Category: mystic

From the Shores of Styx

A baby cries
from the shores of Styx.

A child cries
from the darkness of a ghetto.

A baby cries,
and a child cries.

A mother cries
as a father dies.

A war starts.
Jobs end.
A house is lost.
A father dies.

The child grows.
The child says why,
but the man knows,
like those before him knew.

And so
the child sighed
as the man dies.

From the shores of Styx,
from the deepest part of Stygian,
a baby cries again—
screaming out of the darkness,
crawling out of the gloom,
refusing to keep the circle.

The child from the darkest recesses of Stygian
screams: I will fight for light,
and though I may lose
and die alone in the dark,
I will have created a glimmer
of hope.

As the man cries,
the woman dies,
and once again
a child rises from the darkness of Stygian,
screaming: I will create light.

And the circle remains
unbroken.

Author’s Note
In Greek mythology, Styx is both a goddess and the river that forms the boundary between the world of the living and the underworld. The rivers Styx, Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, and Cocytus all converge in a great marsh at the center of the underworld. The word Stygian refers to the deep darkness associated with that realm.

2 responses to “From the Shores of Styx”

  1. John Blair Avatar
    John Blair

    In this circle, is there any hope? Or is acceptance of the circle of life hope?

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    1. Dan Sanders Avatar
      Dan Sanders

      That life continues is part of the hope, and that the child continues to break free from the darkness, proclaiming they will create light from the darkness, is more of the hope. Of course, the unbroken circle of despair could be an idea of lost hope.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

One of the Unrecorded

I was just doing some research on this book, and as I’ve said, I’m horrible with dates. I always have been, as they drift into ancient history, they become a lost, whirling maze of amazement and often befuddled amusement. Just now, I was looking for someone from my CCNV days, and after a multitude of different search sources and avenues, including AI, it came back.

 “You’re trying to find someone who lived in a world that didn’t preserve itself well — CCNV, Catholic Worker, Berrigan circles, early women clergy. Those people didn’t leave digital trails.”

 I laughed aloud and said in my best Robert Deniro Taxi voice, “You talkin’ to me?” I know. I’m one of them, lost to time, memory, but maybe not to history.

About a year ago, I spent several weeks with on-and-off communication with various federal agencies trying to get copies of my arrest and prison records. I started with the bureau of prisons The Bureau of Prisons stated that they do not retain records beyond ten years,  They gave me a link to the FOIA ( Freedom of Information Act) the freedom of information act said that because of my type of cases any records would most likely be held by the National Archives they may have retained documentation related to this type of case. I wrote to the National Archives, but have not heard back. I am willing to bet no one has ever tried so hard to prove they are a criminal. Even though the law I broke needed to be broken, and I still would love to see my whole records including as Arlo Guthrie put it in the song “Alice’s Restaurant”, a black and white 8 by 10 glossy.

So yeah, I did and still do live in a world that doesn’t preserve itself well.

Part of me hopes we’re not all lost to history. And part of me thinks maybe that’s the way it was always meant to go.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

Mentors

Mentors can come from the docks, the back roads and back alleys, or, surprisingly, a monastery in Kentucky. Thomas Merton was one of mine. He wasn’t my only mentor, but he was a steady voice that helped me find clarity.

He was born in 1915 in Prades, France—a place distant from here, and even further removed from the Trappist life he ultimately embraced. Throughout his life, he authored 50 books, wrote 2,000 poems, and kept journals that revealed a relentless pursuit of personal growth.

What I admired wasn’t just that he was a monk. It was the strength underneath. He questioned everything, including himself. He spent time in silence, listening to things most of us drown out with noise, drinking, TV, or anything else we use to avoid facing ourselves.

He wasn’t afraid to say he didn’t have all the answers. Sometimes, he wasn’t even sure he was asking the right questions. That kind of honesty can surprise you and help you see things more clearly.

He taught me that solitude isn’t about escaping. It’s about taking care of yourself, like cleaning a boat so it keeps moving. He showed me that silence isn’t empty; it’s where change happens. He also taught me that being human is slow, difficult work, often done without recognition and against challenges.

I’ve had other mentors—some loud, some quiet, some unexpected. But Merton taught me how to be still without losing myself, how to listen, and how to stay honest even when the truth is hard to accept.

Every year on his birthday, I remember him. Though he was born in France in 1915 and eventually became a Kentucky monk, he somehow found his way into my journey. Even from behind monastery walls, he found ways to help others see new possibilities.

We don’t choose all our mentors. Some arrive unexpectedly, shaped by life, and turn out to be just what we need to keep going.

Now, fifty years later, after running up and down many roads, I find myself once again sitting in silence. Being alone is sometimes the hardest part—quiet, remembering who I have been, and, most importantly, who I am. I sometimes drift with the tide, or swim against it when necessary, here on the shores of Rambling Harbor.

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Mystical Moments

I’ve always believed in mysticism, not as superstition. But as the language of the Universe, symbols, rhythms, numbers, and crows that visited me in an unexpected place at an unexpected time. But they were there. Not long after my wife passed away, the crow woman was my loving nickname for her. For me, numbers are one of the many ways to listen deeper, to honor the unseen, to shape memory and resistance with rhythm. Some of that comes from my mother’s Cherokee Heritage, some of which flows through my veins.

My nephew keeps nudging me when he constantly posts just the numbers 333, that’s all, no explanations, just the numbers, but he knows I know.

I often see numbers repeated; it’s the constant repetition that matters. I’ve been seeing numbers a lot lately, this time it’s 1111 and 444, again and again. In many different places, on clocks, receipts, timestamps, and even in the quiet corners of memory.

1111 is the Breath’s invitation. A portal. A whisper from the Universe that something is aligning. It shows up when I’m on the edge of a new chapter—when the words are ready, when the healing deepens, when the sanctuary expands.

444 is the Breath’s shelter. A reminder that I’m not alone. That our ancestors, angels, or whatever name we give to the unseen, are walking beside me. It arrives when the work is hard, when the jaw clenches, when the lungs ache—and it says: “Keep going. You’re protected.”

Together, they’ve become part of my sanctuary strategy. Not superstition, but poetic geometry. A way to track the invisible architecture of healing.

“The match strikes at 1111.
The harbor holds at 444.”

I don’t claim to know the whole meaning. But I know how it feels. And that’s enough.

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