Muliebral Monasticism

Introduction

The sensual loses its meaning without asceticism; there can be no excess without absence, no jouissance without discipline. In Modernity, we have lost the art of asceticism. It is no longer fashionable, nor culturally encouraged to suffer in pursuit of Truth, to seek something higher than oneself. Our age is inclined towards the hedonistic and sensual, yet rarely reflects on what that means. Without reflecting on our relationship to pleasure, we risk upsetting not only our spiritual balance but also the stability of our minds.

What the psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan calls jouissance is not simply harmless excess or innocent enjoyment, it is a powerful and dangerous force that demands careful attention. It is not enough to chase after pleasure wherever we find it; if we give in to every impulse without thinking, we open ourselves up to harm. The wrong kind of pleasure, or pleasure out of place, can unsettle a person entirely, throwing their sense of self into chaos. Seeking pleasure indiscriminately and without restraint is to risk being overwhelmed and consumed by it.

“What’s disturbing is that if one pays in jouissance, then one has got it, and then, once one has got it it is very urgent that one squander it. If one does not squander it, there will be all sorts of consequences.”– Jacques Lacan, Seminar XVII (p. 20)

Just as squandering money suggests carelessly spending it without concern for where it ends up, an “urgent squandering” of jouissanceimplies a pressing need to feel something, regardless of the means. Any available outlet for release is preferable to enduring the unbearable surplus of jouissance.

In earlier times, women did not merely drown themselves in excess as a means of escape. They often turned inward, toward the disciplines of spirit, toward the mortification and control of the body. Desire was tempered and made meaningful through ritual and restraint. Through absence, presence becomes sharper; through suffering, our pleasure becomes more profound. One thinks of the saintly Julian of Norwich, enclosed within her cell who sought not to escape the world but to conquer it by refusing its easy comforts.

We often glimpse the true virtue of a thing within its reflection—its shadow, its inverted twin. Light knows itself only through darkness, just as devotion can be sharpened by rejection. Without a fierce love for one thing, we cannot truly renounce another. Suffering without meaning is hollow and empty. All must be held in sacred balance: as the Hermetic axiom teaches, as above, so below; as within, so without. For Julian of Norwich, the mortification of the flesh held no sanctity if divorced from love. Asceticism, in her vision, was not to be cold suffering, but a vessel to contain the fire of the Numinous, a purification wherein the soul might be refined, not destroyed. As she herself wrote: “For love is without beginning, is, and shall be without ending; for God is the same: and what is love but God?”

We may not submit to the Nazarene yoke, but that doesn’t mean we should overlook the devotion of the women mystics and ascetics among them. These women gave up comfort and certainty to pursue spirituality and transcend their own flesh. There is praxis here which we can learn from. You might know astrology, the histories of occultists, and have read countless books, but if your practice hasn’t demanded anything of you; if it hasn’t asked for sacrifice, discomfort, or deep commitment, then there’s still more to learn. Real understanding comes not just from study, but from what you’re willing to endure.

The old Delphic maxim Know thyself, carved into the stones of Apollo’s temple at Delphi, carries as much weight today as it ever did. It is not a relic of history, but a challenge. How can one truly claim to know themselves if they’ve never dared to take themselves apart in order to examine the pieces? The uncomfortable truths? To know yourself is not to accept the surface story you’ve been telling yourself but rather to sit with the parts you avoid. Do you really know who you are? Or have you only made peace with the version that costs you nothing?

Paganus Asceticism

Asceticism did not arrive hand-in-hand with the Nazarene saints. Long before the invention of the Church, paganus women were slipping away from the world and finding freedom in restraint. In the temples and groves of much older faiths, they fasted, kept their bodies chaste, and let their souls reach toward the Stars. To deny oneself has always been a kind of secret power, a way to claim mastery over one’s own flesh as the world often seeks to claim it first.

For the ancient Romans, the image of the disciplined and ascetic woman held a sacred, untouchable place within society. One of the most documented embodiments of ancient paganus asceticism were the Vestal Virgins, a small and elite order of priestesses consecrated to the service of the Goddess Vesta, protector of hearth and home. These women gave their lives, their bodies, and their futures for the Goddess and for Rome. Their lives revolved around guarding the Sacred Flame which was more than mere ritual; the Eternal Flame was believed to mirror the life of Rome the Eternal City itself. Plutarch, in Life of Numa, describes the fire as the beating heart of the city—a symbol of strength, purity, and numinous favour. The Vestals were custodians not only of a sacred tradition but of Rome’s very survival.

“For as long as this fire shall burn, so shall Rome endure.”– Plutarch

Their duties extended beyond the tending of the flame. Bound by thirty years of chastity, the Vestals lived apart from ordinary women and within a world of solemn rites, rituals and ceremonies. They participated in public festivals, cast sacred lots, kept wills and state secrets. Their chastity was not merely a matter of personal virtue, but a matter of public consequence. Their sexuality was quite literally surveilled, a matter of public decency. The punishment for breaking their vow was severe: the offending Vestal would be buried alive, and her lover scourged to death. For to disrupt the sacred bond was to endanger the city itself, an act of spiritual terrorism.

Figures such as Rhea Silvia, the mother of Romulus and Remus, whose seduction by Mars led to Rome’s mythical founding, remind us how potent and precarious the Vestal ideal was, a woman both revered and perilously bound to the Numinous. Through them, Rome preserved the tension between muliebralvirtues and latent, dangerous desire. The knife’s edge with which we find ourselves walking today.

Much of what we know about ancient Druidic women comes from Roman writers, but even in these few and far between accounts a clear image takes shape. Female Druids, often called bandruí in Irish tradition, lived apart from ordinary society. They followed strict rituals of purity, often choosing celibacy or seclusion to deepen their acausal connexion. These women acted as seers, healers, and keepers of sacred knowledge.

The Pythagorean community of ancient Greece welcomed women into its disciplined, philosophical way of life. Figures like Theano, believed to be either Pythagoras’ wife or disciple, embraced a life of strict austerity. These women practiced vegetarianism, sexual abstinence, and meditation, believing that the soul could only rise toward the Numinous by mastering their desire.

Pythagorean women avoided luxury and worldly excess, seeking instead a quiet harmony between flesh and spirit. Through moderation and restraint they cultivated purity of thought and being, their lives a testament to the ancient belief that wisdom and virtue were born from self-control.

These principles are certainly not confined to the Western Canon. Within the Caitanya Vaiṣṇava bhakti tradition, founded in 16^th-Century Bengal, ascetic practices for women took distinctive forms shaped by the sect’s emphasis on intense, personal devotion (bhakti) to Kṛṣṇa rather than strict renunciation of the world. Often, cross-culturally, women have perfected a balance between the ascetic and the sensual, an extension of the Venusian duality. While male ascetics often withdrew from society, women typically practiced forms of household asceticism by maintaining vows of chastity, fasting, and ritual purity. The within and without is much closer and personal for the feminine.

Nazarene Asceticism

Perhaps the most enduring and detailed accounts we have of historical European muliebral asceticism come from the lives of saints, nuns, anchoresses, and every sacred role a woman was permitted to inhabit within the long history of the Catholic Church. It is not their theology that warrants attention, but the fierce devotion with which they lived out their faith. These were women who turned inward, who rejected the world out of a longing for something higher. Something eternal. They denied their bodies in order to sharpen their spirits. They lead lives of solitude, fasting, penance, and ecstatic visions. They pushed their bodies in search of the Numinous, just as any devotee of Buddhism or any more exotic spiritual practice may.

St. Catherine of Siena (1347–1380) stands as one of medieval Christianity’s most intense mystics, known for her fierce asceticism. From girlhood, she practiced severe bodily mortifications, believing that denying the flesh brought the soul nearer to God. As her confessor Raymond of Capua recounts in The Life of Saint Catherine of Siena, she gradually gave up food entirely, claiming to live on the Eucharist alone. Whether entirely true or not, Catherine’s relentless fasting reveals a woman determined to quiet worldly appetites and encounter the divine where it seems absent, in the deepest depths of physical suffering.

By adulthood, Catherine’s fasting had become so extreme she reportedly consumed nothing but consecrated bread and water. Ordinary food brought violent illness, which she read as divine displeasure. For her, fasting was both penance and intercession for others; a sacrifice. In The Dialogue, she speaks of bodily denial as a path to purity, though she warns it should never be imitated without God’s call.

Catherine was not alone. She belonged to a long lineage of female ascetics. Though the Church later reined in such practices, these women remind us of a lost spirituality, one rooted in fierce discipline and self-knowledge. Even without sharing their theology, there’s wisdom in their examples: in shedding earthly comforts, you grow stronger and build character, and one glimpses the fragile line between body and spirit.

St. Gemma Galgani (1878–1903) was a modern mystic whose life was marked by relentless suffering and deep ascetic devotion. Orphaned young and left in poverty, she endured constant illness, including spinal meningitis and tuberculosis, offering her pain as a spiritual sacrifice in union with the Passion of Christ. Though her frail health prevented her from formally joining a religious order, Gemma lived as if she had by embracing fasting, prayer, and bodily mortification with unwavering fervour.

Gemma was known for her vivid mystical experiences. She claimed visions of Jesus, Mary, the saints, and her guardian angel who, she believed, guided and consoled her through her trials. Drawn to the Passionist ideal of redemptive suffering, she sought to imitate Christ’s agony through both physical and spiritual discipline. Her mystical encounters often coincided with her deepest, darkest moments of suffering.

One of Gemma’s most famous experiences involved a vision in which Christ appeared to her. His wounds were ablaze with fire, which she claimed left her own hands, feet, and heart marked and bleeding with what is known as stigmata. She described remaining for hours in a fixed position, unable to move, overcome by pain and ecstasy. Unbeknownst to her or her confessors, what she endured mirrored what modern psychology would recognise as a stress position which is a torturous posture maintained for extended periods that can overwhelm the body’s coping mechanisms.

When coupled with chronic illness, malnutrition, and intense religious belief, such physical strain can induce powerful hallucinations of all kinds: auditory, visual, and tactile. The combination of unrelenting pain, solitude, and deep belief can create a state where the boundary between the mystical and the psychological blurs. Whether seen as numinous or as the mind’s last refuge in torment, Gemma’s visions speak to the extreme places ascetic devotion can lead, and to the fragile, astonishing resilience of the human spirit when focused on transcending the body.

Preparation for the Monastery

I recently arrived at a place that feels unsettling but necessary for progress. Frustration. A point where what I was doing was becoming recursive, where pleasure begins to lose its meaning. I had completed a sequence of successful workings of excess. Some including the sanctioned offering of life in the form of animal sacrifice. These were conducted with solemnity and under the guidance of Santería practitioners well-versed in its gravity, and possessing the correct skill for the task. Yet, despite the success of my workings, frustration grew.

Pleasure unchecked becomes its own form of numbness. I knew it was time to lean once more into ascetic disciplines that strip away the noise and leave only the essential. Outright hermitage remains impractical, even if it seems like a desirable fantasy.

Before committing myself fully to entering the monastery for a needed pause, it felt pertinent to first cleanse and quiet myself. A fast felt like the correct rite of preparation. My longest abstention had been 24 hours, so I resolved to double it and then some, extending it to 51 hours. It is in denial, not indulgence, that one remembers what it is to truly feel.

I had always been hesitant to fast beyond 24 hours, doubtful that hunger alone could yield any real spiritual insight. I now see how wrong that assumption was. The first day was marked by ordinary hunger, a reminder of my body’s existence; but by the second, that hunger faded entirely, replaced by lightness in my body. Meditating in this state felt euphoric. My senses heightened, the air itself felt electric, as though I were on the verge of slipping into some ethereal otherworld entirely.

At one point I sat in dead stillness, my senses heightened by two days without food. The world had slowed and sound had dulled, until only the rhythm of my breath remained. My intention had been set: call to Her, She of many names, the muliebral presence Who haunts the threshold between the Seen and the Unseen.

And then She really came.

Not as a literal figure but a presence in the room that bent the air around it. My skin prickled as if brushed by unseen fingertips. When She touched me, it was not with hands but with a weightless pressure against my skin, coolness that turned to heat, pure energy. The contact was electric, a warmth rising in waves through my limbs.

It wasn’t lust that stirred in me in that moment, but an excitement bordering on the erotic. It was the sensation of being both consumed and made whole in the same breath. The ecstasy wasn’t overwhelming, but subtle. I’ve known numinous presences before, but this encounter felt different. As though She was not simply revealing Herself, but gently urging me towards a new path.

I^st Day

I am staying in a monastery, far from my home. I am tucked away, in a quiet and hidden corner of the world. This is not the first time I’ve chosen to come to such a place; the desire to do so has called to me before. During my stay, there will be no phone calls nor conversations. Unless speaking is absolutely necessary, only silence. Days will be shaped by meditation and the steady work of writing.

Presently, I have just arrived and shall begin to write again when I have put my things away and looked around more after finishing this paragraph. The journey itself was long and grey; the sort of oppressive, humid tropical weather that clings to your skin. I was immediately struck by the peculiar beauty of the place. The monastery has a colonial feeling to it, with a modern twist. Kind of like visiting a film set that was supposed to depict some kind of colonial mission in the tropics, belonging to an empire that never really existed. Large, expansive grounds littered with Catholic iconography. Some icons in states of weathered decay, others gleamingly pristine.

The building really is not what you’d expect. It isn’t the kind of gothic or solemn-looking building you may imagine. Rather, something more liminal, like a religious hospital. It amused me at first, as Catholics are fond of calling the church a “hospital for souls”, and here it seems literal. In fact, the whole structure feels akin to those strange, endless spaces from the “Backrooms” Internet meme: a tangle of old office corridors and flickering overhead lights, at odds with the images of martyrs, angels and Christ’s crucifixion on every wall.

Despite this odd, disjointed architecture, there is a heavy atmosphere; a strong spiritual presence. Sites of intense devotion have a way of holding the psychic residue of all who have come before. Here you can feel decades of prayers. It’s exciting and beautiful. Within the building are two chapels which remain open 24 hours a day, allowing one to be alone doing whatever they may please inside of them.

The halls are long and echoing, empty most of the time. I wandered them for quite a while today, walking and walking without seeing another soul. A little uncanny in such a large building. It makes the footsteps feel louder. There's something comforting in it.

My room was larger than I’d expected, with a wonderful view across the ocean: deep blue waves framed by palms and the curve of the coast. A very idyllic place after spending time in the city. I believe there are around ten people staying in the entire complex. Most of them monks. I’m one of the few laypeople here, not surprising, of course, given that this is a functioning monastery.

I put my things away immediately and took a cold shower. I will turn myself away from every earthly pleasure I can whilst staying here, I find cold showers are very energising. Today I ate breakfast but I shall not eat again until 60 hours have passed, surpassing my fasting personal best of 51 hours.

I have set myself toward a reorientation of myself. It is not enough to believe or to idly contemplate the Mysteries; I must embody them, remake myself a vessel for them. I intend to press against the limits of my body and in suffering that I may once again recognise the Numinous for all that it is. This is not mortification for the sake of it, but a preparation of the Inner Temple for the Great Work to come—a work undertaken with those few beloved to me.

II^nd Day

My first night in the monastery was far more lively than expected. I had anticipated maybe a few bumps, which I’m used to after having lived my life in old Victorian houses. But this building thrums with spiritual energy. I took a walk around the grounds and the corridors of the building for quite some time. Just exploring, getting acquainted with the place.

I settled down for the night and went to sleep around 11 PM, tired in a really peaceful way. But at 12:30 AM, I was gently nudged awake by a rhythmic knocking on the ceiling. Very deliberate-sounding, like someone knocking on a door over and over again. It didn’t stop. For a full half-hour, the sound persisted. And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

This is not the only strange thing to occur so far. Yesterday, as I was showering, I had the distinct sense of being watched. At one point, the shower curtain tugged slightly. Not a draft, but something intentional. There is a strong energy here and not all of it is welcoming me. I don’t think it likes me very much.

Something not always discussed by occultists is that your experiences with spirits or entities won’t always be affirming. That’s not only normal but essential. Be suspicious of anyone who’s constantly reporting positive-feeling interactions. That’s not how it works. Real spiritual contact can be uncomfortable. There will be moments when you feel resistance and that’s not something to be scared of. Often, that tension is a message in itself; something’s being communicated. Let it teach you.

I managed to drift off for a few hours, but I was woken again in the middle of the night. A persistent noise, like footsteps in my room, too bipedal-sounding to be the building settling. Instead of trying to sleep again, I wrapped myself in my veil and made my way to the chapel. It was just after 2 AM, The chapel dimly lit by a single spotlight above the crucifix behind the altar. On my knees kneeling in a pew, body calm, I began to meditate. I had fastened the cilice around my thigh before leaving my room, its bite a grounding reminder of purpose.

Hours passed, time loosening its grip. The pain of the cilice became distant, almost indistinguishable from the rest of my bodily sensations. Eventually, I felt the warm rivulet of blood slip down my leg. I didn’t move. The pain had become part of the meditation. I stayed there until nearly 5 AM, unmoving, in dead stillness. Only the faint sounds of a storm outside. During my mediation I focused on the energy of the chapel, where they eat the body of Christ.

It excited me. I felt recharged and distinctly not alone. The chapel filled with a presence, something that felt as if it filled the entirety of the room. At one point, I could swear it took a seat beside me. But it didn’t distract me. I wanted whatever it was to come closer to me. There was no fear, only a thrill. The pain in my leg from the cilice, paired with the lightness brought on by fasting, began to push me into state of pure but focused excitement.

When I finally returned to my room, just before dawn, I fell asleep almost instantly, as though my body had waited patiently for permission. I woke at 7:30 AM, just in time for Mass, still surrounded by the sense of being touched by something unseen.

I spent the rest of the day reading and writing, nothing eventful came to pass. But it was a deeply satisfying sort of day. The hours slipped, one into the next. I found myself more focused than I’d expected, especially considering I’m fasting. I thought I might be sluggish or distracted, but instead I felt clear-headed and surprisingly locked-in. There’s something about the absence of food that sharpens the mind in a way I always forget until I return to it.

III^rd Day

Very uneventful night, slept perfectly. Probably because I’ve been fasting. I was more settled than normal, even more so than when I sleep at home. I didn’t wake once, just drifted off. I woke up in some mild pain and somewhat hungry. Totally manageable, set me in a great frame of mind to mediate for a few hours this morning and gave me the right focus to complete some writing some of which I emailed it to Siri, some of which belongs to entirely different projects.

On my first day here as I was reading in a sitting area, I saw a monk being checked in. It stuck with me because it was the first conversation I managed to overhear, since arriving a few hours earlier that day. Monks, nuns, members of Opus Dei, and all those wrapped up in the Church’s religious orders have access to countless properties owned by the Catholic institution. It’s honestly quite impressive, like a hidden network of sacred real estate stretching across the globe.

The monk being shown to his room was composed and quite handsome. I’ve noticed that monastics tend to fall into three categories: very old, visibly odd, or arrestingly attractive. There’s rarely any in-between. It’s always seemed a bit of a shame when someone especially good-looking takes up religious vows. Not because I don’t respect it—I do—but there’s something sad about seeing beauty hidden from view. Like putting a painting in a cupboard.

As a European woman living in the U.S., I still find American accents exotic and interesting. There's something attractive about their directness. Especially some specific northern ones, which sound to me like they belong to a newscaster or politico. I could listen to certain Americans read the Rule of St. Benedict or the phonebook, and be perfectly content. So, even in other circumstances I find myself listening in on people a lot.

Today we passed each other briefly in the hall and I blurted out: “I’d love to take your portrait”. As I’ve been trying for some time now to take more portraits of monastic people. He gave me a smile. “I’ll find you later, but I’ll let you snap one outside right now.” I smiled back and gladly accepted the offer.

He did find me, reading in the common room. He gestured for me to follow him, luckily for me I keep my camera with me at all times. I followed him down the corridor, camera in hand. I was honestly shocked he’d take me to his room, but I was very amused and impressed with myself. I had to hold back some laughter at points, given what I had recently been writing about. Perhaps a little bit childish of me, but if you’re not enjoying life you only have yourself to blame.

His room was monkish, orderly, of course, a few books stacked neatly beside his bed and on the desk. He poured wine and passed it to me. I was even more amused now. I had come here to be ascetic and silent, and this man had absolutely no regard for such notions because this is actually his life. Living like this, without a real home, being essentially homeless for Jesus must be so uncomfortable.

Our fingers brushed as he handed me the glass of wine. Seeing as I was fasting, being pulled to break my fast with wine and an ordained man felt like a sign of some sort that I could not pass up. It felt thrilling that a man so outwardly ascetic would act this way with me. This was the first time I’d ever found myself in such a position with an ordained man. I promise! (Maybe!)

We had some casual chit-chat. He teased me about my accent, repeating my accent back to me and finally jokingly asking “Where are you really from, hmm?”.

After a while, I lifted my camera and began to take his photo. Sitting still while I framed him, the lamplight catching the edge of his robe. We spoke as I worked, and he told me more about the order that ran the monastery; its beginnings in Europe; how the monks lived with few possessions, moving from place to place like vagrants. His voice was steady, but he had grown relaxed from the wine. I was finding a little hard to stay composed myself, considering I had not eaten for a few days now.

Once I’d taken the last photo, I set the camera down and sat beside him on the bed. He leaned into me slightly. I leaned back, resting my head on his shoulder. He turned to look at me, eyes a little glassy from the wine, and then he kissed me.

I was a little bit stunned by it. I felt an amazing energy in that moment. I knew that I had managed to manifest a moment like this. It was affirming to be pulled into some kind of constructive hedonism in the middle of a venture into asceticism, as if I was being taught balance.

As he kissed me I leaned in and moved my hand to his thigh, and I felt the fabric of his robe stiffen; the sudden, undeniable response of someone caught off-guard by their own desire. He pulled away with a half-laugh and joked about being a little bit tipsy, then sent me away.

I tried to keep it together as I walked back to my room. The moment I closed the door behind me, the laughter escaped. I was giggling into my hands, pacing in circles, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. Because I really wasn’t trying to do that. I wished I could have told Siri right then—she would’ve grinned and said, “Of course you did, älskling”.

IV^th Day

Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius, et quod inferius est sicut quod est superius; That which is above is like to that which is below, and that which is below is like to that which is above.

I’ve always believed that for one to understand the nature of something, one must encounter its opposite. I did come here to learn, after all, and this is part of it. Every experience feels like adding a little more to a cup. I just don’t know the dimensions of it yet, or when it might be full.

When I first met Björn and Siri, fellow members of the Temple, it was a very similar experience to now. I’m taking it as a sign. I met Björn in Stockholm, back in 2016, at a talk on the Occult. I was only in the city for a week before heading up north for some solitude, so the whole trip had a similar intention to what I’m doing here in the monastery.

Björn was very tall with that slightly stern, composed look that Swedish men sometimes have. He asked if I’d like to have dinner before I left the city, and I said yes. I was intrigued, and he’d mentioned some ‘interesting’ ideas that at the time were familiar to me. So we met again. He told me he was married, that his wife couldn’t join us this time or the last, and then very convincingly sold me the Sevenfold Way.

The next day, his wife texts me. Siri and I met for a drink, and she was absolutely lovely, warm and curious with a completely different energy from him. We clicked almost immediately. I won’t go into too much detail, but I did end up staying an extra week in Stockholm. That time became something of a turning point. Siri, who’s a native of northern Sweden, knew the area well, eventually offered to take me north instead of going on my own.

There she watched as I initiated myself in a cold stream somewhere in the boreal forest. That was also when I completed my first ever 24-hour fast. This was the first time I tried certain kinds of sex magic. A very charged current, especially when you’re just slightly off-balance and reaching beyond yourself.

Nature herself provides us with our baptismal waters, pristine streams that spring forth from the Earth. These waters need no church nor ritual blessing. They are numinous by their very essence, their origin in the womb of the Earth, not by any ideologically driven liturgy. They do not need to be granted permission to be sacred. Their sanctity is not conferred by man. Unlike the waters manipulated in churches, these carry no false transmutation and no forced narrative of redemption crafted by ideology.

V^th Day

Walking the halls on repeat, recursive, going to mass, watching them go through the motions. An all encompassing liturgy which is etched into the bricks of the building. It’s mechanical and detached from passion. The monastery is not a place for free will; but the Will of an oppressive power. Time bends but not forwards into something productive or backwards into real tradition, but inwards; toward the total negation of the self unto the Nazarene doctrine.

I am always learning from this reverence, that we must have our own reverence. To be cultivated through our own Will, rooted in our blood, our land and wyrd. It must arise organically through pathei mathos. True reverence is not universal, nor abstract, but numinous emerging from direct confrontation with both the Sacred and the Profane.

To remain long in systems not one’s own, be they religious or even social, is to begin seeing their limits. Though they may promise liberation, what they offer is often an illusion of freedom, lacking the real struggle required for inner transformation. The Numinous reduced to symbol and performance. What appears as sanctuary may in truth be a cage, and many who feel “freed” within such walls have only been reshaped into something more docile. True liberation is harder: it is intimate and painful.