Faces of Correllianism Essays


OREGON ESSAY By Sashatiyinepu Deep within the heart of north central Oregon , lies a small village with the name of Tygh Valley . It appears frozen in time, where children play on tire swings in their front yards without a care in the world and the adults gather at the local diner for the daily gossip of the village. You can still see traces of the pioneers that had originally settled this quaint area. The broken, cracked wagon wheels and carriages still appear from time to time scattered across the landscape. Farmers and ranchers arise at dawn each day to tend to their fields or animals. The roads vary from winding paved paths to dusty, time worn dirt roads less traveled. Our journey took us from the quaint country diner in the center of town, to a remote spot on the edge of the valley called White River Falls . Traveling down a twisting, winding road, we slowly left the town center and approached the entrance to the park. From the entrance, you could hear the thundering of the falls as the water crashed onto the rocks below. Stepping out of the vehicle, we slowly wandered down the short path to the lookout point where what was before me was breathtaking. The main part of the falls was separated into two distinct parts, each side thundering down upon the lichen covered rocks below. The force of the rushing water caused spray from the falls to wash over us, lightly dusting our hair and faces with a soft caressing mist. Evidence of the last flood was evident as on the edge of the main falls was a large tree, which seemed to hover over the falls defying gravity. To the right side of the lookout path, you could see signs of Tygh Valley 's past. A time long past, this was a place where mankind had installed a dam into the wild, untamed source of the river to assist in the hydroelectric generation of power. The evidence of this power station is still present to this day. Slowly we turned and gazed down the tiny, narrow, dirt path, which lead down to the bottom of the falls. Near the bottom of this steep incline, is an old generator building, with the rusting shells of the old power generators still present. The building itself is in a severe state of disrepair, as if it's been long forgotten. Gazing into each other's eyes, we set our sights on the gray sandy beach at the bottom. Cautiously walking down the perilous path, we reached the halfway point. From this vantage we could see the second tier of the falls as it majestically plummeted down into the time worn basin slowly carved out of the basalt from times long forgotten. The whistling of the spray laden breeze washed over us as we approached the edge of the cliff for a better view. Small, agile birds encircled us as we made our way to the very edge. Gazing down into the basin, we could see some brave souls as they plunged into the emerald green pool for a brisk swim. Moving further down the path, we arrived at the sands at the bottom. These sands were soft, warm and inviting. The calmness of the water gently lapping at the sands edge were just a few feet above there had been such turmoil with the water was breathtaking. The crystal clear waters allowed us to view many creatures of nature. From plants and animals, the almost mystical property of this place permeated our souls. Turning to our left, there was a small winding path, which lead further down the river. Following this path, we could see the pure unbridled fury of nature's wrath, as the volcanic history of the area was apparent. From the large pumice rocks, to the sheer basalt cliffs, everywhere was a testament to the ferocity of nature. Passing by several smaller waterfalls on the journey down the river, we reached a point where we could go no further along the jagged cliffs. Peering down into the gorge, we could see how the river went from an emerald green with white churning waves to a cerulean blue that sparkled in the early morning Oregonian sun. Looking closely into the river, we could see various trout and salmon as they swam. Occasionally, the salmon would jump out of the river to catch their morning meal. Sitting down upon the cliffs and watching the scene of nature waking up was very renewing. The magic of this place permeated every pore of my body, filled every sense with a new experience. Tygh Valley is a place of subtle beauty and raw ferocity of nature, both extremes yet so intertwined. Although I will return to Ohio , the magic of the valley will return home with me, renewing my energies and giving me the courage to begin down the arduous path of college. Whenever I feel lost or lonely, I just need to close my eyes and remember, that is how one is reborn and renewed. That is the true meaning to a vacation, when you feel reborn through new experiences.
Abracadabra & Annie D. By Traci Antoniades Wood So many things can grab our attention or “intellectual curiosity” from time to time. These “things” can capture our imagination for a fleeting moment or a lifetime and be the driving forces behind our deepest motivations. When the thirst of our curiosity has been quenched, it usually is not long before this thirst becomes insatiable once more. So it was when I discovered magick and Annie Dillard discovered pond life. Studying the art of magick has become a lifetime pursuit for me. I believe that through this pursuit I will absorb greater understanding, which will allow me to achieve my magnum opus. Magick, spelled with a “k” to differentiate it from common slight of hand, has been defined by many. A standard Webster’s dictionary defines it as “the pretended art of producing effects or controlling events by charms, spells, and rituals supposed to govern certain natural and supernatural forces.” People, like myself, have long ago discarded this inaccurate definition, and various practitioners of this art have compiled definitions of their own. “Magick is the art and metaphysical science of manifesting personal desires through the collection and direction of energy” (1) and “Magick is many things, but above all, magick is an act of creation” (2) are the best two definitions that I have encountered, but it [magick] is more than that. Magick is the awareness of animism. That is to say, that everything is composed of similar living energies. There are worlds within worlds. We, people, animal, algae, stone and tree, are all connected through this energy. Magick is the lens through which I view many things: the world, nature, my awareness of my connection to these things, my place in them and that these energies go on infinitely. Dillard speaks of ideas that are similar to the maxim of magick; As above, so below, as the universe, so the soul, as without, so within. “You sink into the microscope’s field forgetful, oblivious, as if it were a dream of your deepest brain.” She becomes so involved she loses track of time and space. She is trying to understand the world by observing and understanding these creatures. It is as if she [Dillard] becomes apart of the wet world that she loves. It is easy for me to get ‘lost’ studying people, seeing the magick within. My interest in magic stemmed from many sources: books, movies, and curiosity. My ignorance encouraged my imaginative pursuit and faith on the subject. Dillard had a similar approach to her own discoveries. “So, in full, solitary ignorance I spent evenings in the basement staring into a seventy-five-watt bulb magnified three hundred times focused into my eye. It’s a wonder I can see at all.” She like many twelve-year-olds, myself included, explore having no clue about danger. Dillard spent hours alone with her imagination and algae. I, too, experimented with alchemy and science, both elements of magick, mixing together potions in hopes that I could create something fantastic, but probably just poisonous. Thankfully, I was intelligent enough not to drink my own concoctions, which allowed me to continue my journey. Years later, my thirst to further this knowledge led me to the doorstep of an occult bookstore. I learned that every stone was composed of millions of atoms and electro-magnetic energy. This energy is contained within me and I was such a small part of it. Dillard perhaps seems to recognize something special and maybe spiritual about the swans. “It is impossible to say how excited I was to see whistling swans in Daleville, Virginia. The two were a pair mated for life, migrating north and west from the Atlantic coast to the high arctic.” She seems to see the magick of these creatures soaring above her and rejoices in their presence. I, similarly, perceived the world as spiritual and so much larger. I began to understand its fragile balance, as I discovered the sacredness of everything. In Dillard’s writing of her experiences, she does not acknowledge or describe her process of learning as a personal spiritual truth and this is what separates our paths. Magick is a part of my everyday religious experience. My lenses, so to speak, are a permanent fixture in my life. This is my truth and how I have learned to view all things, not just algae or swans. She [Dillard] seems limited in her capacity to apply such a viewpoint of things outside her scope of reality. Dillard views the algae and the swans differently than a practitioner of magick would. She seems to see herself having no real connection to these creatures. In magick, I have learned that I am connected to all things. I am kin to algae and swan alike. We are kindred, sharing the same energy. Magick is a process of observation as well as creation and Dillard is destructive in her pursuit. She states, “I had about five minutes to watch the members of a very dense population, excited by the heat, go about their business until—as I fancied sadly--they all caught on to their situation and started making out their wills.” Although she says she is sad, I think she seems to enjoy watching them ‘boil and fry’, if only to place the next drop of helpless creatures on the slide. She is well aware of what she is doing to them, and continues to do it anyway. She shows a lack of connection to the swans, by seeing them in her mind’s eye to be the same as the algae under the microscope. I get the impression that if she could have gotten close enough to the swans she might have plucked out a feather, just to have savored the experience of that day. Magick, as I have learned it, would have frowned on such as act of disturbance to the delicate balance of nature. It is for that very reason that magick is not taught to the general populace. My idea of intellectual pursuits is to know if only just to know. I can’t fathom Dillard’s acts of ritual destruction. My knowledge of magick does not tolerate such acts. The worlds within worlds are as valid as any. We could very well be a drop on someone else’s slide. It is not acceptable to portray omnipotence or to play “God/dess.” In light of this idea I would hope that She (God/dess) would show more kindness to us than Dillard did to her algae. Then, Dillard seems to view the deaths of these creatures as final, when in my pursuits of magick I have learned that death is not an ending but a transition, a shift in energy. That energy continues in a different form. The birth of my children widens my perspective view of energy. The death of my parents, at first, shaded my lens or view but I am able to see that the energy from them does go on. Annie Dillard unwittingly touches on the idea that we are all connected. She is able to see the connection between the algae and the swans but not to herself. This is an age-old belief, mostly stemming from Pythagoras and polytheistic sources. This circle of energy continues on without too much interruption not needing permission from the inhabitancy of its essence. Shifting and evolving, the energy just rolls forward as it always has, and magick improves my relationship with it. Citations 1. Raven Grimmassi, The Encyclopedia of Wicca and Witchcraft 2. Migene Gonzalez-Wippler, The Complete Book of Spells, Ceremonies and Magic
Destiny's Design By Traci Antoniades Wood (Originally titled: "Ed, Lon Chaney Jr., The Hanged Man, and Me.")
When I was about 16, I became interested in all things metaphysical, occult, or esoteric in nature. I grew up watching old Lon Chaney Jr. movies with werewolves and gypsies, Bella Lagosi, Charlie Chan Mysteries, and other assorted supernatural thrillers. Finding answers to secrets or mysteries was exciting to me. I had always hoped some secret destiny was waiting me with a fairytale ending. After receiving my first psychic reading, I decided I wanted to learn to read tarot cards. Through a friend, I met a man named Ed, who sent me a mysterious invitation with a map written on parchment paper, “If it is magick that you seek, come to my house on Thursday”. The crudely drawn map was supposed help me find my way to his house. I went, of course; it was too irresistible to pass up. Ed, great nephew of L. Ron Hubbard author of the infamous Dianetics, was quite adept on all things weird. He was a peculiar little man with wild curly hair and thick glasses that magnified his small eyes. I was told learning to read the tarot and people was an acquired skill. It was an art, which required me to develop my own psychic abilities. You see, Ed believes that everyone is psychic in some way or another. I wanted to believe in those words. I needed to believe them to fan the flame of my curious desire. I would visit Ed and his family often. We would sit in his cozy but disheveled dining room for several hours and he would tell me about the tarot. This seemed to be a nurturing environment with the wife in the kitchen cooking and the Hubbard children lost in play. This experience was different than any cold classroom I had been subjected to in high school. I was made to feel like I belonged here. I was becoming part of his family. Needless to say, it took many months of practice before I was comfortable reading for anyone. My apprenticeship started by becoming Ed’s assistant. Ed performed readings at the Karmic Retreat and his signature reading was “Destiny’s Design”. I assisted him by taking notes for the person being read. This was my first practical lesson. This bookstore/coffeehouse was a hole in the wall. It had a look of despair with its dingy and overcrowded bookshelves. There were groups of mismatched tables and chairs strewn about the room laden with books and magazines from previous patrons. The Retreat was located in East Rogers Park, the heart of the Pagan ghetto, with many a lurking hippies and wannabes, throwbacks of society. Ed and I were set up close to the front window, so we could be seen by the passersby. As the occasional seekers came in, I listened carefully to reading after reading. I soaked in the information. I paid attention to the gender of the seeker, the person for whom the reading is being done, their mannerisms when they spoke, and body language. By these behaviors, I heard what a person really wanted to know, without them actually asking. All seekers, including myself, had a list of questions in their heads; things they wanted to know. I learned through watching and listening that they all secretly hoped we would be the ones who could help them. According to Ed, my next lesson was on the history of the tarot. I had seen how to actually read the cards but I thought I needed to understand it better. There were many books on the subject and I read most of them. Gypsies were the best known for fortune telling with playing cards. I remember these mystical creepy but wise women from the Lon Chaney movies. Ed, whose mundane job was at Crown Books, brought me books about tarot. The origin of tarot was unclear but I gathered that fortune telling goes back to the days of the Renaissance courts and Nostradamous. After months of studying the tarot, I was able to read for people but initially practiced on my friends at parties before moving on to strangers. I decided on a whim to follow the Grateful Dead tour and bring my cards as a means to support myself. I traveled across the US, stopping in ten cities, mastering reading tarot cards. With Deadhead songs, like Fire on the Mountain and I Need a Miracle, blaring in the background I awed complete strangers with my psychic abilities. After a blur of something like six weeks, the tour had ended and it was time to go home. Upon returning home, ESP productions, one of several companies that hosted psychic faires, were hiring psychics. To get this job, I had to pass a test that required me to read the owner. She hired me and I found this job more profitable than being a “roadside gypsy”. I was now going to be reading for the eccentric upper class, which in my opinion weren’t much different from the hippies, "with deeper pockets. I worked for ESP for quite awhile, marveling at being the youngest prodigy psychic in the faire circuit, but it took its toll on me. What started out as a passing fancy, had turned into a tedious chore. It was no longer interesting finding out other people’s secrets or what their destinies held. Recalling the Lon Chaney Jr. movies, the gypsy always seemed to show up to foretell unavoidable evil. My initial dream of saving the world had vanished along with finding my destiny. The hundreds of people that showed up at these faires were extremely needy. As I looked back on why I wanted to read, I was hoping to find out that some fantastic destiny awaited me. Instead I learned about human idiosyncrasy, the ill contempt, and the need to be loved and accepted that we all share, and so much that we experience could be negative. I had shattered my own illusion and then I remembered something Ed told me once, Tarot need not imply that our fate is bound to over take us, we have a choice, and if that which you seek you cannot find within you will never find it without. It was only years later that I understood what he meant. I control my own destiny; the choice is mine. It always has been. At least 10 years have passed since I have learned to read the tarot, and I have made the decision to return to a mundane classroom. I still find them cold. I had been turned off to a school environment since I dropped out of high school because Maybe, I put too much responsibility on the school systems. Are we supposed to develop as individuals and find direction in our lives, when we struggle just to stay afloat in an endless sea of seekers? Perhaps we don’t figure this out until much later in life. If I had to sum it all up, classrooms, teachers, and curriculum do not define me or my path in this life. I have found this to be truth the hard way. Maybe we could all use one of those Wal-mart door greeter guys. He could at least tell us what isle the life jackets are in. I smile when I picture that. Wouldn’t that make everything in life simple? Extra Assignment: Magical Alphabets by Silverwolf (.pdf) Ethics of Magic by Silverwolf (.pdf)