Tree of Life, Yggdrasil, World Tree, Nervous System of Reality, Binder of The All

Preview of Chapter 21

 

“Even unto they who would lay them down, the trees offer their shade.”

~ the trees

 

In some places and times it sported boughs the breadth of galaxies. In others, it extended gossamer roots finer than the finest faerie hair. In some places it had the imposing substantiality of the diamond core of a frozen stone world. In others, it was as an ephemeral wisp of a thought barely regarded in the deepest of sleeps. It is said that the tree of life, which is also called the world tree, among many other names, is rooted in the En Sof, which is the unknowable absolute beyond reality. It is also said that its boughs, branches, twigs and leaves stretch into every realm, and into every mind in existence. Some even believe that the souls drifting aimlessly through the planes awaiting the birth of an organism to bond to, are the spores that come into reality from En Sof by way of the tree that is all trees. And perhaps, it is said, for it cannot be known, the life tree is the nervous system of existence, just as the Sea of Tears may be its blood, and the tunnels of the moles of Gaia, rescued from extinction by the children of Limbo, are its bones. As above so below, as below so above, and such.

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Beneath the astral tree – that was in his reckoning, and by his nomenclature – an aspect of Yggdrasil, for that was the notion of the tree of life that was most familiar to him. Ancaster Crowley repeated a calming mantra in an attempt to restrain the seething fury that boiled within. About the edges of his third eye, which was opened wide and scanning about the golden fields of the quiet realm. Green fire flickered and burned above the pupiless whites of his everyday eyes, which were now locked in the wizard’s gaze.

He was looking for the one whom, the day before, he had arranged to meet here. He was looking for the banshee, Jasco, renegade reaper, run afoul of the realm of Fey.

Tugging at the tie around his neck, he sat down beneath the tree. For only the third time in his life we was wearing a suit. He had just come from the funeral for his friend Nick and even in his astral conception of himself, he felt his friend was due the respect wearing the suit implied. Nick would have laughed he thought. He would have enjoyed that he was the reason Andy had – even for just one day – taken off the uniform: the concert shirt and jeans.

Read “Glass Grimoire: the Andy Crowley Saga” from the beginning

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