WHAT IS MYSTIC WRITING?

WHAT IS MYSTIC WRITING?

Among the most easily recognized mystic communications are riddles, parables, fables… it is woven in symbols, dreams, allegory, apocrypha, metaphor and psycho-speak.

Mystic writers often speak of being in a trance, dream-state, altered-consciousness, or channeling god or other entities from beyond.

Within the context of their writing they are communicating some-thing other than what is read at the surface… there is the literal meaning, cloaked in a veil of metaphors; often misunderstood or gone unnoticed.

The Bible is one of the greatest books of mystic writings ever written. It is filled with information that some take as absolutely literal and others struggle to understand over the ages but totally miss the intended meaning by over-thinking it and thus, misinterpreting the context completely.

Philosophers, in an attempt to make the deeper meaning more esoteric, use words to paint mental pictures to aid in communicating the basic underlying message which is often lost in its complexities.

Scientists use symbols and codifications thinking this will help the layman to understand science at a more basic level. However, one must first come to understand the symbols and codes in order to understand the message and then, one seems to cancel out the other.

So, why have these writers throughout history used such obscure methods to say something that should be easy to say?

For ages, people who spoke in opposition to the laws of man and of gods were persecuted.

To speak about the ethereal world or to acknowledge communication with entities outside of our world would usually lead to being labeled insane and at times, could actually get one 'institutionalized'.

To speak or write about anything not in the flow of mainstream thinking would discredit anything and every-thing else one might say or write.

Handing off enlightened knowledge to those who may misinterpret and/or misuse the information could lead to unfavorable consequences.

Mystic writing or speaking is meant for those who are able to understand – there are many fables told to children that still have to be retold or explained in order for them to understand the underlying message.

Jesus said to his apostles that he would reveal the meaning of his parables in private, for the common man was not able to comprehend the meaning.

Given that life is a journey of discoveries, if all lessons were given and understood at the onset of life, there would be no purpose to the living.

In the story, THE WIZARD OF OZ, Dorothy does not find out that she possesses the power, all along, to get herself home. She had lessons to learn first before she could fully understand the magic that lay within her.

So, why would anyone choose to write mystically? Or should it be asked: how does mysticism find its translator; its catalyst?

It is written that many prophets, seers, gifted ones… fight their destiny with illumination and the weight of delivering the light to others. However, the knowing cannot be unlearned or put aside as if it never was. Once the knowing is recognized the enlightened one has a responsibility to cast that light unto others, though there are no rules on how this is to be done!

Therein is your answer.

Epiphanies occur every day.

Revelations are presented to us all the time.

But, only those who are able to understand them as such will be held accountable with the passing on of the message.

Those who receive the messages from "out there" don't always know from whom they are receiving their messages… or that they are even receiving a message at all. It takes time and careful discernment to separate the seed from chaff.

Many writers throughout history have indeed found themselves helpless to the labels of insanity bestowed upon them by others and often come to believe it of themselves. Silencers. Those who hang signs around your neck claiming you unfit to speak.

I often wonder if the likes of Virginia Wolff, Edgar Allen Poe, or Emily Dickenson would be considered mentally incompetent by today's standards.

It would be so easy to leave you with a simple definition of mystic writing (Mystic Verse:

The knowledge it imparts is wrapped in verse that takes some consideration to understand. There is the verse - the rhyme - and beneath that is a rhythm - and beneath that – many detours to various meanings that one can apply to their own circumstances. From Esoteric.com).

The simple definitions offered creates a more obscure understanding of mystic writing and leaves many frustrated with the limitations of language. The best I can offer you is this: Language itself limits us from being able to fully express what we experience and what we intuit. We are forced by these limitations to use words creatively to give our reader insights that are otherwise lost in their common usage. 

Writers, in and of themselves, are painting pictures, providing backdrops of sound, taste, texture and feeling –the mystic writer is taking you behind the veil to a place where the senses have no power and hard reality does not exist.

And in addition, mystic writers are translating from a language unknown to man, a language spoken to them by entities that exist in another time and space that is not in sync with our mortal occupation in the here and now. Mystic writers themselves are as perplexed about their relationship with or connection to the ethereal and the surreal as you are.

M TERESA CLAYTON

GOODBYE IN SILHOUETTE

I heard the church bells tolling. It was as if they were calling me to come inside. I stood on the steps that led up to the ornate gothic doors listening to the organist playing some unrecognized hymn. I was being compelled, could not fight it, I opened the door and stood inside the Narthex in a state of apprehension, though I had no idea why. It almost felt like fear, but I had never been afraid to enter here before this day, this time, this eerie summoning echoing from behind the next set of doors. I slowly opened one of the massive doors, trying to be as quiet as possible. I looked down the center aisle and saw a casket turned so that it looked as if I had entered upon a wake instead of a Mass for the deceased. I could also see that the casket had not been draped in white yet, so perhaps I had arrived early. I dipped my finger into the waters inside the door and made the sign of the cross, head to heart and then across from left shoulder to right. I stood there in the back of the Nave trying to get a handle on what was going on, or not going on, here. I genuflected at the back pews. As I knelt I could hear the muffled sobs coming from the front of the church, audible sobs, though distant. But this was a rather large Cathedral and the aisle to the front was longer than most. I began walking down the aisle toward the sound. On my left was the Transept. There stood the massive organ with its pipes of many sizes filling the alcove that surrounded it. The bench was empty, but the music played on with that eerie sound resonating and echoing within the Nave. I stopped and watched as the keys were manipulated up and down and the pedals were moving as if someone were sitting there playing this massive instrument. I could still hear the sobbing and continued to walk nearer and nearer, toward the Chancel and the casket that stood there between the pews and the Chancel railing. Again, I looked toward the Pipe Organ and saw it playing itself. Or, did I notice the shadow of a man sitting there playing it? I wasn’t sure. The sobbing became louder here, closer to the casket. I could hear the mumbling of someone’s voice coming from the Lectern. I could barely make it out but was sure it was Psalms 23, a popular funeral reading. “… shepherd, I shall not… lie down… pastures… beside still waters…” There was a long pause and then “… shadow of death (the hairs on my arms stood on end, goose-flesh and a chill) … no evil… comfort me… cup overflows… word of the Lord.” I turned to enter a pew several rows away from the front. I looked around, trying to figure out what this was, this experience, this dream… I looked again to the organ and could make out the shadow a bit more from here, where I was sitting. But, it was just that – a shadow. Then I began to slowly move my eyes to the pews in front of me, to other side of the aisle, turned to look behind me, no-one was there. Not one person was sitting in the pews. The sobs continued as I listened to the distant sound of the Mass taking place as if it were directly in front of me but, again… wait! Shadows, more shadows as the Lecter left the Lectern and the shadow of a Priest, or what should be the Priest, took his spot at the Pulpit. I could hear the reading as if it were whispered too far for me to make out each word. Slowly, I noticed a woman in black lay her head in the arms of a man sitting next to her, sobbing clearly. One by one, each shadow person appeared until the pews in front of me, on both sides, were filled with these shadows. I wanted to stand up and run out of the Cathedral, but I could not command my feet to respond. “… he loved football and baseball, making it difficult for the family when the baseball season ran long and overlapped the beginning of the football season. Yes, he loved watching sports and when there were no sports to watch, he was notorious for taking the remote and running through the channels over, and over again, stopping occasionally to watch a few minutes of something before moving on and then starting over again, and again.” The description sounded far too familiar. Again, I tried to command my feet to move. “… he was a good provider for his family, a loving and active father, often taking his children on surprise day trips.” I stopped cold. Literally, I had gone cold. The description fit me to a tee. I wanted out of here. I was cold. I looked down at my hands and they were gray and looked unnatural folded in my lap. “… Carol, I remember your wedding in this very church 28 years ago. There were christenings, first communions, confirmations and a few funerals. We welcomed quite a few Andersons through the years and said goodbye to mothers and fathers. It is my prayer that Phillip is with them now as we say our goodbyes here today.” Carol? Carol and Phillip Anderson. That is my wife sobbing, is that me with her? The shadows were no clearer. Who is in the casket? Intercessions were read by some ghostly manifestation. The gifts were taken up to the Priest and small shadows assisted. I am seeing a Funeral Mass in some eerie silhouette. Then the Priest came to the railing and each row lined up for communion. Now was the only time I could make my way up to that casket. My feet moved and I was last in line. As I moved closer to the casket I felt the faint touch of hands as if they were trying to stop me. I just kept my focus on that casket and kept moving forward. As soon as it was my turn for communion, the Priest turned and walked back up to the altar where he proceeded to clear it before ending the Mass. It was now or never. As the funeral director and his assistants were unfolding the white draping to be placed over the casket, I went to the far end and pushed as hard as I could. Finally, it began to give a little and with the next push, I had it open. I screamed when I saw myself lying in full composure, hands folded and a gruesome look glued to my face. The eyes opened and I was looking at myself, looking back at me. Then the mouth moved. “Get in.” “No!” I choked out. “It’s time Phillip, get in.” “NO!” I screamed. No one heard it. I turned around and saw them all clear as day. No more shadow people. They were all sitting in their pews in full view, watching in horror as the top of the casket had opened by itself. They could not see me. They could not hear me. “I’m not ready, Carol.”  She stopped sobbing for a moment. Had she heard me? “Carol, please!” Carol stood up as the rest of the mourners and clergy watched in horror. She walked over to the open casket and I joined her there. Again, I was looking at the glued facial expression I had seen before. “Carol?” Calmly she whispered, “Phillip, you died three days ago. It was a fatal heart-attack and there was no time for goodbyes, so I’ll say it now. Please go in peace and know that we love you and will miss you so much… so very much.” She began to cry. She placed her hand on the casket lid, “Please go in peace. Please lie down and surrender. Don’t be afraid, your mom and dad are waiting for you. Now please do not make this more difficult for me and the kids. Get in.” I kissed her cheek and when I pulled away, she had her eyes closed and a smile on her face – she felt it. I steadied myself and with the ease of blowing feather from your hand, I entered the casket where my body lay. Slowly, she closed the lid and went back to take her place in the pew. As soon as she sat down, the Priest continued as if nothing strange had happened, as if he and the others had not just witnessed this happening, as if nothing was out of order. The drape was positioned on the casket and the Priest commended my soul to the Lord, Our God. At the grave site, I found myself standing in silhouette near an old oak that would be shading my grave soon. Final blessings were said and everyone took a flower and placed it upon my casket before walking away toward their cars. I watched it all, including Carol who asked for a moment alone. A friend of ours took the kids to the car. “Phillip, I know you can hear me.” I could not say yes or no. “I know how difficult this was for you. No one else will remember what happened there today, but I will remember. Thank you for listening to me and trusting me. You will now be at peace and I will visit you often, because I know that you are still here.” I still could not respond so, I ran over to her and kissed her cheek once more – again, she closed her eyes and smiled that beautiful smile of hers. Yes, she felt it or sensed it. The most important thing is that she will return and she knows I’m here. I don’t know for how long I’ll remain, but for now, I hope to remain for quite some time… I’m not finished saying goodbye.

 M TERESA CLAYTON

MY NAME IS METAPHOR