𝗕𝗼𝗿𝗻 𝗔𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻

 

Let’s be clear about this:

It isn’t the same as being sick

and getting better. It isn’t

changing your mind at the last minute

or pushing away from the brink.

 

The only way to be born again

is to die. The Phoenix doesn’t just

go up in a blaze of glory. It

feels the fire lick up and sizzle

every feather, until each quill becomes

a column of flame carried straight to the core.

 

Whatever the legend of re-birth, there is always

time in the fire, under the ground,

hanging on the cross or the tree.

Don’t skip over that part of the story.

If you would be reborn, you have to die.

 

But what then? After the dying

how are we to rise again into new life?

The earth, the hero, the god, you and I—

how does any of us find our way back

from the Valley of the Shadow?

 

The same way we die:

Walk into the light.

 

- Lynn Ungar -

 

Jennifer Bilek | Who is Behind the TRANS AGENDA?

𝗙𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗹𝗼𝘄

 

Knowing her first, I felt her stream run smooth,

skip playfully on rocks

and fall down liquid hills.

"Follow the flow," was her advice.

I did not understand.

 

In later years I met her once again.

She was a river grown,

swollen with life,

pulled by strong currents down toward unknown seas.

One felt the peaceful eddies, and the deep longing for the ocean's bed,

and she ran blue as the later summer years she bore.

"Follow the flow," she said.

 

Then there was parting, and we did not meet again

until one year when frost was chain about us.

I wondered, then, if she had frozen, too,

into the static waiting of old age,

reverting back to narrow winter stream.

but when I saw her eyes, I knew

she was Pacific now, and stretched horizons and beyond.

Ice could not crust on her

nor the frost chain

but rather wisdom pulled her tides.

Her deeps were heavy with the weight of love.

 

I understood, then, what it is to follow flow:

someday, one meets and mingles with the sea.

 

- Carol Bialock RSCJ -

 

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How ‘Isla Bryson’ broke the spell of trans ideology

 

Journey of the Magi (by T.S. Eliot)

 

‘A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.’ And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly. Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins, But there was no information, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory. All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.

 

 

"I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got, but there is much, very much, that, while I cannot give it, you can take.

No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today. Take heaven!

No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant. Take peace!

The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach is joy. There is radiance and glory in the darkness could we but see - and to see we have only to look. I beseech you to look! Life is so generous a giver, but we, judging its gifts by the covering, cast them away as ugly, or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love, by wisdom, with power.

Welcome it, grasp it, touch the angel's hand that brings it to you. Everything we call a trial, a sorrow, or a duty, believe me, that angel's hand is there, the gift is there, and the wonder of an overshadowing presence. Our joys, too, be not content with them as joys. They, too, conceal diviner gifts.

Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty - beneath its covering - that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven.

Courage, then, to claim it, that is all. But courage you have, and the knowledge that we are all pilgrims together, wending through unknown country, home.

And so, at this time, I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you now and forever, the day breaks, and the shadows flee away."

 

“Letter to a Friend on Christmas Eve”
written by Fra Giovanni Giocondo to his friend Countess Allagia Aldobrandeschi, Christmas Eve, 1513

 Fra Giovanni Giocondo (c.1435–1515) was a Renaissance pioneer accomplished as an architect, engineer, antiquary, archaeologist, classical scholar and Franciscan friar.

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