Binah Quotes

Sarah was up in her room with her heart broke so bad, Binah said you could hear it jangle when she walked.

Top marks in everything. How very boring. - Binah

It would be an act of wisdom to depart immediately… but wisdom is itself the product of knowledge; and knowledge, unfortunately, is generally the product of foolish doings. So, to add to my own knowledge and to enhance my wisdom I shall remain another day, to see what occurs.

must have looked forsaken standing there because she clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and said, “Poor Miss Sarah.” I did so despise the attachment of Poor to my name. Binah had been muttering Poor Miss Sarah like an incantation since I was four.

Meantime do you see me as still working on the book, still trying to answer such questions as: Is there any ultimate reality, external, conscious and ever-present etc. etc. that can be realised by any such means that may be acceptable to all creeds and religions and suitable to all climes and countries? Or do you find me between Mercy and Understanding, between Chesed and Binah (but still at Chesed)—my equilibrium, and equilibrium is all, precarious—balancing, teetering over the awful unbridgeable void, the all-but unretraceable path of God’s lightning back to God?...Though it is perhaps a good idea under the circumstances to pretend at least to be proceeding with one's great work on "Secret Knowledge," then one can always say when it never comes out that the title explains this deficiency.

In the Kabbalah, the structure of human faculties takes the form of a tree with a right-hand side and a left-hand side; humanity’s task is to integrate them, both laterally and vertically.39 Specifically it is held that the mind is made up of two faculties: wisdom (chochmah) on the right, which receives the Gestalt of situations in a single flash, and understanding (binah), opposite it on the left, which builds them up in a replicable, step-by-step way. Chochmah and binah are considered ‘two friends who never part’, because you cannot have one without the other. Chochmah gives rise to a force for loving fusion with the other, while binah gives rise to judgment, which is responsible for setting boundaries and limits.40 Their integration is another faculty called da’at, which is a bit like Aristotle’s phronesis, or even sophia – an embodied, overarching, intuitive capacity to know what the situation calls for and to do it. What is more this tree is a true organism, each ‘part’ reflected in, and qualified by co-presence with, each of the others.

My speech impediment had been absent for some time now—four months and six days. I’d almost imagined myself cured. So when Mother swept into the room all of a sudden—me, in a paroxysm of adjustment to my surroundings, and Binah, tucking my possessions here and there—and asked if my new quarters were to my liking, I was stunned by my inability to answer her. The door slammed in my throat, and the silence hung there. Mother looked at me and sighed. When she left, I willed my eyes to remain dry and turned away from Binah. I couldn’t bear to hear one more Poor Miss Sarah.

The spiritual experience of Binah is the Vision of Sorrow. Within this Sephirah, one is to have a vision of the holistic picture of all that is, all that was, why it was, what it is now, why it is, and what it is to become. In essence, true and total understanding of all existence. The Great Mother sees all. She sees our joys but also our pains and our sins. And, in all that she sees, she is indeed in sorrow. We are a very stubborn species. Binah watches as all too often we neglect our children’s future, poison our air and seas, enslave each other, and go to war. We are at home in our own addictions, and unfortunately it frequently takes a major trauma to wake us up from our unhealthy habits or anosognosia. Regrettably, this is another aspect of the mystical experience not taken into consideration by some. It is not all bliss and rainbows. It is not just a possibility, but a necessity, to assimilate the Vision of the Sorrow that compels the Goddess into her eternal cry for her children. The Tree of Life will simply not allow you to proceed unless this is done. Therefore, managing the Vision of Sorrow is best achieved through Binah’s primary virtue: silence. It is necessary to still the noise and the raging waters to Understand all things in their truest vision. By stilling the clamor can the sparkling stars of the Heavens accurately reflect on the mirroring surface of the body of water below. As the archetypal Temple, she is the root of all temples in manifestation, the Inner Church, the sacred space of all sacred spaces. Because of this, Binah truly is the womb of life, the container from which all has been embodied. Approach the Dark Mother’s temple in silence, approach the temple in sorrow, and the vision shall be received.

Lottie felt her breath catch in her throat; something was wrong. Her body felt as if it were suddenly moving in slow motion. “Ellie Wolf.” The audience cheered. Lottie tried to join in, but the dizzy sensation was overpowering her. I need to sleep, she thought desperately, but there was something else, something clawing at the back of her mind. “Marzia Hart.” The cheering began to get distant and Lottie helplessly bashed her hands against her ears, trying to will some clarity into her mind. What had Binah said about gifts again? “Thomas Carter.” She looked up at the duellers, but their white armor seemed to be fading in front of her. Everything started turning black and she desperately tried to blink it away. “Lottie, are you okay?” The voice was coming from Binah, but Lottie pushed her aside to get to the stairs. “Riyadh Murphy.” Lottie desperately waded through cheering people. The world

I work as fast as I can. Binah will come soon looking for me. It’s Mother, however, who descends the back steps into the yard. Binah and the other house slaves are clumped behind her, moving with cautious, synchronized steps as if they’re a single creature, a centipede crossing an unprotected space. I sense the shadow that hovers over them in the air, some devouring dread, and I crawl back into the green-black gloom of the tree. The slaves stare at Mother’s back, which is straight and without give. She turns and admonishes them. “You are lagging. Quickly now, let us be done with this.” As she speaks, an older slave, Rosetta, is dragged from the cow house, dragged by a man, a yard slave. She fights, clawing at his face. Mother watches, impassive. He ties Rosetta’s hands to the corner column of the kitchen house porch. She looks over her shoulder and begs. Missus, please. Missus. Missus. Please. She begs even as the man lashes her with his whip. Her dress is cotton, a pale yellow color. I stare transfixed as the back of it sprouts blood, blooms of red that open like petals. I cannot reconcile the savagery of the blows with the mellifluous way she keens or the beauty of the roses coiling along the trellis of her spine. Someone counts the lashes—is it Mother? Six, seven. The scourging continues, but Rosetta stops wailing and sinks against the porch rail. Nine, ten. My eyes look away. They follow a black ant traveling the far reaches beneath the tree—the mountainous roots and forested mosses, the endless perils—and in my head I say the words I fashioned earlier. Boy Run. Girl Jump. Sarah Go. Thirteen. Fourteen . . . I bolt from the shadows, past the man who now coils his whip, job well done, past Rosetta hanging by her hands in a heap. As I bound up the back steps into the house, Mother calls to me, and Binah reaches to scoop me up, but I escape them, thrashing along the main passage, out the front door, where I break blindly for the wharves. I don’t remember the rest with clarity, only that I find myself wandering across the gangplank of a sailing vessel, sobbing, stumbling over a turban of rope. A kind man with a beard and a dark cap asks what I want. I plead with him, Sarah Go. Binah chases me, though I’m unaware of her until she pulls me into her arms and coos, “Poor Miss Sarah, poor Miss Sarah.” Like a decree, a proclamation, a prophecy. When I arrive home, I am a muss of snot, tears, yard dirt, and harbor filth. Mother holds me against her, rears back and gives me an incensed shake, then clasps me again. “You must promise never to run away again. Promise me.” I want to. I try to. The words are on my tongue—the rounded lumps of them, shining like the marbles beneath the tree. “Sarah!” she demands. Nothing comes. Not a sound. I remained mute for a week. My words seemed sucked into the cleft between my collar bones. I rescued them by degrees, by praying, bullying and wooing. I came to speak again, but with an odd and mercurial form of stammer. I’d never been a fluid speaker, even my first spoken words had possessed a certain belligerent quality, but now there were ugly, halting gaps between my sentences, endless seconds when the words cowered against my lips and people averted their eyes. Eventually, these horrid pauses began to come and go according to their own mysterious whims. They might plague me for weeks and then remain away months, only to return again as abruptly as they left.

The past folds accordion-like into the present. Different media have different event horizons—for the written word, three millennia; for recorded sound, a century and a half—and within their time frames the old becomes as accessible as the new. Yellowed newspapers come back to life. Under headings of 50 Years Ago and 100 Years Ago, veteran publications recycle their archives: recipes, card-play techniques, science, gossip, once out of print and now ready for use. Record companies rummage through their attics to release, or re-release, every scrap of music, rarities, B-sides, and bootlegs. For a certain time, collectors, scholars, or fans possessed their books and their records. There was a line between what they had and what they did not. For some, the music they owned (or the books, or the videos) became part of who they were. That line fades away. Most of Sophocles' plays are lost, but those that survive are available at the touch of a button. Most of Bach's music was unknown to Beethoven; we have it all—partitas, cantatas, and ringtones. It comes to us instantly, or at light speed. It is a symptom of omniscience. It is what the critic Alex Ross calls the Infinite Playlist, and he sees how mixed is the blessing: "anxiety in place of fulfillment, and addictive cycle of craving and malaise. No sooner has one experience begun than the thought of what else is out there intrudes." The embarrassment of riches. Another reminder that information is not knowledge, and knowledge is not wisdom.

Daath is the Fall which is responsible for the acquisition of self-knowledge. Daath can be the most uneasy and even dreadful Sephirah to encounter. For as one ascends the Tree of Life in earnest connection with the Supernal realms of being, Daath, the Abyss, is the where the last remnants of oneself—one’s image of oneself especially—is shredded. We see this play out in the biblical story of the Garden of Eden. For as Eve encounters the serpent (dragon), she takes fruit from the Tree of Knowledge (Daath). As she and Adam partake of the fruit (Eve being a personification of Binah and Adam of Chokmah), their nakedness is revealed, and they are ashamed. They see their true selves. As a result, they are cast out of the Garden of Eden, of paradise. This is not a literal account but the mythology of our consciousness. What comes as a result of this banishment of paradise is a separation between man and woman, and here we are in a world where neither the feminine or masculine are honored together, in balance. However, to return to paradise (the culmination of the Great Work), the serpent must again be reencountered and the Tree of Knowledge passed through. Knowing oneself completely, without shame, is true knowledge, which Colonel Seymour states is the prime maxim of the mystery schools: “Over the doorway of many of the ancient temples was written Gnothi Se Auton or, Nosce Te Ipsum, Know Thyself.

Sathariel is a continued powerful Fallen Angel as found in the Qlippoth of Binah, “understanding”: forbidden knowledge and the delicate Black Alchemy of Self-Liberation, Illumination and Apotheosis. Sathariel is the “Concealment of El” who tests and challenges the seeker to have the perseverance of maintaining the initiatory trials of Apotheosis. The demons of Sathariel are shadowed, black veiled heads with goat horns, having fiery yellow and red eyes which pierce through the veil, followed by terrible centaurs.