#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.

[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.

[windupaidoneus]

i need hilde to get the fuck over himself & open up to shtola at once i knowww once he gets less scared they would be best friends forever...

[lethendralis-paints]

A lovely orc OC from BG3 named Hildegard for a client.

Чарівна орк на ім'я Хілдегард на замовлення.

Pssst...I'm open to art commissions, big and small this month! More info here:

[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

[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’

[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.

[hoursofreading]

She certainly advocated keeping healthy in her scientific works, repeatedly stressing the benefits of eating and drinking well. In her letters too, she frequently reminded recipients how important it was to look after the human body, since it took care of the soul. She cautioned against the fasting, scourging and self-deprivation practised by certain monks and nuns like Jutta.49 Instead, beer is encouraged since it ‘positively affects the body when moderately consumed … beer fattens the flesh and … lends a beautiful colour to the face’. And unlike many of her contemporaries, Hildegard also took a keen interest in the gynaecological and sexual well-being of women.50 Writing in 1150, she provided the first known description of what a female orgasm feels like: When a woman is making love with a man, a sense of heat in her brain, which brings with it sensual delight, communicates the taste of that delight during the act and summons forth the emission of the man’s seed. And when the seed has fallen into its place, that vehement heat descending from her brain draws the seed to itself and holds it, and soon the woman’s sexual organs contract, and all the parts that are ready to open up during the time of menstruation now close, in the same way as a strong man can hold something enclosed in his fist.

Femina_ A New History of the Middle Ages, Through the Women -- Janina Ramirez -- 2022 -- WH Allen -- 9780753558256 -- 49f425850989d7f5c4898de4b45e6359 -- Anna’s Archive

[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.

[thisuserislilsilly]

Summary: A Viridian Phantoms (OG creator of this chapter is @cardinalcanis) gets shoved into a ceremony of the Ember Nomads. Ends up being weirded out and in a bromance(?)

TW: A comfort/wholesome moment in 40k, not grimdark sorry y'all

Pairing: Viridian Phantom x Ember Nomad (ayo maybe 👀?)

Word count: 1530 (jeez I need to pump these numbers up, guess I was just trying to get the handle of the Phantoms)

Goblin tag squad (lemme know if you wanna get tagged too): @cardinalcanis

The echoes of the battle were still ringing in the ears of Hildegard as she paced around the barren wasteland that portion of the city had become. Empty open salvo shells could be seen on some buildings, in the ground there were caskets of bullets, plasma packs and bolter rounds spread aimlessly, that rotten smell of teared carbonized flesh can be still be felt in the air and the Phantom was sure her psyker abilities still picked up the screams of the dead or the distant prayers to the Emperor like whispers at the back of her head which she shook with her head.

Her Chapter was yet to mobilize out of there, most likely it would take them some time to pack up the gear, the tanks and retreat every unit until they were set to leave that planet to regrow and re-populate once more. They weren't the only ones who were on their way out of the planet however, the Ember Nomads, distant cousins from their own Chapter, descendants of the White Scars were too preparing to leave, although at a pace and manner so different from the Phantoms it was jarring to know they were related at all.

Maybe it was that difference what made her walk towards the Nomads, maybe it was the chants in a language so different from High or Low Gothic that attracted her ears or perhaps it was just the circle they were doing while sitting, she wouldn't know the real reason until much later, when these events were part of her past and a remembrance of the first time she directly interacted with the Nomads.

“Ah cousin, it is good to see one of you around here! Come, join us in this ceremony, I can guarantee you won't regret this” The loud, surprisingly deep voice of a Ember Nomad abruptly interrupted Hildegard trail of thoughts

“No, I don't understand it” She said bluntly, her helmet turned to face the Astartes

“Nonsense cousin, it is such a simple act back in Cthonipem even the tiniest of children learn fast how to join in” Before Hildegard could flee from the scene, the arm of her cousin wrapped around her shoulder and pushed the Phantom towards the circle

It was not big, she counted at least six of the Nomads reunited, all with their legs crossed as beat as the cumbersome armor allowed it, their hands on their chests and their helmets set aside making the tanned faces of theirs catch the lasts rays of the setting sun. In the middle of it all there were a pile of trinkets from fallen warriors, human and Astartes alike, all arranged in such a messy manner Hildegard couldn't find another word for it rather than “primitive”. She was shoved to the right side of the circle by her cousin, the others moving aside so she could sit too; the Phantom did not remove her helmet, preferring to silently judge without being seen and found rude by anyone.

Not a minute later, who seemed the oldest of the Embers stood up and walked towards the center where the trinkets were, the rest rearranging once again to close the circle. The “elder” muttered something Hildegard could not catch nor understand and then changed his language to Low Gothic.

“Brothers of mine and cousin of us all…” He began, solemnly giving the Phantom a nod “We have gathered here after blood has been spilled and death has come to honor the dead, just like our ancestors did, just like our families did and now just like our brothers will do once we return to the Emperor. Let us begin”

A grumbling came from the throats of every one of the Nomads, they closed their eyes, lifted their heads to the sky and began doing a strange noise with their throats Hildegard didn't thought possible for a human being (or a Astartes for that matter); with surprised eyes she almost felt small, out of place, wishing she was alone again with her thoughts or back at her Chapter's fleet, but she found it too rude to leave in that moment and her exit would be obviously noted by the Nomads, so with a long sigh, she stayed. The grumbling gave way to singing, again in their language; a brutish language, one with many cutting noises, inhalation and unpleasant sounds for her Krieg ears…but somehow strangely alluring to her psyker abilities.

Her mind sensed psiquic energy flowing in the gathering, one coming from all there in unison, like each note of a melody playing on their right moment to form not just a song, but a story. She was mentally transported to a place far away from her physical body, one with a big field, a stepe composed of a seemingly eternal grass field and sounds of animals she had never met nor heard of before; she felt her heart beating faster, her body stiff and her mind being completely free, with a sense of liberation not felt before in her life. She saw the comrades that had died that day, the sisters who had given their lives for the Imperium and it's people…but they were happy, smiling, dancing in movements that resembled riding jetbikes or using their swords and power fists. It gave such a sense of peace, liberation, wild sensations and comfort not just for the passing for those dead in battle, but for those that were still alive.

The chanting ended a few minutes later, with those sensations still dwelling in her heart, shifting her gaze now towards the closest Nomad, she bumped into their shoulder to gather their attention.

“What does ‘Shaarg’ mean? It was the most repeated word of your…song” She tried to sound polite, despite the bluntness of the question

“It means ‘rest’ in our mother's tongue. We use it when speaking of the dead so they do not attempt to come from the Warp to reality again” The marine answered with a smile

“It is certainly strange to hear it repeated many times. Do you do this often?” She raised an eyebrow under her helmet even if it couldn't be seen

“Yes, after a successful campaign we do it every time” Her cousin laughed slapping the Hildegard back

“Don't….do that again” She said dryly

“Oh, learnt reflexes, I am sorry cousin”

“I'm Hildegard” Just now the Phantom had noticed she hadn't introduced herself before speaking, was that how she was supposed to start a conversation? The proper etiquette? It didn't matter now

“I am Ogodei, a pleasure”

After the introductions, Ogodei guided Hildegard back to her Chapter, speaking most of the way there while the Phantom silently watched the Nomad without much commentary from her part although her attention was very much focused in what he was saying. The Nomads had a strange way to modulate words, almost never abbreviation them in common Gothic manners and speaking too in a blunt direct way but not equal enough to how she was used to hear from her sisters. Still, it was pleasant to hear him talk, know how enthusiastically and energetically he expressed his words through his body language, his defined face features weren't ugly neither, battle hardened sure, but not unpleasant to look at.

Before she knew it, they were already at the feet of the Phantoms ship ramp; their time had come to a stop; the Nomad did not notice any of this until Hildegard intentionally coughed loudly so her cousin could get the hint to stop talking, he understood it after a few of those attempts.

“You have my thanks for inviting me to your ceremony, although I did not understand a thing about it, it was pleasant to say the least” She looked from her sisters who were signaling her to hurry back to her cousin

“In the name of my brothers and I it was a pleasure to share that moment with such a good cousin like yourself, Hildegard” Ogodei smiled brightly, opening his arms

“So the feeling is mutual, may the Emperor-” The Phantom realized too late what Ogodei was doing and before she knew it the Nomad hugged her.

She raised a grateful prayer to the Emperor for the fact she was still with the helmet on, her eyes were opened widely and the little color on her pale face had disappeared completely; she was shocked not just because of the excessive amount of affection but for how easily it had been for the Nomad to find the right position to hug the taller Phantom; he had been planning how to do that all the way there, she noticed it because of how his weight and arms shifted when he stopped the hug.

She did not say a single word afterwards, just escaping the situation in a haste, climbing aboard her Chapter ship and only then turning to face Ogodei when the ramp was being retracted. He was there, waving his hand to her, slowly, that smile still present on his face; “what a crazy bastard” she thought to herself once the ship lifted from the ground and departed away from the planet and her strange cousins.

[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.

[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