“April is the cruelest month” is the keen observation that begins T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Wasteland.’ The juxtaposition of the hopes of Spring and the bitter Winter, the memories and potential that converge like the contending forces of strife and necessity that bond us all through endless yearnings and desires. This is the tethering and piercing Eros of magic and the context of Memory sought by our Gods, Heroes, and Philosophers. It is a repository of exalting knowledge that places us above time and matter, certain esoteric secrets that revive us from within like the potent elixirs of Immortals or the Meads of the Gods. It is such insights that arise from the Wasteland and allow a new cycle of growth to be renewed and ourselves rejuvenated. Who can transmute the brutality and cruelty to abundance, health, strength and power? Who arises with this Spring renewal, or who is consumed in the decay of Being? Only the indifferent Master of Time will judge.
