In a moment of perceived peace, a rare snow falls, each crystalline marvel mythically timed for that special evening only slightly distorted from it’s original solstice mark; each flake proof and testament to the power and fragility of human imagination and manifest intent.  We make the world.

A gentle hush of pristine white blankets the sleeping world with a poetry born of natural grace and fresh perfection. My eyes walk across this newly born landscape with gratitude and wonder, leaving no trace, no mark, nothing to mar Nature’s gift, only a soothing silence, one quietly accompanied by the soft sigh of Nature’s breath, of Spirit moving, of my heart’s eye seeing anew as this season’s crystal goddess dances.

Soon enough this moment of mine will pass, others will come, some busy with the business of going to and fro, many still close enough to their truth to play in this new field prepared for them by their loving host, their innocence a match to the scene’s pristine purity, their joy a powerful gift of return. The World makes us.

As yet no cars run, no traffic sounds, no machine clamours its cacophony of artificiality. The binary madness of the transhuman paradigm is nowhere to be felt, nowhere to be seen, it has no place here. The Longest Night is passing.

And so it becomes effortless to feel that particular magic connected to this time: crisp wintery breaths, long ago toboggan rides, cinnamon sparkles perfuming the air, the sweet pleasure of being sleepily carried to bed in the arms of love, a’dream with gifts shining their impossible potential under illuminated greenery, stories of long ago alive today.

Now become another dream, its memory the fourth ghost of our Christmas Carol, beyond past, present and future, yet encompassing them all. No more Scrooges or Tiny Tims. No more kisses under the mistletoe. Tales of redemption, of humanity reclaimed, of the cold horror of its absence abound everywhere, in every season, in every corner of humanity’s consciousness.

Today, this day, we live, but what that entails, whether it be a story of triumph or terror or something in-between, static or ever changing, what we make of it, if you will, remains to be seen. Prophecy is ‘merely’ the act of looking ahead, of seeing what’s coming, of watching time advance and sharing that view.   Subtracting dogma from this feat one can find great value, be it cautionary or otherwise, in taking the ‘long-view’, of seeing where exactly one might be headed, collectively and personally. How else to steer the course?   The Cassandra effect notwithstanding (i.e. Cassandra, a prophet of disaster, cursed to be disregarded and disbelieved.) the bill must be paid. How’s that for prophecy?

Yet, for this moment in time, suspended and eternal, though ephemeral and flown to us on gossamer wings, this night’s winter gift is clear, if only in metaphor, awaiting our acceptance of the gift implicit in Nature’s show.

Tabula Rasa: A blank slate. Latin, literally a ‘scraped tablet,’ denoting a tablet with the writing erased. The human mind, especially at birth, viewed as having no innate ideas; an absence of preconceived ideas or predetermined goals; a clean slate.


Each moment we live we have the chance of a chance to be free. My every thought, word and deed has been and remains to this day directed thusly. Freedom is my intent. This intent is what moves our new agora. This intent is what gets me out of sleep and moves me to action, every day. This intent is the very air I breathe, the only nourishment I will accept. It is my Art, my work, my task, my life. Everything else is…well, is everything else. In so far as I am able I share this intent with everyone I meet and have been doing so for as long as I care to remember. Freedom however is not free. This is a perfect paradox, one sticking its tongue out at the mercantile reality of scarcity and fear infecting humanity. That intent has cost me everything, everything of recognizable value in this paradigm, a paradigm of alienation, of evil born entirely of selfishness and the madness of separation from Source, separation from Love. I’m using capitals here because it’s a biggie.   And the cure’s right there for those with the heart to see and the guts to know. That evil, that separation, that selfishness is what ails us. And the cure is Self love.   There’s the gift all of Life is constantly giving us, encouraging us all the while to administer the same to our fellows, to our world and all the life therein. Or we can allow entropy to have its day.

Self love does not allow for self harm. Self love is the antithesis of parasitism, of politics, of the homicidal selfishness plaguing humanity with its perverse indulgence in endless folly. And once again: self love is the cure.

Enough, I say, with this game of degenerate infantilism and demoniacal manipulation of the natural world. Refuse to participate in your own destruction and use that energy instead to manifest your truest self, your most fantastic being. We are not robots made of meat.   We are expressions of the Divine, of Mystery, of Infinity. We are the articulation, the communication of Source itself.   We are not consumers caught in our own consumption.   We are awareness manifest. We are Consciousness in action!   What we do, think and say matters! All three create our reality. Don’t believe the hype. Don’t buy into victimhood. And if you play the hero prepare to become the villain. Better yet drop ‘em all. We are the bridge between Heaven and Earth, far beyond the roleplaying of insane gods who only hunger for what they have lost in their hubris. Whether those gods are religions, or statism, or gender lunacy, or political correctness, or artificial intelligence, or other, darker alien over-shmoes: we need them not at all, hence their desperation to keep us in their folds, for we are their meat, their domesticated food, their docile slaves, their prisoners, their sustenance…unless we choose with the entirety of our being that we’re not.

The discipline that makes the human being unpalatable to the predators who feast on our unconscious choices, who eat our awareness, our energy, our lives, is a simple thing and is in fact our natural birthright, our natural state of being, one of wonder and the silence that comes with it. That silence, funnily enough, cannot be overstated. Through it all things can be Seen as they really are, including ourselves. With it and our connection to life giving Source all things become possible. I understand (and am paraphrasing here from Carlos Castaneda’s work) discipline as the capacity to face with serenity odds that are not included in my expectations, of facing infinity without flinching; not because I’m strong and tough, but because I am filled with awe.

And so I accept winter’s gift and in so doing seize my chance of a chance to be free.

I leave you with Lorenzo’s, our beloved publisher’s, timely and perfect gift. 

Music of the stars

Woke me one Moment

When my thoughts had run away

to a place beyond recalling.

Relief swept my fibres

As a broom sweeps the dirt from a room.

Swinging on this dream of childhood’s vision

Which has finally arrived so many years after asking

Now Demanding my growth 

Who but me could say

Why it took so long

But Happy I am

To Finally hear my Native Song.


By H. Lorenzo Malowane