� 2001-2006 by Shiloh
�
You are Form 0, Phoenix: The Eternal. "And The Phoenix's cycle had reached its zenith, so he consumed himself in fire. He emerged from his own ashes, to be forever immortal." Some examples of the Phoenix are Quetzalcoatl (Aztec), Shiva (Indian) and Ra-Atum (Egyptian). The Phoenix is associated with the concept of life, the number 0 and the element of Fire. His sign is the eclipsed sun. As a member of Form 0, you are a determined individual. You tend to keep your sense of optimism, even through tough times and have a positive outlook on most situations. You have a way of looking at going through life as a journey that you can constantly learn from. Phoenixes are the best friends to have because they cheer people up easily.
Which Mythological Form Are You?
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*The Phoenix has several counterparts around the world, but the most famous or well-known is the Arabian Phoenix. As large as an eagle, it has brilliant scarlet and gold plumage and a melodious cry. Making its home near a cool well, the Phoenix would appear at dawn every morning to sing a song so enchanting that even the great sun god Apollo would stop to listen.
Only one phoenix existed at any one time, and it lived a life span of 100 years, 500 years, 540 years, 1000 years, 1461 years or even 12,994 years (according to various accounts). The only things it would eat were dewdrops. As the end of its life approached, the Phoenix would build a pyre nest of aromatic branches and spices, such as myrrh, set it afire and be consumed in the flames. After three days a new phoenix would rise from the ashes. According to some sources, the phoenix actually rose from the midst of the burning flames. The young phoenix would then gather the ashes of its predecessor into an egg of myrrh and take it to Heliopolis, the City of the Sun, to deposit it on the altar of the sun god.
If you think about it, the Phoenix is a perfect symbol for journals. Or those who keep them. They are blank pages or books on/in which we put all we experience, think, feel and envision. They're chronicles of our individual journeys--and yes, life is a journey in my eyes. We are constantly learning, experiencing new things, and what better way to remember and relive than to keep a journal for ourselves or our posterity? Our experiences, thoughts, observations, lessons and feelings will live on even though our bodies will return to the dust. In that way we are immortal as the Phoenix.
The other day, upon finding another interesting journal with a unique voice, I realized how great journals are. They are worlds among many others, a reflection of each author. They can become invaluable and a wonderful endeavor, if we can each just find our own unique voice.
Gwen sent me this quiz. I'm grateful and very glad she did so.
But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree
of knowledge of good and evil,
when she and Adam
were driven from Paradise,
there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub
a spark into the nest of the bird,
which blazed up forthwith.
The bird perished in the flames;
but from the red egg in the nest
there fluttered aloft a new one
the one solitary Phoenix bird.
The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia,
and that every hundred years,
he burns himself to death in his nest;
But each time a new Phoenix,
the only one in the world,
rises up from the red egg.
The bird flutters round us,
swift as light,
beauteous in color,
charming in song.
When a mother sits by her infant's cradle,
he stands on the pillow,
and, with his wings,
forms a glory around the infant's head.
He flies through the chamber of content,
and brings sunshine into it,
and the violets on the humble table
smell doubly sweet.
But the Phoenix is not the bird of
Arabia alone.
He wings his way in the glimmer
of the Northern Lights
over the plains of Lapland,
and hops among the yellow flowers
in the short Greenland summer.
Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun,
and England's coal mines, he flies,
in the shape of a dusty moth,
over the hymnbook
that rests on the knees of the pious miner.
On a lotus leaf he floats
down the sacred waters of the Ganges,
and the eye of the Hindu maid
gleams bright when she beholds him.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him?
The Bird of Paradise,
the holy swan of song!
On the car of Thespis he sat
in the guise of a chattering raven,
and flapped his black wings,
smeared with the lees of wine;
over the sounding harp of Iceland
swept the swan's red beak;
on Shakespeare's shoulder he sat
in the guise of Odin's raven,
and whispered in the poet's ear
"Immortality!"
and at the minstrels' feast he fluttered
through the halls of the Wartburg.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him?
He sang to thee the Marseillaise,
and thou kissedst the pen
that fell from his wing;
he came in the radiance of Paradise,
and perchance
thou didst turn away from him,
towards the sparrow who sat
with tinsel on his wings.
The Bird of Paradise,
renewed each century
born in flame,
ending in flame!
Thy picture,
in a golden frame,
hangs in the halls of the rich,
but thou thyself often fliest around,
lonely and disregarded,
a myth--
"The Phoenix of Arabia."
In Paradise,
when thou wert born in the first rose,
beneath the Tree of Knowledge,
thou receivedst a kiss,
and thy right name was given thee
--thy name,
Poetry.
~The Phoenix Bird, Hans Christian Andersen~
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