And as He spoke, He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them.
And for us this the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after.
But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page.
Now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever, in which every chapter is better than the one before.
— C. S. Lewis, The Last Battle
@ANewDay144
And for us this the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after.
But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page.
Now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever, in which every chapter is better than the one before.
— C. S. Lewis, The Last Battle
@ANewDay144
The path of the Mystic is not paved in certainty, nor measured by linear ascent, but traced in the spiral language of the soul; each step an echo from before time, each breath a return to what was never lost.
She does not follow a path. She becomes it.
The Mystic is the embodied prayer of surrender, the flame-carved silence that stands at the threshold between the known and the infinite. She is refined not by comfort but by the sacred heat of longing; elegant not by pretense but by the grace of having been undone.
Her nature is not fragile, though delicate; not timid, though soft. She is exquisitely attuned, like a finely strung lyre played only by the winds of the Divine.
She walks with a poise shaped by lifetimes of remembrance, her every movement an offering, her every glance a mirror of the unseen.
She is not here to conquer but to become; ready to be threshed holy in the flames of the cosmic chasm, that endless abyss where all illusions burn and only truth remains.
Her soul bows before that fire, not in fear but in fidelity, knowing it to be the breath of Eternal Life that quickens the dust of form into the gold of essence.
The Chalice of Fire is not given to her; it is awakened within her. It is carved into her being by ache and revelation, its edges sculpted by the friction of opposites and the unbearable nearness of the Beloved.
She becomes the Chalice itself- anointed by sorrow, hollowed by love, made radiant by the sacred capacity to hold the light that consumes without cruelty and transfigures without apology.
She carries it not as a symbol but as a living vow, etched in the marrow of her devotion.
To walk this path is to offer herself to the fire over and over again, not as punishment but as purification.
The Mystic knows that the only way through is inward, and the only way inward is down into the subterranean chambers of remembrance, through the catacombs of unspoken grief, until she reaches the holy furnace where form is kissed by formlessness.
There, in the heat of divine reckoning, she surrenders her sharp edges and her soft fears, ready to be reformed by the Breath that speaks galaxies into being and unravels time with a whisper.
She is not crowned in temples nor praised by the masses. Her coronation is silence. Her anointing is solitude. Her temple is the threshold, and her prayer is the act of becoming.
With every breath, she inhales the echo of creation and exhales the ashes of what no longer serves. She is the sacred convergence of stillness and motion, gravity and flight.
Her refinement is not affectation but alchemy, the result of having kissed the face of despair and tasted the honey hidden beneath it.
Through her, the Chalice of Fire pours out into the world, not to scorch, but to sanctify. She becomes a living altar, her body a vessel for the breath of Eternal Life, her soul a flame that flickers not in instability, but in reverent dialogue with the Invisible.
She no longer strives to speak truth; she is the resonance of truth. She no longer seeks the light; she is the bearer of it.
This is the way of the Mystic: detailed in subtlety, refined through fire, elegant in her unshakable stillness. Ready always to be offered, to be undone, to be taken by the Divine into that chasm of eternal knowing where nothing is withheld and nothing is left unchanged.
She is not merely becoming. She is remembrance itself, made flesh. The flame does not burn her away.
It reveals who she has always been.
—— Debbie Edwards
She does not follow a path. She becomes it.
The Mystic is the embodied prayer of surrender, the flame-carved silence that stands at the threshold between the known and the infinite. She is refined not by comfort but by the sacred heat of longing; elegant not by pretense but by the grace of having been undone.
Her nature is not fragile, though delicate; not timid, though soft. She is exquisitely attuned, like a finely strung lyre played only by the winds of the Divine.
She walks with a poise shaped by lifetimes of remembrance, her every movement an offering, her every glance a mirror of the unseen.
She is not here to conquer but to become; ready to be threshed holy in the flames of the cosmic chasm, that endless abyss where all illusions burn and only truth remains.
Her soul bows before that fire, not in fear but in fidelity, knowing it to be the breath of Eternal Life that quickens the dust of form into the gold of essence.
The Chalice of Fire is not given to her; it is awakened within her. It is carved into her being by ache and revelation, its edges sculpted by the friction of opposites and the unbearable nearness of the Beloved.
She becomes the Chalice itself- anointed by sorrow, hollowed by love, made radiant by the sacred capacity to hold the light that consumes without cruelty and transfigures without apology.
She carries it not as a symbol but as a living vow, etched in the marrow of her devotion.
To walk this path is to offer herself to the fire over and over again, not as punishment but as purification.
The Mystic knows that the only way through is inward, and the only way inward is down into the subterranean chambers of remembrance, through the catacombs of unspoken grief, until she reaches the holy furnace where form is kissed by formlessness.
There, in the heat of divine reckoning, she surrenders her sharp edges and her soft fears, ready to be reformed by the Breath that speaks galaxies into being and unravels time with a whisper.
She is not crowned in temples nor praised by the masses. Her coronation is silence. Her anointing is solitude. Her temple is the threshold, and her prayer is the act of becoming.
With every breath, she inhales the echo of creation and exhales the ashes of what no longer serves. She is the sacred convergence of stillness and motion, gravity and flight.
Her refinement is not affectation but alchemy, the result of having kissed the face of despair and tasted the honey hidden beneath it.
Through her, the Chalice of Fire pours out into the world, not to scorch, but to sanctify. She becomes a living altar, her body a vessel for the breath of Eternal Life, her soul a flame that flickers not in instability, but in reverent dialogue with the Invisible.
She no longer strives to speak truth; she is the resonance of truth. She no longer seeks the light; she is the bearer of it.
This is the way of the Mystic: detailed in subtlety, refined through fire, elegant in her unshakable stillness. Ready always to be offered, to be undone, to be taken by the Divine into that chasm of eternal knowing where nothing is withheld and nothing is left unchanged.
She is not merely becoming. She is remembrance itself, made flesh. The flame does not burn her away.
It reveals who she has always been.
—— Debbie Edwards