Mask of the Ram: Wham, Bam, Thankyou Ma'am
Image by Anca Mitroi - Horns
The path of masks is the discernment of elements of truth that you had never even thought to consider as you delve into the spiritual depths. So many consider the mask to be an instrument of deception shielding the truth, and forget that once it was a conductor of magick; and of trust; the process of trusting that you were firm in your own power and that you would not get lost amidst the stars as you traveled the pathways of the universe, raised outside of your shell, glimpsing visions through the eyes of another.
Lessons under the energies of Ram came all at once, brunt forced and bruising, leaving instant impact and addressing all the wounds which weighed heavy on the heart.
It began, as often is the case, in the simple act of opening ones self to the process of hearing what the universe is telling you; an active meditative process of visions and sensations; The obsidian blade was held above the collarbone at the point of the left shoulder; many ancestral hands placed on the end, my own hand on the hilt, as the blade was thrust, painfully, into my shoulder. As the blade passed clean through my shoulder it transformed into a black rams horn, curving at the back and as I cry out in pain I hear “The wounds we carry, the wounds we have carried…” The Ram horn then began to bleed black and disintegrate into my shoulder, rivers of black blood drying into tribal tattoos.
Wounds and identity have been at the fore of the spiritual journey of late...
If Ram medicine is akin to anything in the realms of the Witch, it surely must be the realisation of the degradation of power, the misrepresentation of the deep dark magicks of the Earth, the fear of the faithless who divorce from a trust of the physical and reject their skin of otherness which calls the soul to dance in the thunderstorms howling back at the sky; wild, unkempt, and uncivilized.
Ask most people what the Ram means under the guise of Witchcraft and the most prominent answer will be; the Devil - perhaps with a nod to Black Phillip from the Witch film. The entity known as the Devil, the stories attributed to Him, and the weird (wyrd) intermingling of Witchcraft and Paganism is a subject so vast that a fraction cannot be hoped to be covered within a single essay but there are interesting thematic parallels with Ram lessons. There is the weaponisation of blame; breaking down a complex situation into clearly marked sides labelled simplistically; good and evil, right and wrong. The world has become obsessed in maintaining an imagined moral high ground that assumes the alternative viewpoint is completely devoid of merit. Conversation and debate have seemingly been set aside.
The rational and intellectual have been trampled underneath hysteria and agenda. The cult of personality becomes more important than anything else; lending to shallow understanding and the veneration of appearance over substance.
The vision spoke to me of wounding, patterns of hurt that transcended my physical shell and reverberated through the ancestral line.
For better or worse, the subjugation of the feminine was at the fore of the energy;
“The older I get, the more I see how women are described as having gone mad, when what they've actually become is knowledgeable and powerful, and really fucking furious” — Sophie Heawood.
I watch a world that describes women as 'bitches to be owned' in a vernacular that is becoming disturbingly loud; the idea that women are the sum of their service and that they may not own their power in that has haunted this medicine. The Witch has been shunned as the concubine of the Devil, engaging in supposedly ungodly unions with evil in order to acquire power. Some have come to embrace the stereotype, reveling in the otherness, spitting in the face of convention and control, crying that if the Devil is in fact the Old God of the land then a mere re-brand because of fear will not turn them away.
Many embraced the idea of Black Phillip and 'Live deliciously,' has become a power phrase from a movie that was laced with religious judgment and control.
The Ram medicine has shunted the problems of this internalized conditioning to the fore; it cannot be ignored. The problematic need to be of service, to prove our worth, has made us meek lambs, and that is draining away our power.
"I won’t paint between your lines Lie down and take it Say yes sir no sir as you like sir As if you think I was raised that way They tried Problem is there’s a jagged little soul Deep within me Don’t care to be sanded down into Something easily swallowed Like when you ask me to swallow down My rage Good luck because mamas true face Is knowing something of wrath Only worthy when you’re serving To be bent but don’t you dare break down As if there’s something wrong with you You’re too much How many times has complicated been denoted As something undesired Too much what exactly Pain and pleasure bursting at the seams Threatening to throw the status quo Or asking you to be better Be more or see outside your own way Or the highway Tell me I’m wrong as though I’ll bow Fuck that."
- Joey Morris 2018
The wounding of self stems from the problem of not being able to move the head space from the hurt space; moving forward from the wounds of the past (and those of ancestral patterns) seems insurmountable at first; but that is not the truth of the soul. Pain can shape us, leave its mark on us, mold us along the way; but we can choose not to let it define us. It does not have to be the end of that journey. A wound can also be a place to let the light in. The cracks are proof that we are burning at our full potential, as our inner flame ignites it provides the catalyst to our power; we can alchemize beyond our limitations into our truest potential. And all the mud that has been caked ontop of the wondrous individual that we are will crack and harden, falling away, the dry remnants of who they told us to be.
For generations the wounds have been handed down; we have been silenced, told to be pretty and silent, not to raise our voice or cause a scene. That time is over.
We will be heard.
Many blessings, Starlets. Stay Fluxy.
Image - Peony Yip @thewhitedeers