Sexual Magic

Love is often spoken of in terms of magic. Is there such a thing as real sexual magic, an act that Kundalini carries out in and through the physical body? In Natalie, A Kundalini Love Story I describe a moment of authentic magic performed, not with rituals, spells, and pentagrams etc., but by a man and woman lying in each others' arms, sleeping but connected by a deeper consciousness. Physically, Jim and Natalie are about to lose one another, perhaps be killed, but Kundalini joins their subtle bodies at the base of the spine and for an instant they are outside time and space. These things happen. At the moment when they let go of their physical obsession with one another, Jim and Natalie connect with a power that can save them because it works with the force of innocence.

Far from being a matter of control and willpower, true magic is innocent. This is why children are more open to it and can sometimes do magic without realizing it.

When I was about five, I went through a period when I used to hold my breath to make myself dizzy. Being dizzy made me feel strong and happy. It was only later that the reason I did it became clear to me. When I was three, my mother nearly died of tuberculosis. She disappeared into a TB ward, and I wasn't allowed in to see her, because the disease was contagious. I used to wave to her through a window from the hospital garden, but I wasn't allowed in the same room as her, or to breathe the air she breathed. My mother survived, but TB destroyed one of her lungs and left her with only three quarters use of the other lung.

For the rest of her life, every breath she breathed was a battle, and she suffered shocking breathlessness attacks. I see now that when I held my breath to make myself dizzy, I was feeling my way, on the subtle plane, towards the mother whom I wasn't allowed to touch physically. I felt happy and strong because the connection was real. It was a form of magic and it worked. I had stumbled upon a primitive form of pranayama. Through outwardly difficult circumstances, I'd found something that would be precious in my later life.

The life force comes to people in roundabout ways, over the course of a lifetime, as in JJ Semple's Deciphering The Golden Flower One Secret At A Time, where a childhood injury, irrationally (magically) kept undisclosed ended in a Kundalini awakening.

Connected in Space/Time

Their subtle bodies connected at the base of the spine, asleep, but deeply awake, in each others' arms, the heat of their erotic obsession gone, Jim and Natalie enter a space, a moment of space/time located in the future, a hotel room high above London, where the threat to their lives awaits them. Place is important in magic, as is the moment in time from which all space emerges. Place, space/time, is manifested in the Throat Chakra. As Vivek Govekar stated in an earlier post, the Throat Chakra is the bridge from the earthly realm (the body) to the transcendental plane in the higher chakras in the head; it's a passageway across to the realms without form both the Buddha and particle physics speak of. It's a midway state where authentic and simple magic can take place. Because magic, even erotic magic, isn't about control and will-power; it's a sudden, innocent uncovering of what is.

Kundalini and Akasha

In Australia where I grew up, there were a lot of gum trees. These eucalyptuses have a fine membrane of gum inside the casing of their leaves. If you split the green casing and draw it apart, you get a half inch or so of eucalyptus film. When I was a kid, we used to use this to make a high-pitched whistling noise, similar to the shrilling of the cicadas that lived in the trees. This gum-whistling cicada song is like the sound Kundalini makes in the head, especially when the Throat Chakra opens and one experiences the distilled essence of time, Akasha.
 

Australian Eucalyptus

The cicadas lived in the canopies of the gum trees, and sometimes we'd find the empty shells from which they'd hatched still clinging to the bark. These shells had eyes, claws, heads and abdomens, like lacquer molds, with a split up the back where the cicada had emerged. It seemed like an appropriate symbol for the two aspects of time — memory, and the All condensed in the present instant.

Time's gum, drawn from a split eucalyptus leaf
For a moment's ecstatic shrilling; I press the tip
Of my tongue to a disinfectant tang; blow
Hard, and a skirl of wet cicada's wing
Turns to ear-splitting Time
When memory's just a dry shell on a tree.
There are things and places stored in that bright shrilling
And invisible people panelbeating the light
Dead shell, the vacated claws, the stiff eye nodes
Of a memory carried — From where? — Left — By what?
On the inner, upright tree trunk of a man,
Gripping the bark as if it were nothingness.
They say there's a quick rewind at the moment of death
On a maniac wheel, so fast that One Great Still
Appears, no detail lost, no monkey's tail
Of celluloid scrabbling up the sudden dark;
Just Time's gum, shrill light, wet cicada wings
That stretch, that beat, that fly, and I am an ecstatic
Whistle looking down on a boy.