Follow me on a Curious Journey...
Can entering the sacred space of death resurrect a buried rite to life?
Come with me on a curious journey into Graveyard Ground: Florence, Italy's Cimitero della Porte Sante, as I traverse the Realm of the Dead and re-verse the Realm of the Living, crossing boundaries and exhuming lies, to reveal buried secrets hidden in Plain Site....
A trail of breadcrumbs before we begin...
In Florence, Italy, situated on a hilltop above the famed Piazzale Michelangelo resides one of the many revered artifacts of human construction: the catholic institution’s Abbazia di San Miniato al Monte. Surrounding and underpinning this Abbey is its cemetery, Cimitero della Porte Sante: an unavoidable inclusion by the church fathers of the sacred sovereignty of Mother Nature.
Within the cemetery, we are confronted with undeniable evidence of one of the most natural rites of passage and sacred thresholds of all: the phenomenon of death. Inherent within this space is the implicit realisation of something truly beyond human construction: an autonomous force larger than the human that acts upon the human with inviolable sacred sovereignty. Yet this natural force is also the ultimate social phenomenon: encompassing burial rituals and practices of varying cultural significance, while unitarily equalising all humans regardless of social status, levelling all false privilege artificially bestowed within life, and returning all humans alike to the womb/tomb of Mother, an inescapable succumbing to the preeminent forces of Nature.
At the Cimitero della Porte Sante, we find a culturally pervasive example of contested space: the colonization by patriarchal religion of Mother Nature’s primordial womb/tomb cycle of life, and this juxtaposition creates a series of questions, along with the possibility of traversing and reversing various perspectives. Is the church really “alive” and the cemetery actually “dead”? Could the cemetery reveal Life and the church dispense death? Do man-made attempts to construct sacredness entomb natural sacrality? Can kneeling before the inescapable sacredness of Death resurrect a buried rite to life?
My research will examine whether a complete phenomenological entering of the human into this natural space of death can reveal a sacred pathway to life, both by examining the impact of patriarchal religious ideology upon life and by embracing the natural phenomenon of Death as sacred initiator into the Mysteries of Life.
Day 1: The Initiatory Journey
Introducing Grand Mother Death and the church of the living dead at Cimitero della Porte Sante
Staircase 1 - 28 steps
Staircase 2 - 28 steps
Staircase 3 – 23 steps
Staircase 4 – 51 steps
There are 130 steps in total. Reducing:
1+3+0 = 4
Four. The 4 Directions, the 4 Seasons, the 4 Elements. Also, the preceding root 13, the number of the Goddess, which reversed under patriarchy became supposedly “unlucky.”
Of course, the inescapable realm of Mother underpins the artificial construction of the church fathers. I am unsurprised by the appearance of this synchronicity, because something told me to count the church steps for a reason in the first place. I ponder how the patriarchal mind is perpetually bound unconsciously to the very Nature Forces it seeks to exclude.
As I ascend the stairs, I am greeted on the Third Staircase by a visually disruptive sight of two men in uniforms harassing visitors to sign some forms. Formal forms; formal uniforms; male ordered forms. I note the juxtaposition of their invasive colonization of the Third Staircase and the supposed sacredness of the site.
Ignoring this disruption, I make my way onwards and upwards towards the cemetery. As I stand at its threshold, at the very moment of my arrival the church bell tolls once. I accept this as permission from the Cemetery to enter.
Immediately, I notice a pink and white offering of roses to the first grave on the left. I walk up to them and touch them. They are fake flowers. There are signs of construction and barriers on my right along with a terracotta eagle on the left, a masculine, solar bird of prey. I reflect on his odd presence within a cemetery and contrast this with the absence of the relevant Vulture Goddess who adorned the Neolithic burial caves in Catal Huyuk.
I arrive at the statue of a child, huddled and kneeling in prayer, adorning the grave of a boy of less than one year old. There is an angel statue behind him. Both of their eyes gaze upwards, in supplication, idealized innocence, and subjection to an authority outside of themselves. I wonder how this child feels, immortalized in this way. The passivity is evident.
Electric coloured rubbish bins interrupt the space, juxtaposed next to artificial, neon-yellow fake flower offerings. At that moment an elderly man with a professional camera comes to photograph the architecture directly in front of my view. Perhaps he is searching for the “perfect shot.” Otherwise, all is quiet except for the distant sound of traffic, the distant sound of police sirens, the distant sound of an iPhone notification, the Rustling Leaves, the Chirping Birds, and the stirring of plastic tape around a constructed white and red barrier, while the police sirens drone on in the distance.
The Wind is energy, life breath, peace, despite its audible stirring of the nearby construction tape.
I wander the cemetery exploring statues. So many female eyes look down, passively immortalized in stone. So many male eyes look out, direct, active.
I am unable to settle; I have not yet found my place within the space. The residues of man-made artifice and falsehood, both physical and ideological, break the sacredness for me. I spot a row of Cypress trees with a bench beneath in the distance. I know instantly that I have found my place. Cypress enveloped, I gaze at the graves. Despite the modern intrusions at the Cemetery, a deeper sense of peace still prevails here. Though I wonder what the incessant sound of traffic feels like to the deceased? To the trees? Music is playing somewhere in the vicinity, a further refusal to allow any real respite, even for the Dead.
Inevitably, I begin to feel the cold, and I take this cue from my body that it is time to leave. As I search for the exit, I spot the tail of a Mysterious Animal scurrying away between gravestones. I break into a smile and immediately take chase trying to find her, feeling like Alice suddenly in Wonderland! Is she a squirrel? A fox? I imagine she is a Witch Soul coming to greet me and welcome me on this mysterious journey. She is telling me perhaps that things are not as they initially appear here. My Curiosity and Sense of Adventure is instantly awakened. I have the sense that I have suddenly crossed an Invisible Threshold, by Invitation Only of course, from the dead realm of the false facade of so-called “life” into the Living Realm of the Magical: a Parallel Universe, a Parallel Reality hidden within the Cemetery, where both the dead and the living exist side-by-side, but in the precise reverse of that which is expected.
While I wander trying to find my Initiator, I notice a sobbing woman statue, her cloaked head buried in her hands, with apples beneath her left as an offering. I contemplate the significance of the Apple to the Greek goddesses and smile at this ancient symbol of seduction and beauty, before jolting back to the reality that I am at a christian cemetery! The Apple, Eve, the garden, the violent reduction of Woman to endless confessions of false guilt at the feet of men. At this moment of realisation, my Mysterious Initiator reveals herself to me. She is Cat! We lock eyes, and I speak an excited “hello.” We connect to each other’s presence for a few dear moments. Materialising with her Official Welcome, she de-materialises just as sovereignly, tempting me onwards.
I walk away feeling elated, and I recall Belden Lane’s encounter with Deer. Yet, unlike him, I recognise that I have not “just” seen “a cat.” I have seen Cat, the Feline Familiar, and she has invited me into Her World. Let the adventures begin.
Enlivened with Cat Sight, I make my way to leave and spot a male-order priest imitating Mother in a white dress to the left as I approach the exit. A single ominous bell tolls. I hear this warning message from Cat and Grand Mother Death to be careful here of the maleficent forces surrounding me. Not of the Dead, of course, but of the so-called “living.” When I turn around, the counterfeit is gone.
I note their warning with a chill, and I mindfully exit my day one.
Day 2: The Virtue of Disobedience
I understood instantly, intuitively, that the Sisterhood is part of this process; in fact, they are inseparable from it. Diary entries of my Cemetery visitation immediately fly off on brooms into the night, sending messages to Sister Witches. They are interwoven into the process immediately; I wonder what tapestry of revelation we will all unfurl together.
It is approaching time to journey to the Cemetery, and I reflect on Christopher Tilley’s idea that creating relationship to space requires daily visits, yet my body is tired from the previous day one. I contemplate going anyway to “try out” his “method,” before questioning this reflexively obedient assumption. Under patriarchy, is disobeying the body and obeying tidy male formulas really experimentation and expansion into the “new”? I connect psychically to Cat in the Cemetery. She suddenly “smells a rat.” Her Cat claws scratch beneath the surface. What she unearths is more dead repetition of the same old pattern of obedience designed to kill off organic female Creative Life, by forcing female biological sovereignty into subjection to artificial, male-ordered mental constructs.
My complete phenomenological surrendering to the sacred teachings of Death requires wholesale rejection of all forms of man-made artificiality. Of course, I obey my body and the psychic link it now has to the Cemetery, after being invited into the Parallel Realm of the Magical within the Cemetery by Cat from day one. We are connected, and the psychosomatic, psycho spiritual answer to today’s visitation from her to me is a clear “No.” I notice proudly that I have no need to “make sure” or to go “test it out” in order to see if Tilly is “right,” and my own senses are “wrong.” My obedience is to the process, to Cat and to Grand Mother Death as genuine Creatrix of Life. Tilley loses.
Day 3: The Site of No-Sight
I descend the stairs of my apartment tower in the dark, deliberately disobeying the false commandments of father industry, declining “help” in the form of sensory-depriving, artificial light. I choose to navigate via Cat Sight.
At the threshold to the outer world, I see that it is raining. I welcome the challenge. Yet with a single step onto the cobbled street, I notice immediately that I am not in my body. A profound floaty, derealization envelops me. I wonder if I should be grounding and protecting before departure? I contemplate whether this is safe to be doing every day. My thoughts spiral. Is this safe to be doing at all? After all, I am treading Graveyard Ground. Traversing and conversing with the Realm of the Dead: the killer colonizers of all that is Naturally Alive; the man-ufacturers of all that is artificial, lifeless, soul killing, Mother killing.
I begin my upwards hike towards the Abbey, dodging tourists in plastic umbrellas profoundly unaware of their surroundings. Umbrellas. Another false commandment? I contemplate the amount of broken umbrellas in landfills, a thought that had previously never crossed my mind. A quick google tells me 33 million are sold annually in the US alone; a projected 5-billion-dollar industry by 2025. Already, Grand Mother Death’s sobering Powers of Revelation extend far beyond the boundaries of the Cemetery. I am deeply grateful for my hood now, feeling suddenly like I am shrouded in an Invisibility Cloak, undetectable to eyes deliberately clouded by father industry.
Arriving at the main road beneath the Abbey, I spy a crosswalk to the right, the man-made “right way” slightly out of my way. I opt to stay put. Waiting for the cars to pass, I cross the road and ascend the staircase to the left.
To the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left.
There are no tourists at the Abbey today. The rain brings emptiness, energy, darkened skies, birdsong.
I decide to investigate the lower cemeteries first, orienting myself due North, the direction of the Earth element, the element of Mother. My compass leads me to a statue of Mary with a crucified Jesus draped over her leg, his entire deadweight crushed upon her body. Instead of eyeballs, there is a white expanse of absence where her eyes should be. Staring empty-eyed off into space, Mary clearly cannot See the full weight of her affliction. Her sculptor, more accurate than perhaps was even understood, rendered Mary Blighted with No-Sight in the most revealing way. I think, of course the church fathers need Mary eyeless, sightless. If she was allowed in-sight, the whole jig would be up. Through patriarchal sleight of hand, man-moulded Mary is unable to See her own degradation. Raindrops trickle from Mary’s eyes exactly where her tears should be. I am reminded of the Umbrellas. It seems that under patriarchy, the Sleight of No-Sight prevails.
With a shiver, I tighten my Invisibility Cloak around me. A single church bell tolls.
For whom the bells tolls? Time marches on.
Beautiful Bruna calls to me from a memorial. She has sharp cheekbones, dark hair, penetrating eyes, characterful depth. Yet, she looks off to one side, sombre, haunted. She is depicted next to her husband: moustached, smug, entitled looking. He accepts his right to gaze directly into the camera. His mediocrity is as evident as her complexity. I wonder if she went to her grave never accessing it?
I continue my wander through the lower cemeteries and pass a plastic broom to one side, conjuring immediate memories of the Witches. The countless women murdered by the church fathers. The Seers. Under patriarchy, you can only survive if you have No Eyes. Only plastic now remains. The priestly counterfeits in white dresses. The eyeless.
Eventually, I make my way towards the main Cemetery, crossing the threshold to arrive back at the familiar site of plastic barricades, electric rubbish bins, odd eagle, fake flowers. The space is empty today except for one woman. She is carrying an Umbrella. I get the immediate sense that she is displeased by my arrival. She heads in the opposite direction. Perhaps she does not yet See who the Real Enemy is.
Eagerly, I make a beeline directly to the Cypresses, feeling called to the first Cypress on my right. With a touch, I sense instantly that she has absorbed tremendous pain here. Not from Natural Processes, of course, but from the Unnatural. As the church bell tolls, I channel as much healing energy into her as I can, but strangely, I feel as though her soul is dead. I walk around her to the left and am jolted by the discovery that she has a Gruesome Neighbour: a bronze Christ with half his torso eviscerated, hangs mutilated beside her. I notice her branches facing the Son droop downwards, dismayed, depressed. Opposite him, her branches facing the Sun reach upwards, alive, nourished. I am grateful that she has a Ray of Hope within the desolation, some Life amongst the deadly.
I wander over to my favourite bench beneath the Cypresses, drawn intuitively to strong energy in this particular place. My intuition is confirmed by a congregation of Feathered Familiars in the space, thoroughly animating it with activity. The air here is infused with the sound of music. Except today, no man-made compositions interrupt the space; the concert is fully Feathered Symphony. The Birdsong is industrious, spirited, electrified. Their energy is contagious. I understand immediately that they are the true Caretakers of the Cemetery, Bird Bathing the energy, cleansing, rejuvenating. I am delighted by this in-sight.
I turn around to the sight of an ebony Raven traversing the sky above me and smile at his appropriateness: the bird of Odin, a dying/rising precursor to Christ. Odin sacrificed one eye in order to be able to See. Christianity, by contrast, takes both eyes away. No-seeing is Believing.
I take a final wander through the Cemetery, allowing Cat Sight to guide me as I explore more statues. I see a man in marble looking ahead, with a woman’s body carved into the supportive pillar beneath him. She gazes so far up at him, her eyes disappear into the back of her head. Another man in stone stares directly at me. A female angel drapes across him; her eyes closed as she reverentially kisses his forehead. All the men look straight out; qualified, eyed, self-satisfied. I note the irony of an Eyed-Tribe wholly blinded by their privilege.
As I make my way towards the exit, a single Feathered Familiar lands directly in front of me. Inspirited, my body instantly becomes aware that I have been sent a Tiny Messenger from the Parallel Reality within the Cemetery. We look directly into each other’s eyes, Soul Seeing. Melodically, she sings her Acknowledgment to me. I accept. She flutters away. Bird Sighted and delighted, I begin my departure.
Exiting the Cemetery, I float towards the stairs thoroughly uplifted by my encounters with the Feathered Familiars. There is a sudden influx of tourists as I leave. They are all holding Umbrellas. Immediately, I am brought down by the sight. I tighten my Invisibility Cloak around me and slip away undetected. The No-Sight Sightseeing Spectacle commences behind me.
I came and went at exactly the right time.
Day 4: The Immaculate Deception
Do not be ignorant of me anywhere or any time. Be on your guard!
Do not be ignorant of me.
For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I awake to tempestuous skies, Wild, Elemental, Commanding. I am instantly transfixed. I smile at Mother making her Presence known, on this day of her “celebration.” Yet the air paradoxically feels still, infused with reverent energy both hushed and wholly animated. I can feel every nerve ending in my body alive, electrified. I observe the clouds as they promenade the skies purposefully, processioning to the tune of birdsong encircling me. The whole of Nature acknowledges Mother’s day today, they dance and sing her praises.
I prepare my breakfast fully enchanted by the atmosphere, feeling my resolve to visit the Cemetery intensify in tandem with each Stormy Moment. That is, until a blinding sunlight penetrates my kitchen, incinerating the Moodiness of the morning in a flash. It takes me a moment to adjust to the sudden intrusion. Clearly, the son has come out, “positively” killing the vibe. I contemplate how the son is always outshining Mother, forever stealing Mother’s thunder. The Thunder, Perfect Mind of Mother echoes:
Give heed to me.
I am the one who is disgraced and the great one.
Give heed to my poverty and my wealth.
Today, Mother’s day is a paradoxical one. On this day of the immaculate conception, the church fathers celebrate their conception of “Mother:” Mary, purified from “original sin” before she was even conceived, immaculately “saved” from the very condition of sin they imposed upon “Mother” in the first place. On this day of patriarchal conception, the church fathers celebrate their immaculately deceptive conception of Mary.
Today, I mourn Mary, and I celebrate Mother. I dress in black and choose serpent earrings to honour Mother in her original Sovereign State, before her own creation claimed credit for her conception, colonizing, invading, and degrading her, before con-cock-ting the pretence of saving her. An immaculate deception indeed.
Shrouded in intentional darkness, I descend the spiralling stairwell to emerge outdoors into instant, eye-opening revelation. We’re gonna have a celebration. There is a chaos of tourists swarming the streets with a distinctly heightened air of desperation. It’s time for the good times. The air is thick with a cacophony of deafening dissonance. Forget about the bad times. I wonder what other pollution is “in the air” today. We need a Holiday. I check my phone and see the Air Pollution rating of Florence is “Poor.” Just one day out of life. I note the synchronicity of extra pollution this day of the “immaculate” conception. It would be so nice. It appears the fathers’ standardized fun has officially begun. Celebrate. Today is clearly a patriarchal “holiday.” Oh yeah.
An angry encounter between two dogs erupts violently at this moment, unveiling a Truly Tense atmosphere smouldering beneath all of the hot air. I contemplate how the boundaries between myself and the Cemetery expand with each visit. Grand Mother Death’s Powers of Revelation immediately make themselves known today; her Guide Dogs readily sight the way through the deceptive haze of illusion/pollution.
Ascending the hill towards the Abbey, I spot a sole tourist holding an Umbrella despite no rain, to shield her eyes from another momentary intrusion of the son. Today, to be honest, I really cannot blame her.
Curiously, the collective energy strengthens as my proximity to the Abbey draws near. A palpable feeling of Excitement begins to shimmer through the holi-daze. I sense Real Emotion stirring, though I am not sure those around me detect the difference. Clearly, Mother’s Genuine Power of Life eclipses the fathers’ zombie parade. That is, until I arrive back at the Abbey crosswalk to an extra profusion of holiday Car Pollution. Suddenly, I spot the plot. There is a Battle of Powers underway. I wonder, how else will the fathers try to pollute Mother’s Presence away today?
I arrive back at the Cemetery to the sound of unusually dramatic church bells. As I cross the threshold, I feel a distinctive shift of energy into Sacred Space. I had not noticed this subtlety before. Perhaps I am becoming more familiar to Grand Mother. As she gets to know me, she reveals Deeper Presence to me. The Thunder, Perfect Mind of Mother speaks her confirmation:
I was sent forth from the power,
and I have come to those who reflect upon me,
and I have been found among those who seek after me.
Look upon me, you who reflect upon me...
You who are waiting for me, take me to yourselves.
I am immediately Guided to a stone statue of an Angel on the left; she kisses the forehead of a baby cradled within her arms. Poldino, he was only five years old... Angel exudes a palpable tenderness; her Powers of Comfort are evident. Even her hand beneath his head emits Love. I cannot take my eyes off of her. I sit at her feet and gaze up at her. My heartbeat noticeably quickens. I feel enveloped by her Wings, by her Warmth. I sense a Genuine Power emanating from her, and I remember today, even through stone, Mother makes her Presence known. With this in-sight, I close my eyes to feel her Healing Energy within my own body, to connect to her Presence more deeply. Immediately, oddly dramatic church bells intrude harshly upon our Moment. I wait for the bells to pass, momentarily confused when they persistently continue. Insistently. Relentlessly. Suddenly, I spot the plot clear as a bell. The Masters’ Battle Plan today is mediation. I think, that definitely rings a bell...
The Battle instantaneously intensifies. The Middle Men advance with bells on. Despite the auditory artillery surrounding me, their battle strategy rings clearer to me by the moment. Their tactics? “Commemorate” Mother today with all the bells and whistles; chime into her day with hellish Division Bells; “respectfully” ensure no one has a moment of Peace to actually connect to her; immaculately conceive a “holy” confusing, relentless infusion of Noise Pollution.
I cover my ears as their False Ring of Pseudo-Affection marches on. I realise the Male Mediators and their Tinker Bells are here to stay. With Mother’s Power today, it is too dangerous for them to have it any other way. With a roll of the eyes, I decide to move on from my Magical Moment with Mother. I can feel the church fathers’ relief, temporarily saved by the Dumb Bell.
I continue my Cemetery exploration and arrive at a stone statue of Mary. She stands alone, yet dutifully carries Jesus’ cross for him, revealing a “new,” biblically old incarnation of the same old boring theme. It seems Solitary Mary is still burdened by the divine son, even in the absence of the deadweight of his own person. Predictably, her head is downcast, and her eyes are closed, rendered without in-sight into her own plight. This time, I spy the lie, the man-made template for every man to not carry his own weight, immortalized in stone: Woman entombed in subjection shall blindly carry it for him. Wordlessly too of course. The Middle Men instantly detonate their Alarm Bell of disapproval at my in-sight. Clearly, blind unconsciousness is the male-order of the day today. As it is on every other day. I think, when the Blind lead the Maliciously Blinded, the whole word literally falls into a ditch.
Walking away, I take a sip of hot ginger tea and watch the steam swirls escape from my thermos.
I arrive at a bronze statue of a man seated cross-legged, looking directly into the eyes of a girl toddler facing him. Despite an attempt to render him paternal, only a stern authoritarianism comes through. His hand too rests on the back of her head, yet it conveys no energy. The whole thing feels like an unplugged appliance actually, manufactured, artificial, uninspiring. Interestingly, no Division Bells ring when I am in his presence. The Master Blasters simply ceasefire. I find myself in complete Peace and Quiet to connect to Nothing. Clearly, there is no Real Danger here to distract from. With absolutely nothing to see here, I eagerly move on.
A gentle breeze rustles Olive Leaves near my favourite bench beneath the Cypresses. For a Moment, a profound Peace envelopes me. A distant Feathered Familiar chirps her approval. Of course, the Peace is swiftly interrupted, this time by the arrival of Mind Pollution: Instagrammers, capturing their holi-daze in various ways in order to find the “perfect shot.” I think, Confusion and pollution go hand-in-hand. Phone-in-hand. As they walk away, a Feathered Familiar cuts through the air, instantly Bird Bathing the energy. Another flutters vigorously in a Cypress above. A final Feathered Familiar finishes the task with spiralling crescendo. The Caretakers of the Cemetery sense immediate purification is necessary, responding, Bird Bathing, clearing the energy. Unsurprisingly, the Battle Boys immediately counter this Fowl’s Play with Foul Play, sounding their Hell’s Bells to ring back right on time to finally ruin the day.
Officially rung out, I decide it is time to leave. Mother’s Rustling Leaves and Tiny Chirps say goodbye to me as I walk the row of Cypress Trees towards the exit. The fathers’ Dumb Bells toll back of course, sounding delight at my departure.
As I approach the Cemetery threshold, I pass three young girls drowning in synthetic fragrance. Chemical Pollution. The fathers’ illusion/pollution literally fills the air today on Mother’s day. As it does on every other day. Sobered, I take a final moment in the Cemetery in contemplation, reflecting on such “immaculate” deceptions; on the fathers’ con-ception of “original sin;” on all the pollution, confusion, lies, and illusions; on all they have done to Mother. It is clear the fathers’ concepted deceptions abound, yet it seems that very few people can actually See them. I think, In-Sight really is the Forbidden Fruit. After all, Open Eyes make one Wise, which is exactly what the fathers despise. Clearly, the Forbidden Apple’s time has truly come. And on this Curious Journey of my re-search to meet with Grand Mother Death, I conclude this Battle will never be won unless opening eyes to daddy’s lies becomes Priority Number One.
The Master Baiters furiously toll their Warning Bell of disapproval at my in-sight. With a laugh, I permanently exodus their Graveyard Garden Trap a Wise Apple, with Eyes Open.
Just as I had suspected, my Curious Journey concludes in exactly the Rite Way...
Beyond the threshold, I emerge to the Sombre Site of an arrival of tourists all dutifully carrying iPhones, revealing another “new,” biblically old incarnation of the same old boring theme. Predictably, their heads are downcast, and their eyes are closed-in, rendered without in-sight into their own plight, apparent eerie walking replicas of Burdened Mary. Immediately, I spot the plot clear as a bell: The Godfathers deal out the Wrong Apple. A Poison Apple. Because just one Bad Apple spoils the Whole Bunch. I watch the transfixed tourists, holi-dazed and confused. It seems a man-made staple of steady lies makes sure no one hungers to be Wise. As Alarm Bells start ringing, I wonder, have the fathers already won...is the Battle actually already done? With a shiver, I tighten my coat around me and slip away into the chilling day.
In a bolt, The Thunder, Perfect Mind of Mother bells back the Final Say:
Do not be arrogant to me when I am cast out upon the earth,
And you will find me in those that are to come.