The Road to Shamballa

Have come across the idea in several works of fiction recently of rchetypal city whose shadowed reflections are known to us as every city everywhere. I bring this up because one aspect of fiction that I have enjoyed over the years is how meaningful concepts embedded in our collective consciousness express themselves as art sometimes without the author or artist realizing their origin..

It gets passed off as “There is nothing new under the sun. Just new ways to present it, but certain stories which ring true will always find new expression as belief and knowledge in them has given them an existence beyond memory, an existence which one could say, they fight to keep.

These living archetypes have left their mark on us. Each new self-help book or concept that involves classifying people into different types is an echo of similar methods of classification practiced by older cultures People according to their natures as revealed by oracle become devotees (either priests or priestesses or perhaps wards) of different god forces. In a very real sense, they embody that archetype not to the exclusion of others, we each contain the universe

Archetypal forces express themselves in our culture in various ways. In how we view the heavens, In how we name our days and months. Even in how we classify things such as diseases, foods and plants. Each generation of children are brought up with stories of young heroes who go on quests aided by wise men and fools, encountering strange beings along the way only to find themselves reaching adulthood and vanquishing the foes of their youth. The Story as I’ve said before endures.

The Story

From inspired nothing…the one (the all)
From the one needing to express itself…the many
from the evolving many…the unified one
Magnificent ripples in a pond of nothingness
All that matters is the story
for nothing else has matter
but the stories we tell ourselves
the names change, the facts the figures
but the story lives on.
The King had a daughter
no the Emperor a son
and he or she was unhappy
for they felt their lives were empty
and they needed an object on which to express their love
Then a bird flew into his window
then a frog called to her
An enchanted kiss
An evil fought
and love won in the end
Do the names or places matter?
Not to the story
the story endures
Archetypes burned into our consciousness
in the language of dreams
so that we create ourselves
in their image.

The devil is in the details…
and that is good
because the story continues
and tho the outline remains the same
the lessons come from the differences
what each generation or people need to learn
and therein the teacher can be found
Saturn -The Plamet of lessons
Satan who tempts us away from the
path of the story
Crossroads can be tricky
but who can eschew (Eshu) them?

I meander from a straight path
but poetic truths are different
from ones of logic
and the Fool can go anywhere
It is ever a fool’s prerogative
to laugh at kings
to remind them
that they too are but a story
and will one day end
tho the story lives on….

Some lessons need to be learned more than once…
This one will continue