The Weight of Devotion - Notes from the Inner Landscape or When Sirius Calls the Soul Home
Sometimes I think that courage in love is the rarest mineral in the world — one that forms only under immense pressure, in the darkness of the inner earth. It is not the kind of courage that boasts in the higher rooms of language, but the one that asks you to stand quietly before your own truth, without flinching, without running. The courage to not be idealized, to not idealize, to lower the crown so you can understand that its weight comes precisely from its truth.
And still — the “heavy crown” of true love… it is not an ornament. It is a trial. At times I feel it like an invisible, cool diadem placed upon me at the very moment love meets truth. In that instant of collision when you see the shadow in the other, and even more painfully — the shadow in yourself.
And then you realize how much audacity is required to stay.
To not escape toward the comfort of illusion.
To not hide behind the habits of old fears.
Because love — the true kind — always summons something ancient and unhealed within us. It leads us to the doors of personal and ancestral karma, to the collective layers that hold the memory of generations: guilt, pain, weakness, broken promises, abandoned children, suppressed desires, silenced truths.
Every love is a meeting with our own “vice” — not in a moral sense, but as an encounter with lack, with fracture, with the part of us that has not yet matured. And there is something almost sacred in those moments when two people dare to stand before each other’s neuroses, before the “arch-neurosis” — that deep, archetypal fear that silently shapes so much of our lives.
Sometimes I feel how, in true encounters, there is a re-shifting of the layers of consciousness — like a quiet earthquake that unglues centuries, washing away illusions, dissolving addictions, loosening karmic knots that I do not understand, yet feel alive somewhere in the depths.
In such moments, the crown grows heavy… and luminous.
There are encounters in which everything first appears foreign, mismatched, unpromising. Two people seem to share nothing, no symmetry, no obvious connection. And then, over time, a deep, true love unfolds — a closeness not on the surface, but in the architecture of the soul itself. As if this initial lack of similarity was the doorway to a larger dimension.
And there are other encounters — easier at first, more promising. Chemistry, likeness, attraction, synchronicity. And then — when the karmic programs reveal themselves, when the layers shift — the lack of true likeness appears. How misleading physical attraction can be…
Perhaps this is one of life’s most subtle equations: how the body can betray us, while the soul does not; how the soul knows something the body cannot yet express.
And still — true love is love beyond conditions. It is not born of them and it does not die with them. It has its own climate, its own warm season, its own inner rhythm. It manifests under all circumstances, without needing the fulfillment of particular expectations.
Sometimes it comes not as comfort, but as a mirror. Sometimes it is ruthless in its honesty, yet gentle in its fidelity to truth.
And most importantly — true love is not limited to romantic partnership.
It can unfold between parent and child, when deep shadows meet and are healed by a simple “I am here.”
It can live between friends who see each other in wholeness, beyond the convenient roles society assigns.
It can arise even in the silent gaze between a human and an animal — that wordless language in which nothing exists except unconditionality.
Sometimes I think that true love seeks us in all these forms, until we finally learn not to flee from it.
And in these inner reflections, I often return to that quiet, mystical image: Jesus after the crucifixion. The world still throbbing with pain, the earth cracked open, and reality itself like an empty tomb. And the first to see Him, the first to recognize Him, is Mary Magdalene.
Not Peter, not the disciples, not the scholars.
But her — the one who carries the heavy crown of true love.
Again I imagine the encounter — not grand, but quiet, almost intimate. The empty tomb as a metaphor for the soul’s emptiness, for that moment of dissolution in which all that is old has died and the new has not yet been born. There, in this liminal space, the soul meets Christ, truth meets love.
And again — not everyone believes her. On the contrary. They say she is mad, that she is imagining, that she is possessed by shadows. But she knows. And this knowing is deeper than logic.
Now, in our time, I feel the story repeating itself. The first to recognize Him — will again be her. This recognition always passes through disbelief — one’s own and others’.
But the courage to speak, the courage to witness your encounter with Truth — this is something no one can take.
Perhaps this is why the image of Mary Magdalene always stands outside the spotlight yet in the center of truth: the love that fears neither shadow, nor death, nor disbelief.
I sense the same movement within me when I think of the Morning Star and Sirius, Venus and Sirius, the soul and the Spirit of antiquity. Each of us has a cosmic axis, an invisible companion in the journey of consciousness. Sometimes these images are not literal, yet they speak — of yearning, of awakening, of the radiance that cuts through our internal nights.
Sometimes I think that when the Morning Star meets Sirius, it is the meeting of the human desire to awaken with the star-memory of the soul. As if within each person lies an ancient spark that remembers — before trauma, before neurosis, before karma. The way back to it often passes through pain, through the failure of all old survival strategies, through the collapse of defenses.
But there, in this inner tomb, sometimes the miracle occurs.
Now I understand — true love is royal, but not because it is a privilege; because it is a responsibility. A crown that is heavy. Not everyone wears it. Not everyone wants it. Not everyone deserves it.
To love truly means to be willing to see the other in their human frailty and their inner radiance; to accept that sometimes what we love most is also what wounds us most — not because it seeks to harm, but because it touches the deepest wounds we carry.
If I ever return to these pages, perhaps I will see one thread running through them — the courage to accept the shadow, to meet truth with love, and love — with truth.
And perhaps then I will finally understand:
that courage in love is the quietest form of heroism;
that the heavy crown shines brightest in the dark;
and that some encounters are not accidental but destined — not to make us happy, but to make us whole.
And this — this is a blessing.
Heavy, but true.
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