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A Meditation upon the Oil of Abra-Melin

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  • clown_in_black_and_yellow
    Here is a meditation with the Oil of Abra-melin my ritual group did recently. I think it will be of interest to a variety of disciplines. Giving credit where
    Message 1 of 1 , Mar 6, 2003
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      Here is a meditation with the Oil of Abra-melin my ritual group did
      recently. I think it will be of interest to a variety of
      disciplines. Giving credit where it is due, I was directly inspired
      by Aleister Crowley's sublime essay on the Holy oil in part 2 of
      Book 4, which I consider a classic of practical alchemy (in a
      technically very simple way, of course)
      Also, for those interested: the specific recipe for Abra-Melin oil
      2 parts Galangal (Thai ginger) Oil
      4 parts Myrrh Oil
      8 parts Cinnamon Oil
      7 parts virgin olive oil.
      Maybe in a week when I've got my notes together I will post an
      anylisis of teh numerology and attributions of this recipe

      The Pressing of the Oil
      You wake and walk to a little crystal stream where you have washed
      clean your crystal jar of the Art, even as you have let the
      complications of your life flow away from you from the death to the
      full return of the moon.
      You stand in the stream, letting it wash you, of the sense of
      urgency that hangs about your task: today, you shall go to the
      hermits' grove to press the Sacred Oil of Abra-Melin
      You walk to the hill that has overshadowed your simple hermitage,
      along the winding path of seven turns, until you come to a simple
      stone gate kept by an old hooded one.
      "By what light do all fools see as well as the wise?"
      "By the noon sun that is owned by all." you reply, as you have been
      prepared to say.
      "Do we all see, then?" responds the hermit of the grove.
      "It is noon and light is cast as far as it goes." you reply. There
      are two answers given: now the riddle commences.
      "Where, therefore, is your lantern?" asks the hermit.
      "I left one hung at my tent below" you say with some doubt,
      continuing "And the other, unlit, I carry in my bosom. I hope that
      the Oil can enter there and bring sun within."
      "Your hope is aright. It shall overcome your folly." says the
      hermit, stepping away from the gate.
      You see in the grove that there are two tall trees, wildly grown and
      innocent of gardening, and a squat bush between them. Their scent
      mingle in the air a little: olive, myrrh, and cinnamon–galangal,
      which is of the earth, may test your wit–but you must first obtain
      the gold that binds them all, you reflect, heading to the little
      grove, and sitting.
      You touch your feet to the olive tree, and you clarify your thoughts–
      you slice them of their wandering, as if trimming weak branches on
      an unseasoned tree–you preserve a few resolute branches, each
      traceable to the trunk that rose straight from the earth–you trim to
      the few stout extensions of your very roots that can bear good fruit
      upon them. The rest, which can only wither, are cut away.
      You breath deeply in and out, feeling all which does not nourish
      leaving you. You feel your breath sink into a slow but certain, easy
      cycle, abiding the round as every tree abides the wheel of many
      seasons. This great wheel turns in your breath and blood, with
      golden harmony.
      You see a golden light shine lazily around you, filled with life but
      easy to give out as for the sun to bestow life on all around it. A
      subtle burn is throughout you now–there is in you the need to refine
      the parts of earth, even as a tree must place it's roots below the
      soil, not in the sky.
      You call some of this gold inside of you, dimming the burn to a
      warmness–and behind your eyes, you know that the world of your
      dreams is an empty clearing of easy gold.
      Now, you hold your hands above your crystal jar–and as you steady
      the golden glow in your head and let it's light radiate from you, a
      rich gold oil pours from your hands into the crystal jar. You are
      aware of a deeper greening in the tree itself, which has shared your
      purification–you are aware that weaker branches dropped from it–
      You count to seven as the gift of the olive tree pours forth from
      your hand, and when the right amount glistens in the crystal bowl,
      your hand is clean and dry again.
      Now you thrust your fingers into the earth, digging, until you feel
      a ginger-root–the hard, red ginger of Siam called Galangal. You
      break it open, and it smells of the soil itself, (here the reader
      conveys the scent to the travelers) yet also of an essence that is
      rising–there is a hint of fire in the earth you smell. You crumble
      the earth between your fingers as you close your eyes and old an
      image behind your eyes of fire, thin as smoke and clear red,
      growing clearer, stretching higher, as soil falls away, never
      breaking even as it rises...
      In your hand, you feel the root itself shrinking. You know the oil
      presses itself from the root even as the image rows stronger in
      lines but subtler in color. Soon, the red is barely a tinge in the
      smooth glowing yellow, which now slight glows, even if it is also
      You have the olive oil which penetrates all that seeks exaltation,
      and the ginger which hold earth and that secret fire that rises from
      it unto the highest–and now great dread fills your breast, even as
      there is a swirl of mud in the reddened gold of your inner and outer
      glow. For now comes the tribulation of myrrh, wherein the inner oil
      may claim to bring nutrients from the depth of the earth–for it is
      the oil that redeems what is subterranean, entering the depths and
      the heavens with an equal penetration.
      You get upon your knees, your bowl between them–as if you were
      begging alms or confessing your most wretched sin–this places you
      before the myrrh-bush, which branches you must directly snap and
      break. You suck in breath and hold it, seeking strength from new
      breath. The wood bends back in your hands- even as you yourself seek
      a way around knowing this bitterness–but that is a weakness you are
      better rid of, for your body must be broken by time in the end–this
      is not fair, you think, and with anger, a branch snaps in two. Now
      you release your breath, thinking of all that you will be lighter of
      upon the advent of death–all the bitter fruits you grew before you
      knew to trim yourself. (here the reader conveys the scent to the
      You hold the snapped branch above your crystal bowl as though it
      were a bottle–and you feel the bitterness in you, the failures that
      the golden light of you could dare to ignore in it's own
      magnificence–you cast golden light in the shadows you kept around
      it, to remind yourself of what you store there–you remember now that
      the sun shines on the wicked as it does upon the good–and you know
      that it was wicked of you to have those had darkened corners around
      the earthen golden flame you have made a lantern of, you know that
      it was wicked to deny the rotten and hardened and shaded things the
      light of you `till now–and you know that the redemption is in the
      giving forth of this light, not because it is high time but because
      it is the moment now and you can–the long delay of your golden light
      into your darkened parts is redeemed–and the stick begins to heat,
      just to the point of pain–its' resin pours forth now, bubbling until
      it hits the reddened gold in the jar–where, finding me
      lting and acceptance, it flows not as a hardened gum but as another
      subtle oil–neither gold nor red is lost–but there is richness and
      depth–if also a part of sorrow that is yet unredeemed–you now name
      the pains you have hidden until now–and they ache, adding dark depth
      to the reddened gold in the lantern of your soul.
      You sigh, knowing that the sign is the oldest mantra, and you
      remember the secret fire in the ginger, which is of earth, and you
      call upon that fire, and you name the burning–and you name the hard
      cold within yourself, as you have been doing–and you find in that
      mud what can rise–and you ask, at last, what of the light may also
      descend–as you have remember strength to the olive tree, as you have
      found the fire hidden in the ginger–you must find that courage that
      first planted fire there.
      You must have your liver eaten, to rid it of the toxin therein–you
      must call down fire that will dare the depths of earth to be cleaner
      when that fire rises again–you must remember how the pain of sinking
      will be one with the glory of dawning again–and there falls from the
      cinnamon tree a long wand of it's hardened red woody leaf–fire and
      earth like ginger, but the fire that drops, now.
      You hold the cinnamon above the crystal jar and you breath quickly
      now, calling air to your depths–calling the fire down into you–
      daring to sink that you may rise again–seeking to delve in the earth
      to place fire even as you have dug it up from there–you feel the
      cinnamon flooding it's oil, sun descending, leading the hermit to a
      place of quiet–you feel your brow wake with power as the cinnamon
      finds the myrrh and sends flame to all that can burn and light to
      all that has yet stayed hidden. (here the reader conveys the scent
      to the travelers)
      You feel your brow begin to burn as the cinnamon finds the ginger,
      places fire where it escaped, and itself rises to the top–you feel
      and see the gold somewhat returning, lightened now but with dark
      depth still retained–you feel each oil stretching out to eternity,
      entering and entered by each oil, for every true-pressed oil enters
      every density and every height–every oil enters every oil--for every
      oil has anointed every surface even unto every core–and every core
      and every surface, warm and lighted, are united for that the oil
      flows now through all.
      (Here the reader anoints the travelers) There is a touch upon your
      one particular brow burning yet subtle–you know that your forehead
      glints with the marking, not of exile but return.
      You hold your eyes closed for three more breaths and wake again, to
      walk as anointed and anointer in all the groves and wastelands of
      the world, having entered fully the expanses of each of them.
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