The travel of the soulBorn from the ashes of a flaming sphere, our beginning is microscopic, hardly visible, miserable.

Moved by some mysterious energy, a shapeless mass of tissues gradually discloses a vaguely recognisable form, a caricature, a mockery, a hopelessly helpless miniature shape which will one day become a man or a woman hauty and confident ready to conquer the world. What an illusion all the same. A simple fall, a stray shot or a tiny fly puts an end to his epic adventure. Not any amount of agony and suffering, not any number of deaths and disasters, not torture, prison, failure and catastrophe can hold back his indomitable spirit. Fallen, riddled, crippled, cut to ribbons his soul hopes and struggles for snatching the crown of Immortality from the unwilling hands of some adamantine Fate. A fragile doll of porcelain never discouraged, throws itself hurtling against a massive iron gate hiding his destiny, blocking his passage, gets broken into tiny fragments. Picking up his broken bones, birth after birth, life after life, he fights for a secure stand, a ray of true light, a sip of the Soma wine, for the deep embrace of a satisfying durable love. From time to time like a dog he gets some stingy crumbs from the sumptuous table of the olympian Lords. His hunger grows fierce and all logic is thrown overboard. An inner fire consumes him day and night. In a moment of grace he knows that he is the son of the mighty Mother, not a whit less than those shining Lords. He knows that his weakness is buttressed by an invincible omnipotence, his dim knowledge is illumined by a giant star, his soul, a heavenly charged spark of the Divine. God walks by his side and lying under his feet supports his weight. When he struggles to pull in the net, the helping hand of God is always there. When he fumbles through the night, God leads the way with a glowing lamp. When he cries in pain and despair, God’s loving hands caress his wounds and apply soothing balm on his bleeding heart and soul. The true seeker knows that he is a boat, God the master and captain, that he is a rose, God the delightful fragrance, that he is a mansion, God the noble proprietor and indwelling Lord. Admitted into a vast spiritual freedom from birth and death, he goes in and out of the house of life as required by the unfolding play. He lives for the mighty Mother, in her service forever, sustained by the felicitous influx of her love and grace.