I’d found some railroad tracks and followed them over a river. I would periodically have to slide down the stone ledge near the water to avoid the train. Waiting hanging on a sapling while the train passed was slightly unnerving, but I had to get to my sacred space. It was a place deep in the woods by a stream that entered the ocean. This was where I had performed many spiritual meditations and contemplations.
It was this day though when I had an incredible experience, a true internal understanding of nature. Finally after following the train tracks for a few miles and entering the forests for about another mile I got to my sacred spot.
W. B. Yeats is perhaps one of the most literary influential figures in the past century. His poetry and prose earned him a nobel prize and he was one of few Irish men to achieve such prestige. Despite, Yeats literary achievements, there remains an unequivocal deep mystery to him. As very few know W. B. Yeats, played a tremendous role in development of the occult, mystical, and theosophical mysteries. His later poetry is full of mystical reference.
A STORM BEATEN old watch-tower,
A blind hermit rings the hour.
All-destroying sword-blade still
Carried by the wandering fool.
Gold-sewn silk on the sword-blade,
Beauty and fool together laid.
By Friedrich Nietzsche
–Let us look each other in the face. We are Hyperboreans–we know well enough how remote our place is. “Neither by land nor by water will you find the road to the Hyperboreans”: even Pindar, in his day, knew _that_ much about us. Beyond the North, beyond the ice, beyond _death_–_our_ life, _our_ happiness…. We have discovered that happiness; we know the way; we got our knowledge of it from thousands of years in the labyrinth. Who _else_ has found it?–The man of today?–“I don’t know either the way out or the way in; I am whatever doesn’t know either the way out or the way in”–so sighs the man of today…. _This_ is the sort of modernity that made us ill,–we sickened on lazy peace, cowardly compromise, the whole virtuous dirtiness of the modern Yea and Nay. This tolerance and _largeur_ of the heart that “forgives” everything because it “understands” everything is a sirocco to us. Rather live amid the ice than among modern virtues and other such south-winds!… We were brave enough; we spared neither ourselves nor others; but we were a long time finding out _where_ to direct our courage. We grew dismal; they called us fatalists. _Our_ fate–it was the fulness, the tension, the _storing up_ of powers. We thirsted for the lightnings and great deeds; we kept as far as possible from the happiness of the weakling, from “resignation”… There was thunder in our air; nature, as we embodied it, became overcast–_for we had not yet found the way_. The formula of our happiness: a Yea, a Nay, a straight line, a _goal_….