There is a very old and forgotten myth about a caravan of somewhat clumsy dancers.
A little monstrous, perhaps, yet filled with unmanifested beauty and power.
A Magician-Dancer drew them, by a Secret Way, to the mountain where he dwelt.
He seized them by Command, in order to teach them how to dance.
To dance so that they might Remember.
To be healed from the greatest illness that exists in the world.
Forgetfulness.
He appeared to each one of them wearing a different mask.
A different disguise.
He appeared as a Magician, as a Warrior, as a Brother, as a Father, as a Beloved..., as..., as...
As their deepest Desire.
As the part they had forgotten, lost, feared.
At first, he seemed like a Stranger...
So that later they might understand, might feel with their whole Being, that he was a part entirely their own.
The Same in Essence... in Perfect Form...
And so, these potential Dancers had forgotten.
And who ever said that when you forget, you do not suffer?
The pain — or rather, the Longing — was the link that bound them together.
The Pain that came at the most fitting moment of their lives.
For in joy, human beings forget even God Himself.
They forget their Self.
And so, the Myth says, this is how it had to be.
They had to forget, to lose themselves, so that they might be able to find themselves again.
WHOLE.
But this was a difficult path for all of them, and for each one separately.
The Magician-Healer first gave them to drink a most powerful Elixir.
The Elixir of EROS.
So that they might be able to dance with their eyes Hermetically closed.
Very little, almost nothing, has remained as testimony from that time.
Now and then, stories appear; at other times songs, music or poems, paintings, dances...
And no one knows who created them, or when...
Yet they all have something in common.
The Fragrance of that Blessed Encounter and the Vibration of His Words.