The Door of My Destiny

Dear Ones,

Last night was a powerful conversation – The Black Madonna and the Red Book with Kayleen Asbo. Today in the aftermath of that conversation…my mother wrote and I painted although we did not discuss this. We both saw the light Madonna when asked to look where we were on our journey. Sometimes she is red, black and sometimes white and gold like this one. She is called: She Listens to the World and will be unveiled for the first time tomorrow at my art show in San Francisco at The Woman’s Eye Gallery – come by for wine, women and chocolate and new work. Or drop by Healdsburg for Art Walk, the gallery will be open late on Saturday with new work also!

When my mom sent this to me I just cried. Now I want to send it to you. On the full moon, on the eve of 11/11/11, I send you my bright blessings. If you didn’t get to hear the call and you want to – here you go.

Love, Light and Hope,

Shiloh Sophia

Caron McCloud’s poem:


The daughters invite us to seek our own
Divine Mother, dangerously advising us to receive
in prayer and meditation, whoever it is that shows up .

There at the door of my destiny waits Mary,
of whom I am instructed to require a word.

The word WORD itself is what shows up for me.
Of course. I am a poet. I ask for a specific word.

I hear my daughter ask of me:
What is the word written over your door?

I raise my eyes to the archway Mary indicates,
whereupon are written the letters YHSVH.

For me, what else could it be
but the name of her son, with his claim to my path
and his being the way and the truth and the life?


The Divine Mother reaches out her hand
like Noah putting forth his hand to the dove,
taking her, and drawing her in unto himself in the ark.

Walk with my Son, and you walk with me, she says,
delivering me to the side of her man child.

I fall on my knees and cling to his waist.
All I wanted, I cry, was a mate to walk with me.

Someone to notice and to touch with tenderness
my renegade curls escaping the restraints of your law.

Was that so much to ask? How can you be
the promised groom who comforts the forsaken bride?

Walk this path with my broken hearted Mother,
he answers, raising me up and holding me close,
until I return, and you will be comforted.


I walk the path of the man child with his Mother
where my daughter, giving me Jung’s options, asks:
Mama, Mama, where are you on our path?

Nigrado? Albedo? Citrinitas? Rubedo?
Oh Albedo! Albedo! Albedo! I cry.

For I have come from the deepest descent of Nigrado
I come from Rachel weeping for her children,

I come from the heart of the raped concubine dying,
her hands upon the threshold of her sleeping master.

I come from the pierced and broken heart of the Mother
seeing her naked man child nailed to a dead tree.

I come from that broken heart of her Son
looking upon the suffering of the children of Eve.
Only here are the polarities in Rubedo transcended.