Things occur for me differently. They always have. What they seem to be on the Surface plane of awareness is an echo of something much deeper. A shifting mirage with grasping fingers that cannot embrace it’s True substance. When we live in such a place, our World is dim, distant from the brightness that underlies all facets of the jewel of the Creation. Such is the nature of All things, really. The essence of God moves through all aspects, for all aspects of made of that numinous substance. The true Question is whether we perceive it.
To me, all bookstores are Temples of Story. Leaves of the World Tree, flush with the whisperings of tales and tellings that model the human spirit. In such a manner everything from a grand chain of bookstores, the small stands of periodicals and candies, the feral constructed storehouse of books left by wandering travelers on a tropical getaway and everything in-between all bear the same signature. The same imprint and texture of the Deva. The Deva of Story, the vibrational uniqueness that empowers such magicks.
And such places are storehouses of Power. Of the energies of Story as She filters into the human World. Radiant pulses of the World Tree, where all Worlds meet.
One of my favorite Stories of the Journey Home happened in 2012 when I returned to the great City of New Yorke to attendthe passing of my brother Tyler. Barring the wedding of my sister Courtney, I had not returned to the Eastern coastlines of the Americas for a decade.
It was very surreal for me, returning to Great Yorke (as I called Her, the deva loci of New York City) after so much time away. The pace, the styles, the people, wrought to an entirely different vibration that what I had grown accustomed to. Looking for a place to recharge my energies with the Deva of Story, I made my way to what was called, on the Surface, a ‘Barnes n’ Noble’ on the northern side of Union Square.
I wandered upstairs, feeling the Stories all around me. Whispering, the embodied leaves of the World Tree. Stories flew through the Air, more pungent and ironed than the People who read them, the greater gravities that gave rise to human definition and significance. I turned the corner, heading into the commissary of ‘Starbucks’. All the tables were taken, save for one with a single individual, illuminated by a radiance of Light passing through the open windows.
A woman sat there, the Light playing upon lily-white skin and tinted lips. Even from where I stood I could smell her aura, tickling the Air. A wafting of Magick. Of Story. Wandering over, I drank her in, feeling the energies of her presence.
“Tara Lee?” I said, Opening the space.
Her eyes raised. Widened. “Griffin?!?!”(*) She exclaimed, confused and elated. Light blossomed from her centre, Seen in the underplanes of the Real. Words fell from her lips. “What … what are You doing here?” She asks, and I smile.
It had been ten years since I had wandered through the greystreets of the City. Since I had taken solace amongst the whispering of the Tree. Tara Lee had been there, at the beginning of the Quest in 2002, one of the members of what I affectionately called the ‘Fairytale Brigade’ a pantheon of avatars of Story including my brother angel James Vogel. When I left the City to head out on the Quest, we lost touch.
Yet the Lady knows better. Story draws us, pulls us forward, drawn to the gravity of Her current temples, her current abode and dominions. As we spoke, Tara Lee (who often goes by the moniker ‘Veronica Varlow’ for reasons of her own design) revealed, she was *rarely* in the City, living in the upstate territories of New York. To see me, in the annals of the bookstore, was shocking. She reeled in the coincidence of it.
I Knew better, of course. As we had been drawn together in 2002 so we were drawn again, ordained to meet in this place beneath and beyond the remembrances of our current mortal forms. In the underplanes of the Mythica, we met, as a Goddess and God of Story, in the sacred Temple of Story, wrought, like the temple, in the current incarnate forms to carry the timbre of the Deva across the planes. Such is the power, the threadwork of the Lady, bringing us together in webs of circumstance and kismet, gradually teasing us free of the skein of our confusion in the revelation of our interwoven threads.
Later that day, the Fairytale Brigade would reunite even more deeply, as Vogel made his way to meet us at the bookstore, preparing for our next journey deeper into the realms. But that, of course, is another Story.
(* In 2002 when I first met Veronica Varlow, I went by the name Griffin)
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