Over the past several weeks, I've been reading Robert Bly and Marion Woodman's The Maiden King (which I strongly recommend, though in some places Bly draws a few connections that don't quite gel to my mind, but the rest of it is very solid).
The book, and the folk tale on which is is based, deals with the trials one must undergo to unite with the Divine -- where the "Divine" is one's highest, most passionate calling -- represented in luminous goddess form as the Maiden King (she is a king, not a queen, because a queen implies the presence of a king; this woman is sovereign unto herself, the feminine that is not defined by the masculine).
But anyway... I can do an entry about the book when I finish it.
In the meantime, I was struck by a Goethe poem that Bly quotes by way of illustrating the "suffering" one must undergo -- which is not a suffering at all, but a necessary alchemical "burning" -- to slough away all that is extraneous to one's True Self. (I'll have to deal with the whole "true self" thing another time... it's too big an egg to fry in this entry).
This translation, also by Bly (who is best known, incidentally, for his excellent book Iron John), is found on page 99 of my edition, in the section "The Metaphor of the Hare," which represents a willing sacrifice to further the goal of greater life.
Holy Longing
Tell a wise person, or else keep silent,
Because the massman will mock it right away.
I praise what is truly alive,
What longs to be burned to death.
In the calm water of the love-nights,
Where you were begotten, where you have begotten,
A strange feeling comes over you
When you see the silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught
In the obsession with darkness,
And a desire for higher love-making
Sweeps you upward.
Distance does not make you falter,
Now, arriving in magic, flying,
And, finally, insane for the light,
You are the butterfly and you are gone.
And so long as you haven't experienced
This: to die and so to grow,
You are only a troubled guest
On the dark earth.
Awesome, huh?
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