The Spear of Archangel Michael

Posted by Jehanne Mehta
24 August, 2010

The 29th of September is one of the traditional dates associated with the Archangel Michael. It’s close to the Celtic Samhain festival, when the journey inwards to the winter begins. Michael is normally depicted with a sword or spear, confronting a dragon and, like his earthly counterpart, St George, is shown piercing the dragon in the throat. St George is shown rescuing a lady in danger of being swallowed by the dragon.In Chinese culture the dragon is the Earth. Lines of energy crossing the landscape are often called Dragon Lines. In ancient times it was understood that the dragon is also part of us, the physical body we inhabit while passing through the magnificent schooling of this beautiful planet. Our body is our own ‘little piece of Earth’. The Native Americans say, ‘What you do to yourself, you do to the Earth. What you do to the Earth, you do to yourself’.

The spear of Archangel Michael is a picture of our axis, the spinal column, but also of the tall spindle at our centre, the ‘I’, written as a single upright stroke in English, with which, uniquely in earthly creation, we name ourselves.

The throat is the chakra of the Word, creative sound, with which we can utter ‘I am’, so Michael is not killing or even conquering the dragon. The archetypal picture of the archangel is expressing how the higher self penetrates our body, so that we can truly wake up to ourselves in our ‘piece of Earth’. It is profoundly interesting that a baby first has to stand erect, then walk, before he/she starts to name him/herself from within: ‘I’. The Earth then truly begins her wonderful teaching, and the lady, our soul, our personality for this life, is free to learn.

Jehanne Mehta

Master of the Inner Tree,
in affirmation if your ceaseless re-sounding
of my being,
I align myself between root and star.Under the arc of your shielding,
Fireshaft of the Hidden Sun,
heart warmed by the long, strong gold of autumn,
here, where the wild berries burn crimson
on the thorn,in love and gratitude,

I ground my standing,
I ground my standing,
I ground my standing,
in the soil of
our living Earth.
You run, you fall, you forget, you die
You run, you fall, you forget, you die
You run, you fall, you forget, you die

You are not afraid of dying,
but of being beautiful

You are not afraid of oblivion,
but of being who you truly are
You are not afraid of falling but of standing
alight on the pinnacle of yourself

You are not afraid of running,
but of taking the first single, simple step

Unlock your right shoulder
Unleash your left leg

Who is it pours radiance into the
so long aching earth

but you yourself
in yourself

Where the tide meets the land
There’s a place that is no place,
where you touch an edge.
Where the sea meets the sand
there’s a time that is no time,
when you touch the margins
of yourself.

Here, now,
like the crab you could
move sideways
into the unknown,
meet the lost one,
lifelong missing, unsuspected,
coming to meet you like a lover,
on a white horse out of the water,
on a solar wind out of the stars.

Looking back you could track
the footprints of your way here,
trace the falls, broken shells,
the mottled rocks and
the hard place.

Here there is no longer any doubt.
On this verge,
where the sun embraces your heart,
listen to the gulls’ cry,
feel the warm wind on your skin.

Who is this taking shape out of no thing,
Speaking words of love out of no time,
if not you, in your fullness,
coming home?
Hymn to the Earth
She is lovely in the springtime in her dress of gold and purple;
She is lovely in the summer in her robe of living green;
Lovely in the autumn all clothed in flame and yellow;
Lovely in the winter in her gown of mist and rain.

She is lovely where your feet have trod and left a winding pathway,
Lovely where the deer rests in the warmth of evening sun,
Lovely where the buzzard soars on the west wind from the ocean,
Where the trees talk a green language and the restless squirrels run.

She is lovely where the silver brook sings its endless melodies,
Lovely where your hand has shaped the landscape to your will,
Lovely where the ploughman cleaves her depths to plant the harvest,
And when her fields are cold and bare, then she is lovely still.

In rocks and soil she is alive, alert and always listening;
In beech and ash and sycamore she is watching and awake.
You can sense her body tremble as your heart is slowly opening,
You can feel her move towards you, as you begin to speak.

All down the twisting centuries she has waited for this moment,
For your heart to sing with her heart and dance to the same beat.
In the woods and hills a new earth stirs beneath her secret portals.
A world which only you and she together can create.

©Jehanne Mehta

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