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Mysticism Quotes

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Mysticism Quotes

“—and I say you still haven't answered my question, Father Bleu." "Haven't I, dear lady? I thought I stated that death is merely the beginning of—" "No, no, no!" Her voice was as high as a harpy's. "Don't go all gooey and metaphysical. I mean to ask, what is death the act, the situation, the moment?" She watched him foxily. The priest in turn struggled to remain polite. "Madame, I'm not positive I follow." "Let me say it another way. Most people are afraid of dying, yes?" "I disagree. Not those who find mystical union with the body of Christ in—" "Oh, come off it!" Madame Kagle shrilled. "People are frightened of it, Father Bleu. Frightened and screaming their fear silently every hour of every day they live. Now I put it to you. Of what are they afraid? Are they afraid of the end of consciousness? The ultimate blackout, so to speak? Or are they afraid of another aspect of death? The one which they can't begin to foresee or understand?" "What aspect is that, Madame Kagle?" "The pain." She glared. "The pain, Father. Possibly sudden. Possibly horrible. Waiting, always waiting somewhere ahead, at an unguessable junction of time and place. Like that bootboy tonight. How it must have hurt. One blinding instant when his head hit, eh? I suggest, Father Bleu, that is what we're afraid of, that is the wholly unknowable part of dying—the screaming, hurting how, of which the when is only a lesser part. The how is the part we never know. Unless we experience it." She slurped champagne in the silence. She eyed him defiantly. "Well, Father? What have you got to say?" Discreetly Father Bleu coughed into his closed fist. "Theologically, Madame, I find the attempt to separate the mystical act of dying into neat little compartments rather a matter of hairsplitting. And furthermore—" "If that's how you feel," she interrupted, "you're just not thinking it out." "My good woman!" said Father Bleu gently. "Pay attention to me!" Madame Wanda Kagle glared furiously. "I say you pay attention! Because you have never stopped to think about it, have you? If death resembles going to sleep, why, that's an idea your mind can get hold of, isn't it? You may be afraid of it, yes. Afraid of the end of everything. But at least you can get hold of some notion of something of what it's like. Sleep. But can you get hold of anything of what it must feel like to experience the most agonizing of deaths? Your head popping open like that bootboy's tonight, say? A thousand worms of pain inside every part of you for a second long as eternity? Can you grasp that? No, you can't, Father Bleu. And that's what death is at it's worst—the unknown, the possibly harrowing pain ahead." She clamped her lips together smugly. She held out her champagne glass for a refill. A woman in furs clapped a hand over her fashionably green lips and rushed from the group. Though puzzled, Joy was still all eyes and ears. "Even your blessed St. Paul bears me out, Father." The priest glanced up, startled. "What?" "The first letter to the Corinthians, if I remember. The grave has a victory, all right. But it's death that has the sting." In the pause the furnace door behind her eyes opened wide, and hell shone out. "I know what I'm talking about, Father. I've been there." Slowly she closed her fingers, crushing the champagne glass in her hand. Weeping, blood drooling from her palm down her frail veined arms, she had to be carried out. The party broke up at once.”

DeathMysticismFear Of Death1968Here Is Thy Sting
Book:Orbit 3
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“We always look for solutions outside, without realizing that they lie within us. And when people are foolish enough to seek solutions from others, which they are already in possession of, it's only natural that charlatans queue across the world to cash in on that foolishness. Here, I am not talking about the experts of various fields, such as scientists, doctors, philosophers and others - I am talking about those apes who are commonly worshiped by fools as mystics, yogis and gurus.”

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Book:Every Generation Needs Caretakers: The Gospel of Patriotism
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“Secretly, they call us in the night, beings of golden white light. Purple rays upon our crowns, all while we rest our head in bed. Dragons of orange vibration, reawakening our memory of our creation. We awaken with a feeling of bliss, all within the nighttime kiss. The secrets have been revealed, opened and no longer lay dormant inside. We call upon you to carry the light on beyond the night. Awaken to the spirit that is you. For, you will be received in the purple glow all around you. Burn on heart, and reawaken within us your presence. Call upon us secretly in the night.”

MysticismVisionsSpiritualismSpiritual PoetryDragon ShiftersSpirit GuidesReawakeningBeings Of LightCrown ChakraSahasrara
Book:Sutras of the Heart: Spiritual Poetry to Nourish the Soul
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“When the fuel is dried up in a vehicle, it stops driving automatically. You are a vehicle in the spiritual and the physical world, so you need some oil for alacrity, in order to get to your destination. The greater the quantity of your oil, the more you cover the distance, and the more you cover the distance, the closer you get to your success.”

SuccessSpiritualityWinningEnergyAbilityDestinyPowerTalentCarStrengthGreatnessAchievementDistanceCompetitionOilConquerMaking MoneyMysticismDestinationVehicleToilWinTranscendenceWork HardMysticGameMichael Bassey JohnsonSpiritual JourneyFastGravitationFlying HighGreater HeightsAlacrityConqueringSoaringFastnessMaximization
Author:Michael Bassey Johnson
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“Schopenhauer's insight suggests that individuals often perceive the boundaries of their own perspective as the boundaries of the world. This phenomenon extends to Buddhas, who may interpret the vastness of their own vision as the boundlessness of the world. It's why Buddhas may express ideas that appear ethereal, as consciousness is more fluid than solid and more dynamic than fluid. As a result, Bodhisattvas, those aspiring to full Buddhahood, are often more articulate than fully enlightened beings. Fully enlightened individuals primarily guide through realization, experience, and symbolism rather than relying on words. Their journey to enlightenment also entails certain losses, including a loss of eloquence, a loss of physical dexterity, a loss of bodily activity, and even a loss of human-like characteristics.”

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Author:Saroj Aryal
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“A sex worker deserves a billion times more respect, than the mystical fraudsters of the society, such as astrologers, psychics and tarot card readers.”

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Author:Abhijit Naskar
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“Mystical organizations are only a crystallization of facts which can be found, in a more diffuse and less tangible form, in all strata of people. The degree of mystical, sentimental and sadistic feelings corresponds exactly to the degree of the disturbance of natural orgastic experience. Close observation of the audience of a trashy thriller or of a boxing match teaches more about these problems than a hundred handbooks of sexology.”

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Book:The Mass Psychology of Fascism
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“Quinn seemed to have become one of a jaded philosophical society, a group of arcane deviates. Their raison d'etre was a kind of mystical masochism, forcing initiates toward feats of occult daredevilry - "glimpsing the inferno with eyes of ice", to take from the notebook a phrase that was repeated often and seemed a sort of chant of power. As I suspected, hallucinogenic drugs were used by the sect, and there was no doubt that they believed themselves communing with strange metaphysical venues. Their chief aim, in true mystical fashion, was to transcend common reality in the search for higher states of being, but their stratagem was highly unorthodox, a strange detour along the usual path toward positive illumination. Instead, they maintained a kind of blasphemous fatalism, a doomed determinism which brought them face to face with realms of obscure horror. Perhaps it was this very obscurity that allowed them the excitement of their central purpose, which seemed to be a precarious flirting with personal apocalypse, the striving for horrific dominion over horror itself. ("The Dreaming In Nortown")”

FearHorrorTerrorMysticismMysticalApocalypseMetaphysicalOccultSectsBlasphemyHigher ConsciousnessMagickFatalismArcaneTranscendOccultismMysticsOccult HorrorHallucinogenic DrugsSectHallucinogenicMystical EncounterPhilosophical InquiryBlasphemous
Book:The nightmare factory
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“We scientists perceive it as the Truth that will give us absolute understanding of the universe – which is impossible at the moment for a young species like us. On the other hand, the mystics perceive the Ultimate Truth, to be the attainment of Absolute Divinity, which all the religious giants experienced. But this attainment, is nowhere near the actual Ultimate Truth – it is only a subjective experience of the mind, evoked by specific internal and external stimuli.”

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Book:Neurons, Oxygen & Nanak
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“On the first day of November last year, sacred to many religious calendars but especially the Celtic, I went for a walk among bare oaks and birch. Nothing much was going on. Scarlet sumac had passed and the bees were dead. The pond had slicked overnight into that shiny and deceptive glaze of delusion, first ice. It made me remember sakes and conjure a vision of myself skimming backward on one foot, the other extended; the arms become wings. Minnesota girls know that this is not a difficult maneuver if one's limber and practices even a little after school before the boys claim the rink for hockey. I think I can still do it - one thinks many foolish things when November's bright sun skips over the entrancing first freeze. A flock of sparrows reels through the air looking more like a flying net than seventy conscious birds, a black veil thrown on the wind. When one sparrow dodges, the whole net swerves, dips: one mind. Am I part of anything like that? Maybe not. The last few years of my life have been characterized by stripping away, one by one, loves and communities that sustain the soul. A young colleague, new to my English department, recently asked me who I hang around with at school. "Nobody," I had to say, feeling briefly ashamed. This solitude is one of the surprises of middle age, especially if one's youth has been rich in love and friendship and children. If you do your job right, children leave home; few communities can stand an individual's most pitiful, amateur truth telling. So the soul must stand in her own meager feathers and learn to fly - or simply take hopeful jumps into the wind. In the Christian calendar, November 1 is the Feast of All Saints, a day honoring not only those who are known and recognized as enlightened souls, but more especially the unknowns, saints who walk beside us unrecognized down the millennia. In Buddhism, we honor the bodhisattvas - saints - who refuse enlightenment and return willingly to the wheel of karma to help other beings. Similarly, in Judaism, anonymous holy men pray the world from its well-merited destruction. We never know who is walking beside us, who is our spiritual teacher. That one - who annoys you so - pretends for a day that he's the one, your personal Obi Wan Kenobi. The first of November is a splendid, subversive holiday. Imagine a hectic procession of revelers - the half-mad bag lady; a mumbling, scarred janitor whose ravaged face made the children turn away; the austere, unsmiling mother superior who seemed with great focus and clarity to do harm; a haunted music teacher, survivor of Auschwitz. I bring them before my mind's eye, these old firends of my soul, awakening to dance their day. Crazy saints; but who knows what was home in the heart? This is the feast of those who tried to take the path, so clumsily that no one knew or notice, the feast, indeed, of most of us. It's an ugly woods, I was saying to myself, padding along a trail where other walkers had broken ground before me. And then I found an extraordinary bouquet. Someone had bound an offering of dry seed pods, yew, lyme grass, red berries, and brown fern and laid it on the path: "nothing special," as Buddhists say, meaning "everything." Gathered to formality, each dry stalk proclaimed a slant, an attitude, infinite shades of neutral. All contemplative acts, silences, poems, honor the world this way. Brought together by the eye of love, a milkweed pod, a twig, allow us to see how things have been all along. A feast of being.”

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Book:The Barn at the End of the World: The Apprenticeship of a Quaker, Buddhist Shepherd
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“As I stumbled into confusion about what was real and what was not, the strangest thing happened: The world disintegrated. Reality collapsed, or my perception of it. It ripped apart like a dry skin under pressure, giving way to something I can only describe as ineffable dimensions, depths upon depths.”

SpiritualityEnlightenmentMysticismProphecyGreat WorkIlluminationRevelationSense Of WonderGnosisContemporary ChristianityContemporary ReligionPath Of Enlightenment
Book:The Priest Whisperer
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“When you say the name of Khezr (or Khadir) in company you should always add the greeting "Salaam aliekum!" since he may be there - immortal and anonymous, engaged on some mysterious karmic errand. Perhaps he'll hint of his identity by wearing green, or by revealing knowledge of the occult and hidden. But he's something of a spy, and if you have no need to know he's unlikely to tell you. Still, one of his functions is to convince skeptics of the existence of the marvelous, to rescue those who are lost in deserts of doubt and dryness. So he's needed now more than ever, and surely still moves among us playing his great game.”

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Book:Sacred Drift: Essays on the Margins of Islam
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“Relationships are used by the darkness to keep people revolving around the ego’s demands. For a moment, people see the light of the divine in each other. They run to it and then quickly forget the light they once saw as their fears reclaim their consciousness. Thus begins the ongoing battle to protect one’s own ‘rights’, in case they be forgotten or betrayed. The tally of what is owed is counted, the guilt of perceived wrong doings is cast upon the other, one’s freedom must be paid as the price for ‘love’, and it is only in short periods of peace when all of this is forgotten. Those moments are the precious windows of the Soul.”

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Book:Waldmeer
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“When her doctor took her bandages off and led her into the garden, the girl who was no longer blind saw “the tree with the lights in it.” It was for this tree I searched through the peach orchards of summer, in the forests of fall and down winter and spring for years. Then one day I was walking along Tinker creek and thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing that like being for the first time see, knocked breathless by a powerful glance. The flood of fire abated, but I’m still spending the power. Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells un-flamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole life a bell and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck. I have since only very rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.”

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Book:PILGRIM AT TINKER CREEK
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“Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a world to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then we bump against another mystery: the inrush of power and light…unless all ages and races of men have been deluded by the same mass hypnotist (who?), there seems to be such a thing as beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous…we don’t know what’s going on here. If these tremendous events are random combinations of matter run amok, the yield of millions of monkeys at millions of typewriters, then what is it in us, hammered out of those same typewriters, that they ignite? We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what’s going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.”

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Book:PILGRIM AT TINKER CREEK
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“There is a bench in the back of my garden shaded by Virginia creeper, climbing roses, and a white pine where I sit early in the morning and watch the action. Light blue bells of a dwarf campanula drift over the rock garden just before my eyes. Behind it, a three-foot stand of aconite is flowering now, each dark blue cowl-like corolla bowed for worship or intrigue: thus its common name, monkshood. Next to the aconite, black madonna lilies with their seductive Easter scent are just coming into bloom. At the back of the garden, a hollow log, used in its glory days for a base to split kindling, now spills white cascade petunias and lobelia. I can't get enough of watching the bees and trying to imagine how they experience the abundance of, say, a blue campanula blosssom, the dizzy light pulsing, every fiber of being immersed in the flower. ... Last night, after a day in the garden, I asked Robin to explain (again) photosynthesis to me. I can't take in this business of _eating light_ and turning it into stem and thorn and flower... I would not call this meditation, sitting in the back garden. Maybe I would call it eating light. Mystical traditions recognize two kinds of practice: _apophatic mysticism_, which is the dark surrender of Zen, the Via Negativa of John of the Cross, and _kataphatic mysticism_, less well defined: an openhearted surrender to the beauty of creation. Maybe Francis of Assissi was, on the whole, a kataphatic mystic, as was Thérèse of Lisieux in her exuberant momemnts: but the fact is, kataphatic mysticism has low status in religious circles. Francis and Thérèse were made, really made, any mother superior will let you know, in the dark nights of their lives: no more of this throwing off your clothes and singing songs and babbling about the shelter of God's arms. When I was twelve and had my first menstrual period, my grandmother took me aside and said, 'Now your childhood is over. You will never really be happy again.' That is pretty much how some spiritual directors treat the transition from kataphatic to apophatic mysticism. But, I'm sorry, I'm going to sit here every day the sun shines and eat this light. Hung in the bell of desire.”

SpiritualityZenMysticismSaintsGardensMenstruationPhotosynthesisApophaticKataphatic
Book:The Barn at the End of the World: The Apprenticeship of a Quaker, Buddhist Shepherd
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“I was only beginning to enter into the infinite subtlety of Gregorian chant. It was - and remains - the only public prayer I have ever been able to engage in without feeling like a phony and a jackass. But then, one day in 1965 or so, it was simply abolished. With a stroke of his pen, Pope John XXIII - who had such good ideas about other things - declared that liturgy would henceforth be in the vernacular language of the people. That was, effectively, the end of Latin chant. Then all those monks and nuns who had devoted hours and hours a day began to sicken and fall into depressions, but nobody noticed for a long time. Maybe, as I can well believe, the music toned up their systems in some mysterious way. Or perhaps chant really was a language that God understood. Faced with numerous liturgical scholas shrieking away in the new vernacular hymns, Divinity may have covered its ears and withdrawn, leaving the monks to pine. We parish musicians, illiterate in anything written after the 13th century, stumbled around trying to score liturgies for guitar and bongo drums, trying to make sense of texts like "Eat his body! Drink his blood!" It wasn't because the music got so bad that I quit going to Mass, but it certainly was the beginning of my doubts about papal infallibility.”

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Book:The Barn at the End of the World: The Apprenticeship of a Quaker, Buddhist Shepherd
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“Paul preached the mystery of the indwelling Christ as 'Christ in you, the hope and the Glory.' Those who cannot, who will not, understand this mystery will remain babes in Christ, if that. They cannot follow in his footsteps to become bodhisattvas, world saviors and quickening spirits.”

SpiritualityChristMysticismIndwelling Christ
Book:The Mystic's Path Home: Teachings of the Ascended Masters
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“Reality bends not to force, but to frequency; when your inner state aligns with the pattern of what you seek, creation has no choice but to mirror it back to you.”

SpiritualityConsciousnessMeditationSelf HelpPersonal GrowthLaw Of AttractionManifestationMysticismQuantum PhysicsPersonal Transformation
Book:The Blueprint of Reality: The Hidden Mechanics of Manifestation: How Thought, Energy, and Conscious Intention Shape the World You Live In
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“As researchers of the paranormal, we must understand there are ways to change the rhythm of time within us, ways to change the beat. These ways have been known since the beginnings of civilization, and possibly much earlier. And these ways would require no more effort than simply recognizing the secret rhythms of things. Moreover, we may learn to beat with them and begin to perceive a different kind of space, and ultimately discover an altogether different conception of reality…”

MatterRealityTimeSpaceMagicEternityMysticismSupernaturalMagical RealismTranscendentalismTimelessnessMetaphysical Truth RealityPhilosophy Of MindGreek PhilosophyTheosophyInfinitiesSpacelessMatter And SpiritPlato S Form
Book:Dr. Monroe A. Dunlop's Paranormal Studies Lecture Series, Mind and Reality: A Psychedelic Trip to the Doormat of the Unknown: Fictional Nonfiction, Fifth Edition
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“That there is a Godhead, Ground, Brahman, Clear Light of the Void, which is the unmanifested principle of all manifestations. That the Ground is at once transcendent and immanent. That it is possible for human beings to love, know and, from virtually, to become actually identical with the divine Ground. That to achieve this unitive knowledge of the Godhead is the final end and purpose of human existence.”

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Book:The Divine Within: Selected Writings on Enlightenment
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“Reading Rilke's quote above, it is clear his work will forever touch the delicate nerves of my sensitivity, unbinding them from places in which they have been hiding. I don't need to know all the answers anymore. My understanding of things unknown is inherent to who I am and allows me to walk up the stairway of life unencumbered by walls of uncertainty. While this esoteric sensibility does not provide instructions for the day to day operations of living, it allows a comfortable understanding that “home” will be attainable in due time. Remaining patient during this process is my life lesson and one I have been asked to embrace fully. It is up to me to let go and allow.”

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Author:Lavinia Busch
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