עָנֻוָ (Ain Nun Vav) – ANuVa        

עִבְדוּ אֶת-יְהוָה בְּשִׂמְחָה; בֹּאוּ לְפָנָיו, בִּרְנָנָה. תהילים פרק ק, פסוק ב

Psalms 100:2, KJV: Serve the LORD with gladness: come before his presence with singing.

Vulgate: Servite Domino in laetitia, introite in conspectu eius in exultatione.

עָנֻוָאֵל ANuVaEL / Anauel

Influence time and dates: 20:41 – 21:00, January 30 through February 3. He rules over the following days: May 21, August 1, October 12, December 23, March 5.

ANAUEL. His attribute is the Gentle God, or the Infinitely Good God.  His ray commences from the 311th degree up to the 315th degree inclusive, corresponding to the thirty-second decade and to the angel called Asau, under the influence of Mercury. 

This angel serves to convert nations to religion and serves to confound those who are the enemies of faith. He protects against accidents, he preserves health and cures illnesses; he rules over commerce, bankers, businesspeople, and clerks. The person born under this influence will have a subtle and ingenious spirit; they will distinguish themself through their industry and their actions. 

The negative side of this angel rules over folly and prodigality; it influences all those who ruin themselves through their bad conduct.

FIRST CONVERSATION

I came to this call late, after the appointed five-day window – -and given this angel’s connection to accountants, Christians [in Ambelain’s work], and other by-the-book types, I took extra care with the invocations and the daily times, repeating the Shemhamphorash verses in Exodus because I stumbled over some words the first time, and wishing I could hear a fluent Hebrew speaker read those verses so I could check my (undoubtedly awful) pronunciation. My apprehension dissipated as I sang the versicle — which I found delightful — but the sense of the importance of details remained.

Contact begins with the immediate, clear mental image of a hire-wire dancer in a white leotard, high above a city square. It looks like the London of Mary Poppins. There are pigeons on the cobblestones. The high-wire dancer is balancing on their left hand, their body spread out like a star, motionless. A tiny something — maybe a pebble, or a coin? — falls from their right hand. When it hits the ground, the pigeons startle, exploding and scattering upward in slow motion, feathers like rays, circling the still-unmoving dancer.

“Angel, what is thy office concerning me?”

The image suddenly starts moving at a normal speed. The figure relaxes into a complicated yet nonchalant dismount, landing easily, and walking toward where I sit, like a visible presence beyond the altar. I can see them clearly. Their face is streaked with sweat and soot, their eyes are clear and blue, and their manner is easy and casual. Their voice has an exaggerated Cockney accent, like in an movie from my childhood; they call me “Guv” and ask for something — but I struggle to understand just what. They watch me, unmoving, till my pen stops writing. When I look back up, I see their hand move faster than my eyes can follow, as if to slap my left cheek, backhand — but the image freezes with their hand an inch from my skin; however, my cheek feels suddenly warm as if anticipating the blow. Once again, they wait for me to write the experience.

Looking up again, I meet their supremely peaceful, mesmerizing eyes, in which I can see the sky behind me reflected, and the doves settling back in slow motion to the ground in a soft spiralling rain. The threatened slap becomes a stroke on my cheek with a gentle finger, which catches a tear (my physical eyes were dry, though the touch was delicious, and made me melt a little inside). The dancer holds it up, and the tiny diamond drop on their finger shows the whole scene at once. They ask again, speaking directly in my mind without words: They are thirsty, and are asking for the tear to drink. Once more, they wait for me to write, and respond.

“Angel, you have drawn this tear from my spirit, which has nothing of earthly water; therefore I give it to you, in just exchange for what you have given me: a moment of beauty.”

A long silence of absolute stillness; the droplet fills my whole vision, suspended in midair, the scene within crystal clear. In the refracted image there is no angel, no tightrope, no reflection of myself, just the square, and the doves, and the water reflecting itself, then falling suddenly to earth, scattering the birds. A tension is broken. It begins to rain, and people come out into the streets singing, as if in a musical.

“Angel, what message for the others who talk to angels?” Just this.

After lighting the incense, I pick up the seal to fumigate it. The bottom quarter-inch of the card is soaking wet, and there is a wetness on the wood beneath underneath it. (I did my best to dry it intact, but you’ll notice a small tear in the image — and if you look closely enough, the high-water line just above it.) I can only assume this water came from the cup of aspersion, but my mind still struggles to see how the few drops from my fingers, twenty minutes earlier, could have landed so evenly and stayed so moist. Think what you will; for me, this bears witness of the angel’s physical and enduring presence, at least in the form of a tear from heaven.]

SECOND CONVERSATION

A stabilizing presence and a strange sensation: I feel my edges expand inward toward my center, my body becoming somehow more full. “Angel, show thyself that I may know thee.”

A blur of blended images: memories of moments of beauty, specific sunsets and sunrises, views from the tops of mountains, deep spaces between trees, beloved faces and voices. Eventually the stream settles on an image from my first contact with this angel: an empty plaza with a flock of doves rising as drops of rain begin to fall. One of the doves begins to circle around me, cooing.

Do you not remember? Would you like a reminder? I give you grief as a gift, to soften you, to open the way for beauty to enter. I give you beauty as a gift, in drops, as you are able to bear it, for the water of the spirit burns when you hold it closely. Treasure up these things -— grief and beauty. Let them sit together in your heart and make it fertile.

I do as the angel directs, pondering these things in my heart, and I begin to feel my body more deeply now: aches and sore places, peace with sorrow, acceptance of things I’ve been trying to avoid or deny; a tenderness, a hush. I feel and see, physically, a drop of water on my hand. I’m not crying; where did it come from? The voice returns:

Store up beauty in your heart, the gold of spirit treasure up: and the Gods receive your earnest prayer, and grant increase; yea, with great patience they tend and water you against the day of reward. And on that day when the vaults of the earth are opened up, you shall see the poverty of those who wasted what was given them; and in the reckoning of heaven shall the good steward receive their reward. For the Gods give each moment their support to every being, even the least: but who will make use of what is given, and increase their gifts, and be generous in their good fortune, that they increase the substance of their birthright?

For in giving your treasure into the keeping of the Lord, more shall be added: But if as a miser you lock away your beauty and hide your grief, then how shall they reward you, who receiveth as a child, prodigal and without thanks? I have shown you beauty as a seed, and grief as a field; sow and reap. Give beauty into sorrow, and your harvests will be rejoicing with those who partake through you of abundance. Thus shall you treasure up all things, and squander not your inheritance. For the storehouse of the Lady is in the hearts of their people, and they enrich the joy of those that serve them.