The Native American Indians and other ancient cultures had a powerful tradition called, the blessing of the son, where father, and often grandfather, would anoint the boy to become a man, passing through a ceremony, often with conflict or some form of testing.
We no longer value this timeless tradition and have instead, opted to put our children through our own rituals of creation so they can grow up to be whatever ideal image we’ve burdened them with.
As a result, most of us spend a lifetime either not knowing WHO we are, numbing our dreams and desires for a packaged version of happiness found in a daily diet of television, sports and social media served up to us on handheld devices that excuse the rudeness in which we treat each other.
- We treat the addiction, but not the cause.
- We speak of the feelings, but not the underlying beliefs.
- We adopt rigorous diets, but never develop and appreciation for food.
- We drink to overconsumption, and call it a party.
It’s insanity! A painful, brutal insanity.
A few of us have rebelled from this cultural travesty and spend our decades squeezing ourselves through the head of a needle in ceremonial cleanses religious rituals, dietary regimes and consuming books with such veracity, we anesthetisize ours minds with knowledge that creates spiritual arrogance and forms of performance based behavior management. We are the wounded healers, the light warriors with heightened senses and deep roots. Many of us are propped up by pride, teetering on arrogance.
As a boy, I read Jesus’ words,
“Die to self. Rise and become a new creation.”
I thought that meant not being self centered. Serve others. Be a “good” human and don’t WANT anything, at least not too much.
I was wrong. Very wrong…and poorly taught.
Jesus, and other Healers, we’re talking about: IDENTITY.
Death to the self made-creation that happened in a moment as children, when we fractured from our perfect souls and became something entirely different so as to survive. It’s primal. It’s raw. It’s real.
The tragedy is we all look at these childhoood event(s) and tell our story…over, and over, and over trying to heal from what happened when the truth is, it was supposed to happen. It was a setup, the beginning of a path you are to forge that leads to your new creation, your new heaven, your paradise found within.
Until a man has suffered, he remains as a boy. He must be tested, tried, trued much like the refinement of gold that heats in the cistern to increase it’s value, we remain limp and less useful until we go through our trial and have the bravery to lay down our false identities in death rituals, and rise again, a new creation.
The worm to the butterfly.
The fire to then budding flower.
The acorn to the majestic oak.
The pain of childbirth.
The toil of man to tend to his land.
The serenity that follows every natural storm.
The hatching egg.
Continual death of the Victim – and rebirth to the Creator.
It’s said that there is no greater beauty than a soul set on fire.
I can appreciate this. I spent most of my life searching and hunting for the face of God, eager to escape the limitations of my humanity and experience the heavenly bliss that comes to me in my dreams.
This place called Rythmia has me expanded in ways that have alluded me, connected to a depended sense of the universal grandiosity in manifestation and creation.
I’m at rebirth.
Scorched from the trials, battered from the journey and stepping into the vulnerable nudity of a new soul, a new creation.
It’s primal. It’s raw. It’s real.
=> For more information on deep soul work, contact me at Soul@RobinAustinReed.com to arrange a discovery session if this ceremony is right for you.
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