#Open: Hildegard

[theawkwardterrier]

Wednesday 100: Particular Prescriptions

"Barely at all?" Claire looks down, aghast. "I should have started labor ages ago."

Mother Hildegarde calmly wipes her hands from the examination. "Yet it seems you will not for some time still."

"Well, is there anything to be done?"

"Some believe rose oil can help. Others use birth powder, although I know you would not. And of course, there is the marriage bed."

"The—" Claire is distracted even from her sweating discomfort. "And that...works?"

"Clearly not for you so far," the nun says, "but I do not imagine you objecting to trying again," and Claire sees her eyes twinkle.

[iknowthvnd]

open starter ⊹₊ ⋆ @inaducursehqstarters muse ⊹₊ ⋆ eleanor hildegard location ⊹₊ ⋆ the french quarter plots ⊹₊ ⋆ utp

everything was fuzzy. yet at the same time so vibrant, the whole thing gave her a headache, one she couldn't seem to shake. ever since crawling out of the grave, there were only two things on eleanor's mind, water and her fiancee. placing unruly hair behind her ears, she walked toward the french quarter in search for both. the thing was, she had no money on her. so to get any answers, the anxiously meek woman looked around for someone kind enough to notice she was in distress.

"excuse me, could uhh..." she trailed off unable to get the attention of another, sulking her shoulders forward. ellie's brain felt as if it heavy, as the bright lights strained her already blurry vision.

[werewolf-transgenderism]

hi miles i need some medieval literature recs that are really pretentious so i sound smart and hot when i tell people i read them <3

I'm a big fan of my medieval ladies Margery Kempe and Julian of Norwich

also Hildegard von Bingen (Hildegard has some very gay letters with fellow nun Richardis), what's smarter and hotter than a lesbian polymath nun who did everything from music to science to medicine

La Vie de Sainte Euphrosine is fun and transgendery, as are Le Roman de Silence and Yde et Olive

Þrymskviða is a fun one (Thor has to dress up as a bride to steal his hammer back from a giant), also Volsunga saga is a classic

Marie de France's Lais are my all time fave medieval text, followed closely by Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

also a big fan of the Old English elegies, particularly The Wanderer, The Wife's Lament, and Wulf and Eadwacer

[t4tstarvingdog]

OH. ON THE TOPIC OF MUSIC THAT ISNT A HYMN BUT FEELS LIKE IT. lunar lullaby by jacob narverud (its a choral piece). its on spotify but also if youre not looking there. just look up a satb version. i did it for choir last year and

oh god. not choral pieces they Fuck Me Up. the rain sounds. the gentleness. uhm. for the love of god.

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 2 EPISODE 07 || FAITH ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

“Wait, Claire!” I half-turned; he was almost upon me. The soft gray numbness around me quivered, and I felt a sort of frozen panic at the thought that the sight of him might rip it away from me. If it did, I would die, I thought, like a grub dug up from the soil and tossed onto a rock to shrivel, naked and defenseless in the sun. “No!” I said. “I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.” He hesitated for a moment, and I turned away from him and began to walk rapidly down the path toward the arbor. I heard his steps on the gravel of the path behind me, but kept my back turned, and walked faster, almost running. As I paused to duck under the arbor, he made a sudden lunge forward and grasped my wrist. I tried to pull away from him, but he held on tight. “Claire!” he said again. I struggled, but kept my face turned away; if I didn’t look at him, I could pretend he wasn’t there. I could stay safe. He let go of my wrist, but grabbed me by both shoulders instead, so that I had to lift my head to keep my balance. His face was sunburned and thin, with harsh lines cut beside his mouth, and his eyes above were dark with pain. “Claire,” he said more softly, now that he could see me looking at him. “Claire—it was my child, too.” “Yes, it was—and you killed it!” I ripped away from him, flinging myself through the narrow arch. I stopped inside, panting like a terrified dog. I hadn’t realized that the arch led into a tiny vine-covered folly. Latticed walls surrounded me on all sides—I was trapped. The light behind me failed as his body blocked the arch. “Don’t touch me.” I backed away, staring at the ground. Go away! I thought frantically. Please, for God’s sake, leave me in peace! I could feel my gray wrappings being inexorably stripped away, and small, bright streaks of pain shot through me like lightning bolts piercing cloud. He stopped, a few feet away. I stumbled blindly toward the latticed wall and half-sat, half-fell onto a wooden bench. I closed my eyes and sat shivering. While it was no longer raining, there was a cold, damp wind coming through the lattice to chill my neck.

He didn’t come closer. I could feel him, standing there, looking down at me. I could hear the raggedness of his breathing. “Claire,” he said once more, with something like despair in his voice, “Claire, do ye not see … Claire, you must speak to me! For God’s sake, Claire, I don’t know even was it a girl or a boy!” I sat frozen, hands gripping the rough wood of the bench. After a moment, there was a heavy, crunching noise on the ground in front of me. I cracked my eyes open, and saw that he had sat down, just as he was, on the wet gravel at my feet. He sat with bowed head, and the rain had left spangles in his damp-darkened hair. “Will ye make me beg?” he said.

“It was a girl,” I said after a moment. My voice sounded funny; hoarse and husky. “Mother Hildegarde baptized her. Faith. Faith Fraser. Mother Hildegarde has a very odd sense of humor.”

The bowed head didn’t move. After a moment, he said quietly, “Did you see the child?” My eyes were open all the way now. I stared at my knees, where blown drops of water from the vines behind me were making wet spots on the silk. “Yes. The mâitresse sage-femme said I ought, so they made me.” I could hear in memory the low, matter-of-fact tones of Madame Bonheur, most senior and respected of the midwives who gave of their time at L’Hôpital des Anges. “Give her the child; it’s always better if they see. Then they don’t imagine things.” So I didn’t imagine. I remembered. “She was perfect,” I said softly, as though to myself. “So small. I could cup her head in the palm of my hand. Her ears stuck out just a little—I could see the light shine through them. The light had shone through her skin as well, glowing in the roundness of cheek and buttock with the light that pearls have; still and cool, with the strange touch of the water world still on them. “Mother Hildegarde wrapped her in a length of white satin,” I said, looking down at my fists, clenched in my lap. “Her eyes were closed. She hadn’t any lashes yet, but her eyes were slanted. I said they were like yours, but they said all babies’ eyes are like that.” Ten fingers, and ten toes. No nails, but the gleam of tiny joints, kneecaps and fingerbones like opals, like the jeweled bones of the earth itself. Remember man, that thou art dust.… I remembered the far-off clatter of the Hôpital, where life still went on, and the subdued murmur of Mother Hildegarde and Madame Bonheur, closer by, talking of the priest who would say a special Mass at Mother Hildegarde’s request. I remembered the look of calm appraisal in Madame Bonheur’s eyes as she turned to look me over, seeing my weakness. Perhaps she saw also the telltale brightness of theapproaching fever; she had turned again to Mother Hildegarde and her voice had dropped further—perhaps suggesting that they wait; two funerals might be needed. And unto dust thou shalt return. But I had come back from the dead. Only Jamie’s hold on my body had been strong enough to pull me back from that final barrier, and Master Raymond had known it. I knew that only Jamie himself could pull me back the rest of the way, into the land of the living. That was why I had run from him, done all I could to keep him away, to make sure he would never come near me again. I had no wish to come back, no desire to feel again. I didn’t want to know love, only to have it ripped away once more. But it was too late. I knew that, even as I fought to hold the gray shroud around me. Fighting only hastened its dissolution; it was like grasping shreds of cloud, that vanished in cold mist between my fingers. I could feel the light coming, blinding and searing. He had risen, was standing over me. His shadow fell across my knees; surely that meant the cloud had broken; a shadow doesn’t fall without light.

“He had risen, was standing over me. His shadow fell across my knees; surely that meant the cloud had broken; a shadow doesn’t fall without light.

“Claire,” he whispered. “Please. Let me give ye comfort.” 

“Comfort?” I said. “And how will you do that? Can you give me back my child? ”

He sank to his knees before me, but I kept my head down, staring into my upturned hands, laid empty on my lap. I felt his movement as he reached to touch me, hesitated, drew back, reached again.“No,” he said, his voice scarcely audible.

“No, I canna do that. But…with the grace of God…I might give ye another?”

His hand hovered over mine, close enough that I felt the warmth of his skin. I felt other things as well: the grief that he held tight under rein, the anger and the fear that choked him, and the courage that made him speak in spite of it. I gathered my own courage around me, a flimsy substitute for the thick gray shroud. Then I took his hand and lifted my head, and looked full into the face of the sun.

Cap 28 - The Coming of Light  ~ ‘Dragonfly In Amber’

[mrigasiras]

Uttara Bhadrapada is the sign of the renunciant. Its sister, Purva Bhadrapada, is fiery, loud, and extravagant. However Uttara Bhadrapada is Purva Bhadrapada's cooled down counterpart. Its natives are mystical and mysterious, often times hard for most to pin down.

Taking place in mid sidereal Pisces, it is the point where one must be spiritually surrendered to the mysterious tides of the 12th house. I have noticed many notable mystics and nuns have it prominently, as well as higher ups in society. Uttara Bhadrapada is stripped down, and because of this, ascends the ranks, spiritually and materially.

When you meet with God, you cannot take your possessions and your loved ones with you. To accumulate wealth, one must be able to hold themselves steadily, not acting upon impulse or emotion. One must surrender their ego completely, taking "I" out of the picture, not doing things for their immediate rewards, but for the liberation of their soul, letting the tides of divinity instead lead them.

The great Christian mystic St. Theresa of Avila had Uttara Bhadrapada ascendant. She coined the term "Dark Night of the Soul". The period when God seemingly abandons the spiritual aspirant, and allows for the heart chakra to be churned and opened, removed from sense pleasure. When one starts to act with their spirit fully taking the reigns.

I think that is also why their actions can be incomprehensible and strange to many. They have fully detached themselves and are now acting from divine channeling. I have noticed Uttara Bhadrapada art can be quite abstract and strange.

There's an inner strength and "toughness" that I sense with them. They seem to be quite sure of themselves, but not in a gaudy way, like Purva Bhadrapada might tend to be at times. They have been through the purging flames and now are acting from their own cultivated inner wisdom.

They are often times skeptical and rooted, knowing where they pull truth from. I've noticed that in films, Uttara Bhadrapada natives tend to play the characters who sense when things don't add up, and want to actually get to the bottom of the truth.

Salvador Dali, Uttara Bhadrapada moon

St. Theresa of Avila, Uttara Bhadrapada ascendant

Hildegard of Bingen, UB moon

Sufjan Stevens, UB moon

Bill Gates, UB moon

Leonard Nimoy, UB moon

Harry Houdini, UB sun

Debbie Harry, UB moon

[maculategiraffe]

baby's current top twenty favorite things to do at my house:

1. make rice on the stove

2. make popcorn on the stove

3. find the hole in the back yard where a bunny might live

4. find acorns on the ground and smash them with a hammer

5. make blueberry tea

6. watch the episode of the new adventures of winnie the pooh where they go to a movie about a giant spider and christopher robin accidentally drops his popcorn bucket on the movie usher's head*

7. play "christopher robin accidentally drops his popcorn on the movie usher's head," taking turns being christopher robin ("oh no I dropped my popcorn!!") and the movie usher ("lose your popcorn, kid?? this is a movie theater, not a playground!")

8. play "giant spider chases piglet around the house"

9. play "uncle boyfriend chases baby around the house and picks him up and flips him upside down and tosses him onto the sofa" five thousand times

10. jump back and forth between the mama tree stump and the baby tree stump in the yard

11. drink the costco brand of oat milk, which only tastes good at my house and not at mommy and daddy's

12. open and close the toaster oven doors

13. peek in at hildegard and ask "why is she a snake?"

14. steal uncle boyfriend's shoes while he's in the bathroom and hide them in the ash bucket

15. wear auntie mac's sunglasses that make everything look orange

16. laundry

17. play elevator (go behind floor length curtains and say 'going up' and 'going down')

18. sweep the pollen off the deck

19. play kitty cat (eat snacks from a round lidded container he has dubbed his kitty cat bowl)

20. replace any batteries and light bulbs that seem to need it

I don't even have any toys at my house

*this is the only episode we have ever watched or seem likely to ever watch

[anolis3]

"The Missing of Clairedelune", by Christelle Dabos.

"With that, Mother Hildegarde stuck a hand in one of her pockets. This gesture might have remained anecdotal if the whole arm hadn't started to follow the movement, as if sucked into the void.", from The Missing of Clairedelune.

"I loved God, yes, but I hated that book he'd open at the drop of a hat. God, on the other hand, amused him enormously. When God was happy, he wrote. When God was angry, he wrote. And one day, when God was in a very bad mood, he made a huge mistake. God broke the world into pieces.", from The Missing of Clairedelune.

[shegatsby]

Heyy! I absolutely love your writing and mow I finally managed the courage to request something.

Could you maybe write about a dinner party at Hannibals with the typical candidates(Jack, Will etc.) and the reader is Hannibals patient with anxiety of meeting new people and only music can calm them down, and later it could maybe end up with a skip to the future where Hannibal and reader talk about that, while holding their first child, because that is the day they fell in love with each other?

I know an oddly specific request haha but I think that'd be cute!^^ thank you in regards for reading this <3

A/N; Thank you so much for this request, i enjoyed it. Sorry for any typos.

Words; 896

Dr. Hannibal Lecter had been getting ready for his well known and admired dinner party for the last week. It was going to be a grand party where most of the rooms of his château like house would be open for his guests. The number of guests were 20, including you. His patient and recently close friend. Before you, Hannibal had never thought of inviting his patient to his house let alone a lavish dinner party but you charmed your way in. The reason why you were getting treatments from him was because you had anxiety of meeting new people. All your life you thought you were an introvert, you had small circle of friends but the recent years that circle vanished due to the fact that your friends either moved away or got married so you have came to the conclusion that you weren’t introvert, you had severe anxiety whenever you met or introduced to a new person. You heard Doctor Lecter’s reputation a while ago. He was a genius in his field and also in other things, when you realized that you needed to overcome this anxiety you knocked on his door and the rest is history. It was a struggle though, he pushed you to be more public, going out, making a small conversation with the barista or shop assistant… but you were making progress and he figured out that what made you calm was classical music, he made you a playlist on Spotify, your favorite was Hildegard von Bingen.

When Hannibal handed you a small envelope you were sitting on the comfortable armchair in his office, you session had just ended. It was an invitation to his dinner party, you felt honored. He insisted upon it, said it would be a great experiment on your progress.

Here you were in your black dress and high heels, it was a cold Baltimore night so you were wearing your thick coat. As you knocked on the dark wooden door you wanted to run away, you didn’t want to be rude or disappoint him so something made you stand tall. He answered, he had a small smile when he saw you, looking sharp and dangerously handsome in his suit. ‘’It is lovely to see you Y/N.’’ he said warmly, allowing you to step inside. You could hear soft melody coming from a distance, he took your coat, ‘’Thank you Doctor.’’ You managed to say while your gaze lingering on his plump lips which didn’t go unnoticed. ‘’Please.’’ He put his hand on the small of your back and guided you to the grand living room, it was crowded, you could see he invited his colleges because everyone looked important and elite. The melody was low enough to hear one another’s conversations but still it was there and it made you calm. Doctor Lecter didn’t let go of you, even though his touch was gentle yet it was subtle, it sent electricity to your entire body. You didn’t understand what he was doing until he made you walk to a group of men. ‘’Greetings everyone.’’ He, as a dominant man started the conversation. ‘’May I introduce you to my-‘’ he paused for a second, he couldn’t say ‘’patient’’ that would be odd, ‘’dear friend.’’ And then he introduced Jack Crawford, Will Graham and other FBI agents.

It was a strange night for you because you never got triggered, you were completely calm. That night was the beginning of your new life.

Years Later

Hannibal helped you walk into the house, you were tired from your labor however he was managing fine. Supporting you with his one hand and holding your new born with the other. Together you walked into the grand living room, he helped you sat down and relax, ‘’I’ll make some relaxing tea for you darling.’’ He said and before he left he kissed your forehead and whispered ‘’You did great.’’

You picked your new born from the carrier, tiny little creature felt so fragile in your arms. This was your first child and you knew that deep down you and Hannibal would want more. ‘’Hi baby, welcome home.’’ You whispered, the baby was sleeping and you remembered the night it all began…

At that dinner party when everyone left you helped Hannibal and he opened up to you. He said he fancied you and would like to see you as his partner and you gladly accepted, you felt even superior to land such a man like him. And now years later you were holding his child in your arms, Hannibal came back with a silver tray, that’s what you loved about him the most. He did extra things to show his love and he loved putting extra thought into things, the silver tray had 2 porcelain tea cups that looked like they were from Victorian times, he also brought your favorite dessert too. ‘’Thank you my love. You’re so thoughtful.’’ He liked affirmations like these and you weren’t shy to give them to him. ‘’Anything for my Queen.’’ He kissed your hand and sat next to you, poured you a cup. He caught you smiling to yourself, ‘’What is it my love?’’

‘’Remember that dinner party, years ago where you confessed your love for me.’’ He smiled and nodded, ‘’I almost cancelled.’’ Hannibal looked into your beautiful eyes, and together you started laughing.

[catholic-saint-tournament]

About St Hildegard of Bingen (left)

About St Joan of Arc (right)

The winner will go to the final four across all brackets!!

In about 24 hours the next bracket will open for modern saints.

[er1chartmann]

Joseph Goebbels's time line

This is Joseph Goebbels,The Nazi minister for Propaganda, time-line:

1897: He was born in Rheydt

1900: His father bought a house at number 140 Dahlener Street, in Rheydt, today number 156.

1909: His sister, named Maria, was born.

1917: He moved to 18 Post Straße in Bonn to continue his studies

1919: He voted for the German Nationalist Party

1919: He moved to Munich.

1920: He moved to Heidelberg University, where he studied under the aegis of two Jewish professors, Friedrich Gundolf, professor of literary history, and Max von Waldberg, author of numerous books on the history of literature.

1922: He worked briefly as an art critic for a newspaper, but was fired; he later gave a public lecture on Oswald Spengler.

1922: He subsequently found work at the Dresdner bank in Cologne, thanks to the family relationships of his girlfriend, Else Janke, of Jewish origins. He remained there for nine months, only to be fired.

1924: He began writing his diaries.

1924: He organized the first political meetings in his father's house in Rheydt

1924: He published his first article in a weekly political magazine

1925: On January 20, 1925, he was fired from the magazine Völkische Freiheit and subsequently became Gregor Strasser's secretary.

1925: He was at the forefront, alongside Strasser, in supporting the campaign for the expropriation of the assets of the fallen nobles, proposed by the communist and social democratic deputies.

1926: on 29 March 1926 Hitler offered Goebbels the opportunity to speak in public, the following 8 April; Goebbels accepted and, from then on, was completely won over by the Führer.

1926: He officially broke with Strasser and definitively switched to Hitler's side.

1926: Hitler appointed Goebbels Gauleiter (regional section head) of Berlin.

1928: He was elected deputy to the Reichstag

1931: He married Magda, the ex-wife of an industrialist, on the estate of Günther Quandt in Mecklenburg: Hitler was his best man.

1932: His first child, named Helga, was born.

1933: Goebbels was called to the position of Minister of Propaganda.

1933: He organized the so-called ''Book Burnings'' in Berlin.

1934: His second child, named Hildegard, was born.

1935: His third child and only son, Helmut, was born.

1936: He became the lover of the Czechoslovakian actress Lída Baarová.

1937: His fourth child, named Holdine, was born

1937: He opened the exhibition of the so-called ''degenerate art'': no ​​entry fee was required, to ensure that it was visited by as many people as possible.

1938: He helped organize Kristallnacht

1938: His fifth child, named Hedwig, was born.

1939: The Second World War began

1939: He visited Poland and in particular a ghetto.

1940: His sixth child, named Heidrun, was born

1940: He became editor of Das Reich.

1941: He read the declaration of war regarding the invasion of the Soviet Union.

1941: He began to take an active interest in the Jewish question. With Hitler's permission, he created a ''special mark for the Jews''

1943: He made the speech of total war.

1945: He was named plenipotentiary minister for total war mobilization and later general of the Wehrmacht, in charge of the defense of Berlin, this assignment meant a lot to Goebbels, who was unable to join the army during WW1 due to his disability

1945: From 22 to 29 April, He published the last Nazi newspaper in history, the Panzerbär.

1945: Hitler, in his last wishes, named him his successor as Reich Chancellor.

1945: Once Hitler died, Goebbels took over from him as chancellor on 30 April 1945, remaining in office for only almost a day and a half.

1945: He and his wife Magda, after having killed their six children with cyanide, they committed suicide.

Sources:

Wikipedia: Joseph Goebbels

Hitler and his loyalists: Paul Roland

Joseph Goebbels, the agitator: Documentary

If you don't like it go with your life :))

Note: If I get new information from my research I will edit the post :))

I DON'T SUPPORT NAZISM, FASCISM OR ZIONISM IN ANY WAY, THIS IS AN EDUCATIONAL POST

[loneberry]

some notes on sufism

The other day I went to the Harvard Divinity School Muslims iftar (the meal that breaks the fast during Ramadan), which was followed by a concert of Turkish music that is traditionally performed in Sufi lodges in Istambul. Before the music began, the professor I’ve been auditing Islamic literature classes with read some verses from Rumi’s Masnavi and offered a meditation on fasting through an interpretation of the lines: “If you have closed this mouth, another mouth is opened, which becomes an eater of the morsels of mysteries.” That is the nature of mystical knowledge—gnosis (or maʿrifa) is not understood intellectually, but tasted (dhawq). The closing of the bodily mouth is an opening of the spiritual mouth. He asked us to listen to the music with the inner heart.

I went with my friend S, who has been nudging me toward conversion. I’ve been allergic to religion most of my life because I’m not really much of a joiner. I distinctly remember being in (Catholic) Sunday School as a child and thinking to myself: This sounds fake to me. As in, made-up, irrational. The people who treated the fanciful stories like fact seemed like crackpots to me, even to my child-mind. I don’t think I ever believed in Santa either—I guess my disposition was innately skeptical; perhaps that contributed to my identification with anarchism from when I was 13 or 14. Yet at the same time, my feeling for the invisible, for the world of the dead, was always quite strong, even when it was unstitched from a belief system. As a kid I would wander the house alone at night, thinking I could hear my dead parakeet chirping from a shoebox in the garage.  

I hated Sunday School. While I was always good at school-school (at least when I was a child, before I became an incorrigible truant), I was terrible at Sunday School. Because it seemed like hocus-pocus to me, none of it stuck. My classmates had internalized all the stories I thought were outlandish. During mass I would think exclusively about donuts, the ones we would buy from the ladies who would sell them as a fundraiser. I’ve thought about returning to Catholicism, but sadly, after the post-1970s political realignment in the US, all the leftist Catholics (the Marxists who loathed the Vietnam War and exposed the FBI’s COINTELPRO) are gone. As much as I love reading Catholic mystics (St Teresa of Avila, St John of the Cross, Angela of Foligno, Hildegard of Bingen, Meister Eckhart, Marguerite Porete, and others), Christian mysticism is more individualist than Islamic mysticism—asceticism and separation from the group is the way to commune with God, while Islamic mysticism is rooted in communal practices like sama (singing, dancing, reciting poetry, playing/listening to music) and dhikr (communal prayer for the remembrance of God). While Christian mysticism bears the imprint of the Neoplatonist trajectory of ascent, for Sufism, the trajectory is shaped like a paisley. After fana (annihilation of the ego/union with God/dying before you die), there is baqaa or subsistence, a return of sorts. 

I also much prefer the Islamic orientation to the created world than the Christian one, for in Islam, everything in creation can be understood as the breath or speech of God. The Hadith on which Sufi cosmology is based reads, “I was a hidden Treasure and Loved to be known, so I created the world that I might be known.” All of creation is a mirror to reflect God (this is why you must polish the rust from your heart, for the human heart can manifest all the names and qualities of God). In the Islamic mystical tradition there is an affirmation of the created world even though God and creation are not the same (as is the case in Pantheism). Everything has ontology. Nothing has ontology. The Sufi metaphysicians ask us to see with two eyes. The drop is not the ocean at the same time it cannot be separated from the ocean.

7 years ago I read Reza Aslan’s God: A Human History. After sampling the platter of world religions I joked to myself, Hmmm, if I had to pick the one I vibe with most, I guess it would be Sufism (Islamic mysticism). I didn’t know anything about Sufism other than the Rumi and Hafez poetry I read as a teenager, but the way Aslan described Ibn ‘Arabi’s concept of 'wahadat al-wujud' (or Unity of Being) reminded me of Spinozism. I guess what I’m trying to say is...I just think Sufi metaphysics is...right. Or, it speaks to how I tend to think about reality. It’s not something I can prove (that I don’t exist, while at the same time I am part of the ALL that is God), but it makes the most sense to me.

In the Sufi literature class, S jokes to me: “You’re the only non-Muslim in this class.” The same was probably true at the iftar + concert. S points to someone from the class: “The Maoist is a recent convert. This is their first time fasting for Ramadan.” “Is [our professor] fasting?” “Of course. I saw him at the iftar last night and talked to him about translation. I told him it’s ghastly to try to fit Persian verse into an English rhyme scheme. He agreed with me.” (We are clearly partisans of blank verse translations… yet so much of what’s out there has been poorly translated or not translated at all.) 

Much of the lyrics sung with the gorgeous music were verses written by the great Turkish-language Sufi poet and mystic Yunus Emre ("the Dante of Turkey," I whispered to S). S was ecstatic listening to the haunting ney (a kind of flute). We just so happened to be sitting in the same row as the professor. I tapped S and whispered that it looked like he was really enjoying the music. He was smiling with his eyes closed and swaying his head from side to side. He looked like he was having...a profound experience. This prof usually has what I guess you’d call ‘resting bitch face’ (which I always found funny because it runs counter to his sweet and gentle personality). But not at the concert. Pure bliss was painted on his face. It was then that it dawned on me that Sufism, for him, was probably something more than a scholarly interest. I thought about what it must have been like to discover something so beautiful and profound, and to know, in that moment, that your life will be changed forever—you might go off to Iran and devote your entire life to studying medieval texts. 

Of course this Ramadan I am thinking continuously about the genocide in Gaza, how an entire population is being starved to death by the sadistic leaders of Israel, how terrible it must be to be bombed and shot at during the holy month, or to break your fast with boiled grass and animal feed. I feel truly ashamed to come from a country that is complicit in this violence. I hope everyone continues to apply pressure to end this war—it feels hopeless now, but it is making a difference.

[iknowthvnd]

open starter ⊹₊ ⋆ plotdrop#003 : spirit of fear; @inaducursehqstarters muses ⊹₊ ⋆ eleanor hildegard location ⊹₊ ⋆paradigm garden

one moment, eleanor was about to enjoy her last s'more of the night, the next she saw the most interesting light in the sky, followed by the feeling as if the sweet treat in her hand was going to poison her. throwing the beautiful crafted delicacy right into the bonfire, she then jumped back and began to look at the people around her. all of them had the same look of fear in their eyes. what had trigged this distress out of nowhere? but she couldn't question it long as the morbid thoughts bubbled in her chest once more. every single person around her was a threat, hell the last time she died it was at the hands of someone trusted, so what was to stop total strangers?

gripping her belongings, elle made a dash for the exit. the only thought on her mind was survival from the scary world that surrounded.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Cole Porter's final musical, Silk Stockings, opened on February 24, 1955 at the Imperial Theater. Loosely based on the story and film Ninotchka, it starred Hildegard Neff and Don Ameche. Also in the cast were Gretchen Wyler, David Opatoshu, and a young Julie Newmar. The most famous song from it is "All of You."

Above, first-night crowds entering the theater. Below, two members of the crowd, Lena Horne and her husband, Leonard Hayton.

Top photo: Hans von Nolde for the AP Bottom photo: Associated Press

[haggishlyhagging]

By choice, [Emily Dickinson] had moved her life into metaphor and through words discovered a power of control and creativity far beyond that reached by most writers, male or female. Her work is extraordinary both in form and content. Her wrenched syntax, elliptic language and intense metaphors confined within the smallest possible poetic space endow her work on the humblest subject matter—insects, bees, the movement of grass in the wind—with transcendent metaphysical and allegorical meaning. Like all great artists she created a world of her own, a secret and often mysterious alternate world in which she ruled freely and with total control. The common language of biblical metaphor, Christian myth and poetic reference allowed readers—or rather future readers—some foothold of entry, but Dickinson complicated both entry and participation by the way in which her language transformed the common symbols and gave them her own, quite specific meanings. No woman poet before her had ever probed the depths of her own feelings with such honesty or confronted her own passion, rage and despair with such surgical accuracy and cool detachment.

But her work goes far beyond self-exploration. Dickinson's poems, read in their entirety and read along with her letters, reveal her as a major thinker who created a work of large scale. Like her predecessors, the medieval mystics, Dickinson was concerned with the large, metaphysical questions: man's relationship to God, to death and to Redemption. Unlike them, she was not sustained or supported by an institutional framework of explanation—she rejected both the Church and the Calvinist theology in which she was raised. In their place, she developed a loving and ultimately healing nature philosophy, and she wrote of love, friendship and nurturance, of rejection, betrayal and loss. She wrote of these themes as a woman, out of a consciousness grounded in a deep homoerotic and creative commitment to women.

She had taken loss, disappointment and abandonment through death and absence and turned them into renunciation, transforming them into sources of power. Her feat was subversive, in the best tradition of women's resistance to patriarchy. She turned the very "female virtues" into their opposites: passivity turned to watchfulness and the ability for concentrated listening to inner voices and signs; submissiveness turned into calculated withdrawal to the point of invisibility—I am so small, I disappear, like the mouse, like the bird ("I'm Nobody!"; #288). My weakness entitles my speech to heightened significance, not only because I am "God's trumpet" or a vessel for divine instruction, as Hildegard was, but because I am common, like household chores, like the dailyness of women's lives, like the humble bees and birds and meadow flowers. Renunciation of self was transformed into the immense discipline which could disdain what it could not gain and thus triumph over desire. It was out of this renunciation—which the mystics expressed through their chastity and their mortification of the flesh—that she could gain the arrogance of the God-wrestler, the divine Creator and the keeper of mysteries.

The questions we have asked of her life-choices—Were they necessary? Were they socially conditioned through patriarchal gender definitions? Were they the result of rejection by others?—are all essentially irrelevant. She found a way out of the conditions her life presented to her, and in so doing she dismantled the cage of restraints which patriarchal definition had placed on women of talent. She transformed "the house of her father," which she never physically left and to whose rules she so ostentatiously submitted, into a free temple of ungendered humanity, where the soul stood naked and unencumbered, open at last to all possibilities.

-Gerda Lerner, The Creation of Feminist Consciousness

[ravensinthedaylight]

Masterlist

AO3: Ravensinthedaylight Requests: Open Taglists

I do not write :

Smut in any way, shape or form

Male/GN reader

Hateful material (homophobia, racism, ableism, body shaming, etc.)

Natasha Romanoff (platonic/parent only)

Ready or not Here I Come - Your mama, Natasha can’t find you during a game of hide and seek and gets worried

.-.-.

Wanda Maximoff (platonic/parent only)

Whatever Means Necessary - When Wanda arrives back after being snapped, she discovers that you, her daughter, sacrificed yourself in order to obtain the soul stone so that your mother’s girlfriend, Natasha, wouldn’t have to. Wanda’s devastated and lost, and so is Nat. A few months after her and Natasha call it quits and Wanda takes a trip to Westview, the small town she had planned on moving to with your eleven-year-old self when she retired. Wanda just wants you back, she’s willing to do whatever is necessary. 

.-.-.

Wandanat (platonic/parent only)

Your Safe Embrace - Y/N is a child newly rescued from a HYDRA base who also happens to be the child of Natasha Romanoff and the adopted child of Wanda Maximoff. The two have decided to give the seven year old time to get used to her surroundings before coddling her. But Y/N just wants to be held.

Rather You Guys Anyway - Your friends ditch you to go and watch a movie while you’re at the mall, luckily your Mama’s have no problem picking you up.

.-.-.

Blackhill (platonic/parent only)

Appendicitis - Nat and Maria are gone on a mission leaving you with Wanda and Vision and the twins in Westview, the only problem is the constant pain in your tummy, at first you thought it was just a bug, but it only gets worse

Blow out the Candles - Maria, your mama’s girlfriend, doesn’t come to your birthday party due to work, the day after you hear a conversation between her and your mama that you don’t fully understand. Two days later you receive and envelope as your birthday present. And you couldn’t be happier.

.-.-.

Winterwidow (platonic/parent only)

The Endgame - When Thanos snapped, you lost everything.

The Aftermath - The loss of a child is something no parent should ever have to go through. Unfortunately, Bucky and Natasha had to go through it twice in both of their lifetime. Sequel to ‘The Endgame’

.-.-.

Peter Parker (platonic only)

coming soon

Johanna Mason (platonic/sister only)

coming soon

.-.-.

Katniss Everdeen (platonic/romantic)

coming soon

.-.-.

Finnick Odair (romantic only)

coming soon

Emily Prentiss (parent only)

Ruby - When Emily leaves for a case she leaves you with your godparents. They both decide to take you to the movies, but that night something terrible happens. The next day Emily Prentiss and the team sit, listening to the case file going over the facts of your godparents murder and your own kidnapping.

.-.-.

Hotchniss (parent only)

coming soon

Daenerys Targaryen (platonic/parent only)

City of Ash -  You struggle to look at your mother, Daenerys, after the burning of King's Landing.

.-.-.

Margaery Tyrell (platonic only)

coming soon

Thomas (romantic only)

coming soon

Mikaeleson Family (platonic only)

coming soon

.-.-.

Nora Hildegard (platonic/sister only)

coming soon

Addison Montgomery (parental only)

coming soon