands that created, and no longer exist. Where she was in one’s mind, is now a kind of a hole, and no one to occupy that space. Each person’s relationship and meaning to our lives is unique, and it can only be understood and seen completely when they are dead. The high and low points of that relationship are considered carefully and with a deeper perspective, because they are gone. Just like funerary rites, this too is a ritual, a final and defining chapter on the relationship that is now dramatically changed.

The evaluation of objects and items too change when a person dies. A bag of salt from her becomes the bag of salt, and it is forever differently defined from other bags of salt. It was hers- hers who died, and now it is mine. There is something powerful and mysterious about it now, on this exchange between the living and the dead. Every time this salt is used, she is there in my mind. An object that was nothing more than a household item for the deceased has now gained a radically different meaning and symbolism through her death. It has begun to feel like a ritual item, much more important than other objects she left behind that had monetary value; and I find that the items that had value in the eyes of the world mean nothing to me.

It’s a curious thing.

This bag of black salt that becomes less every time it is used, and when the bag is empty, there is no way to fill it. One can replace the salt with other salt, but it is not the same. This simple thought fills me with humble wonder, it is almost like a secret; it is a key to understanding. The bag of salt has become a memento mori in the most holistic way. The salt will lessen, and I too, shall die.

What is left then, when a person dies? Not much. A few items, some books, their handprint at the edge of the garden where a sitting area was built years ago. The other hands that carried, built, and planted on that sunny day are still living, moving, warm. What is left for the living are memories that fade and change over time, and if one is lucky, perhaps artworks that reveal little of the inner world of the deceased and stare back at us like a riddle, saying that there is something which can not be yet told. A veil has been drawn between us, a veil that one can truly only part when their own life becomes defined.

***

At the end of this small pondering, I’d like to address a question that was sent to our general mail a few weeks ago.

If I feel that death is a positive, even holy force, is it wrong to feel sad over the loss of a relative?

I don’t deceive myself enough to claim that I understand the mysteries of death better than the next person. While I believe that death itself is not a tragedy (as opposed to the circumstances that lead to or surround it which may be) it is not wrong to feel sorrow over the departure of a friend or a loved one- they have gone on a journey to which we have not been invited yet and no one can truly know if there can be a reunion or not. It even seems to me that it would be inhuman to deny ourselves the right to feel anything, because we are beings that process via our emotions.

But one thing I think, dear reader, is that when that call does come, be that in fifty years or tomorrow, one should be able to step on the other side of the curtain knowing in their heart that they became the best they can be- that the grains of that black salt were not used foolishly.

One should have a heart that leads them on like a compass, straight as an arrow, regardless of what may come to pass. Suffering is a very human thing, as is sorrow. They both can have the ability to teach us- for the world is an ocean, and each wave that rages against us we can either choose to battle with our flimsy little fists or let it wash over us with the knowledge that once that struggle passes, the wave travels onwards, perishes into the horizon and will never return.

On the Red Aspect & Gardening

 

I’ve recently moved to countryside, into a house that lies under the largest spruce tree I have ever seen. Much of the decision of moving was based on that very tree that has stood on the same spot for I can only guess how long. I thought to win the tree’s favour, so to say, would give me mighty protection and serenity. In Finnish tradition the spruce is connected to death and the underworld, and the lone tree hovering over the house in winter darkness truly touched my shamanistic heart.

As spring came, the long neglected garden began to stir with life. Hundreds of nettles burst from every corner on the yard and I began to make plans and to dream of tending a garden again, drawing pictures and reading up on various plants, walking in the forest nearby looking for something I could move on my yard. As I raked and raked, dug out weeds, delighted in new mysterious plants that popped up from the ground and picked up forgotten pieces of plastic and broken glass, I began to ponder on the art of gardening, which is a completely artificial imitation of nature and one in which man’s desire to control and shape all things is ever present.

Japanese gardens, lush with green, are a great example of a careful construction that resembles an idealised and perhaps slightly crippled image of nature. Each year, fallen leaves are hand- picked away from the ground, old trees are tied with ropes to protect them from the fallen snow and gardeners brush the rocks in ponds and streams to remove algae. A staggering amount of work is put into these gardens- but there is very little actual, “real” nature in the Japanese garden. They are a poetic vision, a mirage- and perhaps peace is so easily found there because of the hidden constructions that make a man feel safe and balanced, allowing space for thought.

All art, I believe, is an imitation of nature. We may learn to paint wonderfully, under the natural laws that are somehow most pleasing to the eye- executing compositions according to the golden ratio, choosing complimentary colour schemes, imitating curves and repetition of shapes around us. But we are always borrowing from nature, the mightiest of masters. Humans recognise the greatness of nature and are often a little ill at ease with many of its aspects, wishing to tame them, present them nicely and to either suppress or forget the uneasy bits, or else remove them entirely. To me, the yearly cycle of nature and all phenomena therein are the faces of master Satan- each offering its perils, possibilities and also undoubtedly gateways into ourselves.

 

Goethe's color wheel, 1810

All esoteric work is filled with difficulties, both mundane and otherworldly. Regardless of which approach one would take, there’s great perils ahead. Esoteric work changes us, for better or for worse. Most of the times, a little bit of both. And sadly, it’s almost certain that esoteric work will destroy a person who wields no patience.

As I waged war against the nettles and weeds in the garden in order to replace them with something that I wished to plant and despite wanting a wild-looking yard I couldn’t help but begin to question my justification to do so. The neglected garden had slowly begun to shift into a more natural state and even if it would be years and years before that state would truly occur, here I was, “correcting” the land. The destruction of the uprooted weeds in which I so readily engaged seemed to hint of something that was in myself. Was I symbolically destroying the chaotic qualities from my surroundings in order to suppress or to be more at peace with the ones in my persona? Or did I wish to leave my mark on this place and to somehow make it an extension of myself?

 

*

In The Star of Azazel, esoteric work is roughly divided under three different colour aspects. The Red Aspect, at times much mythologised, has often proven problematic as it draws in strong personalities. As Satanism undoubtedly attracts firstly, well, angry and intelligent young men, the Red aspect tends to allow many of these qualities to swell out of proportion. Impatience, harshness, rigid approach to practices- these are just a few of the continuously surfacing challenges on the Red path and also things I am guilty of.

It seems to me that the Red aspect ought to be neither masculine nor feminine, but both. Often times the Red aspect member is painted up to be aiming towards a very highly idealistic character- the seer, the fakir, the warrior, the medium, the artist. Yet in these archetypal figures lies a great danger. They are simply so grand that they may begin to tempt egoistic approach which either allows the undermining of one’s abilities with too much modesty or introduces a rigorous, somewhat masochistic warrior-training mould. Often the approach has been very masculine; one attempts to conquer and to harness, forgetting how to yield. In short, one wages war against the weeds and soon battle itself becomes a value. War against the bad qualities which need to be purged and won, first in self and then perhaps in others as well.

But despite being horribly hard, esoteric work is not a war. Rather, it is a dance. A dance with numerous, subtle steps and a strange tune- and how easy it is to make mistakes, to get tangled in one’s fancy robes or to have two left feet, to mistake a mirage to be one’s leading partner!

In the light of these things, a garden may be more than a technical construction. It has all the potential to become a self- made temple in which man imitates creation and attempts to work with it. At the same time, it’s a mirror- why do I favour one plant over the other? What does a garden reflect of my temperament? Is it a meticulously groomed football field over which the gardener looms armed with a can of poison and a spade, daring unwanted plants to grow on the land that is theirs– or are frogs and snakes welcome to continue to exist therein? Surrounded by nature, one may find the courage to think. To accept the things that may not be changed. And furthermore, to understand and give space for the beings that were there before and how everything is connected- from a lowly worm to the tall, majestic spruce. How the gardener is not outside of this system nor never truly the master of it. Because just like a dance, gardening too is a meeting of two. A garden also always forgives and allows the work to be started over and over again. Of this much can be learned, for it’s rare that our attempts at occult work would be one clean run to the goal. In reality, mistakes will be made along the way.

The seemingly externalised esoteric work of gardening is a monotonous task fit for monks. But observing the developing garden with its subtle alterations throughout the year and learning to yield to its rhythm is a task fit for a seer. It takes great patience and sensitivity not to destroy the existing landscape in a spur of the moment “better” ideas, be it on your yard or in your heart and mind. In a similar fashion, it takes aeons to become a gardener of that complex fabric that is your immortal soul.

 

Stories of the White Fraternity: The Path – Part I

The first rays of morning rose up to the dale beyond the far away mountains, each one of them spreading into their own directions like they would have been following preordained paths by grand and unwritten pattern, and let their essence bless the anticipatory state which followed the night. The earth sighed and inhaled the first breath, letting the living light to wake it from it´s slumber and carry it´s wisdom through plants and trees which aroused, stretched out and raised their sight towards the source of that energy, like pointing to the center of the whole universe. At the fading shadows under the mountains the last words from the ancient songs which were meant only for the service of the Moon-Mother turned quieter, like whispers carried by the wind, and then vanished with the dark shapes which floated back to their hollows hidden within the depths of the earth, awaiting the great Mother to rise again back to the sky. As the light grew brighter the darkness found its place deep within the caverns, where it could serve its secret Master and immerse into the mysteries which were related to night and favored by the children of the Moon.

Closer to the center of this dale was a river, which carried fresh and pure water from the mountains, created when light and warmth transformed the essence of the water with their natural alchemy from the solid whiteness into the streaming and nourishing element. The earth had raised it´s arms slowly with pain towards the sky and now regained these sufferings as the white snow had finally blessed it. Now the mountains – even with all their past suffering – streamed the white wisdom down for those who had to view the stars from much further and did not see the world and the sky as widely as their secret fathers which examined this view from their thrones at the top of the highest mountain peak. And how majestic those mountains indeed were, when gazed towards from their roots, they stood like inexorable iron-bound guardians and protectors for this paradise-like dale which continued to blossom with the elixir of life flowing from the mountain walls carved by time and carrying the hidden knowledge and vivifying element, which was conjured in the highest towers of the temples where the sound of lightning striking through time and dimensions was received and heard as the primordial, strong and righteous – limitless rumble. And how great, magnificent and marvelous was the work which transformed the hardest and strongest force into a gently and peacefully streaming energy so each and every could get their part of this lightning. It was the work of the world blessed by the love of the invisible Masters, and accompanying into the silent and cordial prayer all the plants, trees, animals, men and all the living in this magical dale thanked their protectors.

This was the dawn blessed by divine alchemy and magic seen and felt by the old wayfarer watching towards east to the rising sun at the edge of a small hill, as the dale had now wholeheartedly blossomed to receive the vivifying stream and the bright new day. The old man laced his fingers together, smiled, pronounced few quiet preparing words, closed his eyes and began the prayer:

”Te adoro, te invoco et peto Azazel, magister meus…”

After he had prayed and made the necessary arrangements to end the ceremony of dawn, the old man returned to his simple camp and sat in the front of a small fire. A small bowl was placed above it and a silvery ethereal smoke rose calmly from it, until a gentle wind carried it away and let a calming odour spread around the hill. The old man removed the bowl from the fire, let it cool down a bit and drank part of its content slowly. Then he rubbed a bit of the liquid to his skin at his forehead, chest and abdomen, and sprinkled rest of it to the four quarters along with a prayer and bowed to north, east, south and west. After this he collected the ashes left from creating the liquid, buried it with quiet prayer at the front of a natural white stone, collected rest of his equipment, packed his camp and proceeded onto the road which led to the verdant dale.