Behind the Curtain - Maat

  This morning, my mind awakened to thoughts of freedom in a troubled world, a world I've tried to make sense of for weeks with scant success. It's difficult.  The pace of change in the Mideast and elsewhere is astounding. Something's up on a grand scale.

In times of sudden change, I've found it helpful to sail beneath the surface of my thoughts in search of deeper meaning.  So to peer, if you will, behind the curtain, hoping to observe the playwright's unfolding scenes; to fuse conscious mind with unconscious heart; to enter the realm of ancient archetypes and mysterious symbols of what C.G Jung termed the "collective unconscious" of all humanity. To hear words of wisdom, if you will.

To behold wonderments behind the curtain, the Eye of Horus or mind's eye is my guiding light.  I should use it more often.  Perhaps we all should.  Such journeys also require the silence of mindfulness -- a rarity in our rattled world.

When silence finally falls, voices will arise.  The music of the words of wisdom.  As I pass by headstones of memories, guided by the Eye of Horus, well wishers whisper their hushed farewells.

From one, "The torch has been passed to a new generation..."  I finish his thought, which comes from behind the curtain.  "To a new generation of Tunisians.  And Egyptians. And Bahranians..." The voice returns to slumber as I add Libya and Yemen and Algeria and Morocco and ... the music subsides.   And then, behind the curtain, my Third Eye glimpses a map of the world.  And the map is named freedom.

And then silence whispers, "Let freedom ring."  This was a voice that knew oppression first hand.  It inspires me as I approach a river.  A river behind the curtain. Upon a riverbank, I behold the image of another voice.  The stage behind the curtain is silent now. The voice looks at me.  He nods and then smiles.  His half-naked body is frail and yet his spirit shines in the fullness of freedom.  My heart assures me this river is the Ganges. I return his nod, smile and continue my journey down the Ganges.  My journey toward Heart as the river turns red.  As I approach the silent rhythms of Heart, formless thoughts of the playwright shapen.  There is no curtain now.  Just oneness.  No black. No white. No Sunni. No Shia. No divisions at all. Just oneness.

The world, which I see clearly, is less troubled here.  Here in Oneness populated with archetypes.  Populated with the characters of the play.  Of the playwright's play. 

Maat emerges and embraces my heart.  She tells me of her children.  Of the men and women of freedom and justice.  Of the well wishers.  Of the little man.  She shows me a statue named Liberty, and another named Justice and then the stars of Libra. These, she tells me, are her children too.  These, she tells me, are the characters of the playwright's play.  Somehow, I intuitively perceive the Ganges as the Sacred River of Spirit; the Nile, as the Sacred River of Creation.  I also intuit a third river.  It is dry. These are the symbols and the archetypes that speak to my heart.  That speak to me on my journey down the great river.

A child rests upon Maat's knee.  A male child.  She tells me his name is Eternal Happiness. That he has a role in the playwright's play.  He nods and smiles. She bids me gaze toward the Ganges.  To gaze upon the red River of the half-naked man. Wherever I look, in all directions I see women from all nations.  These women, she tells me, are strong; they are the Mothers of Eternal Happiness.  The third river, she tells me, will flow with the mighty voices of these strong women.  And the river is named freedom. 

Ma'at speaks in her native tongue.  In the silence of universal archetypes.  The archetypes that symbolize freedom and justice.  In the ink of the playwright's play. A pleasing voice, the voice of the lady Maat, of the River Nile.

I should return now from my silence.  From the silence of the rivers. I pass by the little man. I pass by the gravestones of memories.  The memories of the voices of freedom.  I close the curtain.  The curtain that covers the playwright's play.

The playwright passes a pen.  She bids us write of the boy and of his legacy.  Of the child on her knee.  The child behind the curtain.


And the child was named Khaled Said.  He was from Alexandria.  He was 28 when he died a martyrs death, igniting a revolution of consciousness and a thirst for freedom and justice sweeping like the desert wind across Egypt, throughout the Arab world and beyond.  Khaled was brutally beaten to death by corrupt Egyptian police because he had videotaped them stealing drugs and cash.

Five days following his death, an anonymous Facebook page was created.  It quickly gathered thousands of followers.  The word was written; the revolution was born. The Facebook page as an expression of unity was titled, "We are all Khaled Said."  His story is told and retold in his native land.  And it is forever written on the headstones of humanity's collective memory.  In Arabic, Khaled's name translates as Eternal Happiness.  We are all Khaled Said.  We are all the Mothers of Khaled Said.  We are all one.

Let freedom ring.

Let it be, let it be.





    

Khaled Said

Art by Holly Sierra for Chrysalis.
Holly Sierra