Tonight, I was innocently working on my talk for the rabbi that will occur two Sundays hence. I had suffered a couple of false starts but the time was drawing nigh. I had to continue.
An opening paragraph fell out and then another. Stuck again. Then, I felt a touch. When I feel an occult touch it is like a tingling sensation that usually starts on my head. The feeling extends three to twelve inches away from my body and may or may not flow across my arms and shoulders. I tried to feel who it was. The Psychic? My mentor? Various members of my former coven (as if they would bother)? My Gal? Nothing stuck.
I turned back to my writing and remembered that the rabbi asked me to include my lineage. Frankly, I don't borrow my magickal authority from a list of names. I respect those who have 'cooked' me, which is not the same thing as holding up my "certificates suitable for framing" and saying "Look at this!" Who initiated them is even less relevant to me. Two things are relevant when it comes to lineage. The first is were the initiators competent. Who made them that way is irrelevant. The second is much more important, who taught you and who taught that person? The name of my teacher will not matter to my audience. My teacher and his teacher are in shadows. They haven't published as far as I know. My mentor hasn't found vainglorious ways to present himself at Pantheacon.
I thought I'd include the names anyway. So, I texted my mentor and asked his teacher's last name. It wasn't long before he called me asking why I wanted to know. He was in tears. He told me how proud he was of me and my work and explained that I am the last of his teacher's magickal grandchildren. My mentor's teacher was my Hiereus at my neophyte. The symbolism of that relationship holding that position is simply awesome.
It seemed my mentor's teacher, long since deceased, had come calling tonight. This, quite understandably, shook up my mentor a bit. About that time, I sent a text asking the man's last name for my speech. It was one of those moments, for my mentor, where you just can't convince yourself something didn't just happen. One cannot convince oneself a ghost, who was making a point, was imaginary when your student texts you his name at that precise moment.
So, I was just used as tool by a dead adept. That isn't a bad thing at all.
Oddly, I had been thinking of my teacher's teacher the last few days.