Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Camael: Howling at the Moon

I have no rant or bright ideas for today, but since I have already begun providing quaint little messages from the angels I am meditating on each day, I thought I ought not interrupt the momentum.

No, but wait, I do have something to say...

The great thing about realizing that what I have to say, in my creative and spiritual endeavors, is irrelevant or obscure is the liberation of it. It takes the pressure off trying to be heard. I can, instead, sit back and wonder why I want to be heard. I can drop the bad habit of expecting or needing approval or recognition like I did when I was a child working for that gold star or the pride of having Mommy tack some ouvre onto the refrigerator door…  It’s okay to fade into the woodwork, be contemplative, focus on the bigger picture and the grand scheme of things…



Camael means “sight of God.” This angel is said to not do much but lurk and watch. For me, he is a boy and his obediently long-suffering hound dog standing in the desert, patiently biding their time through thick and thin.



Today's message from Camael (also known as Chamuel and Samael)  is the Serenity Prayer:



God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Excerpt from La Maga from Chapter 7 The Daughter

They parked. Lady Vinca Blanco Sortiar pulled out a black scrying mirror. She spritzed water on it and turned it toward the light. She and Professor Camael Magus gazed into it intently. Mirelle leaned in to study it as well. She had to push up close to Professor Camael to do this. She smelled his cologne. It was something with vetiver and sandal and torturously titillating to whiff.
“Are these the girls?” Lady Blanco asked Mirelle.
The mirror held an image of the inside of Homunculus Tongue. It was a dingy, rustically wood-paneled place that had tables scattered around facing a stage. 
“That’s Tina—Serpentina—Hamadryad.” Mirelle pointed to the wiry girl with the dark, pin-straight hair. “That’s Karen.” She pointed to a more imposing and husky young woman with red hair and ruddy, freckled features.
“Karenia brevis,” Professor Camael snickered. The others in the SUV turned quizzical glances at him. The consul's brother, de Lux Magus, shook his head and tapped his brow as if something very stupid had occurred. He seemed to be even more grave and snobby than Consul de Lux Sortiar typically was.
“Karen Ea Brevis. You know her?” Mirelle asked.
“The affectations of young magical persons never cease to amaze me,” the consul’s older brother quipped.
Lady Blanco was smiling smartly but sort of compassionately—or maybe it was pathetically. The consul was clucking and shaking his head. “Does Karen Ea Brevis sound like a magical name to you, Mirelle?” he asked.
Mirelle simply blinked. It didn’t .She waited for the punch line.
Karenia brevis is the name of toxic microscopic algae, the proliferation of which causes a phenomenon known as Red Tide,” the consul announced. “Do you know what Red Tide is with your ties to the Creole South—the Gulf Coast of the U S A, Mirelle?”
Professor Camael and the others gaped at her, as if hanging on to her answer.
“Red water that kills everything in it and can kill you if you eat anything fished up out of it and takes your breath away and makes you wheeze if you stand on the shore near where it settles,” Mirelle recounted.
“What kind of person would choose such a name for herself?” the consul asked bitingly.
Lady Blanco told the consul to stop picking on Mirelle. “So she’s got an adversary now. That’s the spice of life. A little excitement. Every young sorceress should have an adversary. Otherwise, she might as well get a job as a radiology technician or something in the Outer Plane, don’t you think, Leo?”
The consul simply nodded distractedly.
Lady Blanco turned back to Mirelle. “Are you a maga or a sorceress, Sweetie?
Mirelle told her that she hadn’t decided.
“Yes, why do people have to be one thing or the other? Why is that, Leo,” Lady Blanco quipped.
The consul didn’t reply.
Lady Blanco grimaced. “He’s ‘distracted,’ Sofia La Maga.  Who knew.” she uttered to Mirelle. 


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