BECOMING THE CRAFTSMAN

Awakening Osiris is an essential component of any serious library of metaphysics, and especially regarding Egypt. This exquisite translation of The Egyptian Book of the Dead is quintessentially Egypt. I use it for invocaions at the temples, for weddings and funerals, and for all occasions deserving the most thought provoking words available. The following chapter, Becoming the Craftsman, celebrates the creative potential of being and creating…Nicki

Chapter 44,   BECOMING THE CRAFTSMAN

I eat the bread I baked. I drink the beer I brewed. I drape myself in white linen woven by my own hands. Making. Making. Making. My spirit lifts on the wings of a golden hawk. I am the cackle of joy in the throat of the wild goose. I am a child in awe of my own power, filled with wonder, bewildered, awake. I am one of the wonders of earth, full of blood and breath and singing. Even as I dance toward the mountain, even as I dance toward death, I celebrate my marvelous being. I dance with the great ones who writhe and chant, who conjure spirit, the light in the darkness

Truth lies on the hearts and tongues of men. Speak and live. You are creator and creation. Your life is craft, your supple body molded by word, sculpted by desire, fired by deed. You poise yourself between life and fate, the will of men and the will of gods. In the beat of a heart, the suck of breath, you are the universe. Making. Making. Making.

I have heard lies, yet have not believed them. No matter the pain, I shattered illusions. I sought the crack in every cup. The things said of me in anger or in praise I have not made my own. It is for my conscience to guide my hand, my deed to create myself. I am myself perceiving myself, making, making, making.

In those moments of silence when desire and will are stilled, I know the purpose gods know. My body is nourished by the things of earth, my spirit by things of the heart. Under flowering almond trees I eat the fruit of love. I watch boughs dance in the wind, hear wavering music in dreams. I am making, making, making. I offer what I have made—my bread, my peace, myself. I wrap my skin in the blue robe of heaven. I sit in the garden listening to birds. I do what my heart tells me. My thoughts leap visible as light. I am what I know, what I feel, what I make. I am myself, the ether of the instant, breathing. I gather an build my life. The earth is a small globe created by thoughts, mine and those of others. I walk among houses, the fields, flowers and rocks, even the poison of snakes, the sting of bees are mine. All existence is the measure between light and dark, bees and serpents, wind an fire. I love the scorpion, yet I know its poisonous sting. To live in harmony is a beginning.

What can be named can be known, what can not be named must be lived, believed. I speak of the creator and the creation, the ordinary life lived extraordinarily. I work for the sake of working. The joy of creating is the joy of forgetting everything else. I lean into life. My tongue is fire; my breath is wind. The spirit spits from my mouth. I speak of a chain of events where making leads to making, action to action, love to love, where the beginning began so long ago we find ourselves always in the midst of it.

There is no rest. The act is now. In your lives you will make children, make peace, make errors, you will make trouble, you will dance under the sun and moon. As long as you live you will create life. You will rise and fall many times. It I like the making of a good loaf of bread. You will be nourished.