BY LUCIA PIETROIUSTI
Extract from Wound, Mouth, Moons, Holes, Souls
Moons, Holes
“Practicing coming to terms with radio silence is part and parcel of a life-in-practice… We are clinging to meet love at a certain distance, while it has moved deeper into us.” (Áron Birtalan)[1]
God is the beginning of time; God is at the end of all times, the goal of history. God put the stars in the sky and that’s how living beings can tell time. God dances, and from this dance come the cycles of life and death, creation and destruction. When God is here, it’s daytime; when God is gone, it’s night. Or: summer when here, winter when not. God demands a sacrifice or there will be no more day and no more night. God is time itself. Or the opposite: time is divine in and of itself. Time is the originating principle of the cosmos. Each day of the year is a God. God’s cosmic egg spins, and in so doing, it separates space and time. Creation took 4.32 billion years; creation took 6 days.
There is a fundamental connection, in cosmogonic space, between the presence or absence of divinity and the possibility of experiencing the cycles of time. Whether as the creator of fundamental time, or as the force that teaches humans how to live in time; whether as an actor within the flow of time, or entirely identified with it, the interrelation of the divine and the chronological plays a critical role in structuring the metaphysics of a civilisation and its understanding of linearity, causality and cyclicality.
In mystical vision, this rhythm is underscored by an alternation between eternity and fear. In the presence of love and unity, time pauses, transforms or dissolves altogether. Divine love acknowledges historical events but transcends it, as Julian of Norwich reminds the devout, lest we get lost in the drama of Christ’s final days: “The Passion was a noble worshipful deed done in a time, but Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending”.[2] And here is Angela di Foligno, stopping time when approached by God’s love: “I beheld love advancing gently toward me, and I beheld the beginning but not the end. Unto me there seemed only a continuation and eternity thereof, so that I can describe neither likeness nor colour…”[3] The ecstatic moment halts the chronological flow and reveals divine joy as infinite, and as such, defying teleology.
Yet, in the mystic’s universe, the soul undergoes a frequent and highly jarring emotional see-saw, between the eternity of orgasmic abundance and the subsequent shock of falling back into the flow of time. This fall from grace is experienced through the terrifying thing that happens when God’s love is altogether absent, refusing to gift itself, or silent – refusing to bestow meaning and sense. The crisis cuts deep, and let’s remind ourselves that crisis, from Ancient Greek, refers to separation. (As I write this, the rhythmic tick-tocks of my clock appear cruelly and terrifyingly distant from one another, each silence a chasm within which to fall.) Nothing terrorises the mystic more than Christ’s sudden departure, in the face of the inexorable nature of time. There is no wait in eternity. In time, there is nothing but.
Yet time, the planet teaches us, moves backwards, forwards, but most of all in circles. Divine workings, both cosmogonic ones and the promised return of Christ-the-lover in mystical union, teaches humans about seasonal change, and with it, establishes a metaphysics of recursiveness. This, in turn, allows for the establishment of rituals and practices that are held in accordance with those of our more-than-human companions in wild and cultivated gardens alike. If visions of consumption and togetherness reminded us to accept the deep metabolic significance that death bestows upon our individual lives; then the mystic’s terror in silence, followed by ecstasy, followed by silence, and so on forever, invites us to bring patience to the whole process.
That is to say, that it is not only our death that we may fear, but the possibility that the sun may not rise again tomorrow; that life may not sprout again from the ground come spring. So, here, the rhythms, ebbs and flows of divine, erotic desire are none others than those of the seasonal cycles within which we are embedded, and around which we build story, song and ceremony.
“Dear Lord, I cannot control my longing; I would so dearly like to be with you."
Our Lord said: "I longed for you before the beginning of the world. I long for you and you long for me. Where two burning desires meet, there love is perfect."[4]
And here the sting, once again – for there is always a sting: that as atmospheric suffocation pushes climatic cycles and circles to breaking point, from the Gulf Stream to the certainties once afforded by familiar weather, life may eventually choose not to sprout again, when winter is over, after all. And the sun may choose, indeed, not to rise again. The silence of God on devastated land is unequivocal, and at times irrevocable.
[1] Áron Birtalan, “Fake You till You Make Me: A Body Scan for Lovers”, in ŠUM #23: Otherselves, 2024, p. X
[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love.
[3] The Book of Divine Consolations of the Blessed Angela di Foligno. Chatto and Windus, 1909, p. 176.
[4] Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. Paulist Press, 1988, Book VII, 16.
Full essay originally published by Spirit Journal, 2025
Extract from Wound, Mouth, Moons, Holes, Souls
Moons, Holes
“Practicing coming to terms with radio silence is part and parcel of a life-in-practice… We are clinging to meet love at a certain distance, while it has moved deeper into us.” (Áron Birtalan)[1]
God is the beginning of time; God is at the end of all times, the goal of history. God put the stars in the sky and that’s how living beings can tell time. God dances, and from this dance come the cycles of life and death, creation and destruction. When God is here, it’s daytime; when God is gone, it’s night. Or: summer when here, winter when not. God demands a sacrifice or there will be no more day and no more night. God is time itself. Or the opposite: time is divine in and of itself. Time is the originating principle of the cosmos. Each day of the year is a God. God’s cosmic egg spins, and in so doing, it separates space and time. Creation took 4.32 billion years; creation took 6 days.
There is a fundamental connection, in cosmogonic space, between the presence or absence of divinity and the possibility of experiencing the cycles of time. Whether as the creator of fundamental time, or as the force that teaches humans how to live in time; whether as an actor within the flow of time, or entirely identified with it, the interrelation of the divine and the chronological plays a critical role in structuring the metaphysics of a civilisation and its understanding of linearity, causality and cyclicality.
In mystical vision, this rhythm is underscored by an alternation between eternity and fear. In the presence of love and unity, time pauses, transforms or dissolves altogether. Divine love acknowledges historical events but transcends it, as Julian of Norwich reminds the devout, lest we get lost in the drama of Christ’s final days: “The Passion was a noble worshipful deed done in a time, but Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending”.[2] And here is Angela di Foligno, stopping time when approached by God’s love: “I beheld love advancing gently toward me, and I beheld the beginning but not the end. Unto me there seemed only a continuation and eternity thereof, so that I can describe neither likeness nor colour…”[3] The ecstatic moment halts the chronological flow and reveals divine joy as infinite, and as such, defying teleology.
Yet, in the mystic’s universe, the soul undergoes a frequent and highly jarring emotional see-saw, between the eternity of orgasmic abundance and the subsequent shock of falling back into the flow of time. This fall from grace is experienced through the terrifying thing that happens when God’s love is altogether absent, refusing to gift itself, or silent – refusing to bestow meaning and sense. The crisis cuts deep, and let’s remind ourselves that crisis, from Ancient Greek, refers to separation. (As I write this, the rhythmic tick-tocks of my clock appear cruelly and terrifyingly distant from one another, each silence a chasm within which to fall.) Nothing terrorises the mystic more than Christ’s sudden departure, in the face of the inexorable nature of time. There is no wait in eternity. In time, there is nothing but.
Yet time, the planet teaches us, moves backwards, forwards, but most of all in circles. Divine workings, both cosmogonic ones and the promised return of Christ-the-lover in mystical union, teaches humans about seasonal change, and with it, establishes a metaphysics of recursiveness. This, in turn, allows for the establishment of rituals and practices that are held in accordance with those of our more-than-human companions in wild and cultivated gardens alike. If visions of consumption and togetherness reminded us to accept the deep metabolic significance that death bestows upon our individual lives; then the mystic’s terror in silence, followed by ecstasy, followed by silence, and so on forever, invites us to bring patience to the whole process.
That is to say, that it is not only our death that we may fear, but the possibility that the sun may not rise again tomorrow; that life may not sprout again from the ground come spring. So, here, the rhythms, ebbs and flows of divine, erotic desire are none others than those of the seasonal cycles within which we are embedded, and around which we build story, song and ceremony.
“Dear Lord, I cannot control my longing; I would so dearly like to be with you."
Our Lord said: "I longed for you before the beginning of the world. I long for you and you long for me. Where two burning desires meet, there love is perfect."[4]
And here the sting, once again – for there is always a sting: that as atmospheric suffocation pushes climatic cycles and circles to breaking point, from the Gulf Stream to the certainties once afforded by familiar weather, life may eventually choose not to sprout again, when winter is over, after all. And the sun may choose, indeed, not to rise again. The silence of God on devastated land is unequivocal, and at times irrevocable.
[1] Áron Birtalan, “Fake You till You Make Me: A Body Scan for Lovers”, in ŠUM #23: Otherselves, 2024, p. X
[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love.
[3] The Book of Divine Consolations of the Blessed Angela di Foligno. Chatto and Windus, 1909, p. 176.
[4] Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. Paulist Press, 1988, Book VII, 16.
Full essay originally published by Spirit Journal, 2025
Curator, programmer and strategist Lucia Pietroiusti (based between London and the Netherlands) stewards research and experimentation at the intersection of art, ecology and systems. Pietroiusti is Head of Research & Emergence at the future Hartwig Museum, Amsterdam, opening in 2028, with a particular focus on lead-in programming, R&D, and the ecosystemic aspects of the future institution. In 2027, she will be the Curator of the 6th Autostrada Biennale (Prizren, Kosovo) and she is a Convenor of the 2028 Bergen Assembly (with Filipa Ramos). She is Chair of the Board of Trustees at Forma, London, and a Trustee of theGallery Climate Coalition.
BY LUCIA PIETROIUSTI
Extract from Wound, Mouth, Moons, Holes, Souls
Moons, Holes
“Practicing coming to terms with radio silence is part and parcel of a life-in-practice… We are clinging to meet love at a certain distance, while it has moved deeper into us.” (Áron Birtalan)[1]
God is the beginning of time; God is at the end of all times, the goal of history. God put the stars in the sky and that’s how living beings can tell time. God dances, and from this dance come the cycles of life and death, creation and destruction. When God is here, it’s daytime; when God is gone, it’s night. Or: summer when here, winter when not. God demands a sacrifice or there will be no more day and no more night. God is time itself. Or the opposite: time is divine in and of itself. Time is the originating principle of the cosmos. Each day of the year is a God. God’s cosmic egg spins, and in so doing, it separates space and time. Creation took 4.32 billion years; creation took 6 days.
There is a fundamental connection, in cosmogonic space, between the presence or absence of divinity and the possibility of experiencing the cycles of time. Whether as the creator of fundamental time, or as the force that teaches humans how to live in time; whether as an actor within the flow of time, or entirely identified with it, the interrelation of the divine and the chronological plays a critical role in structuring the metaphysics of a civilisation and its understanding of linearity, causality and cyclicality.
In mystical vision, this rhythm is underscored by an alternation between eternity and fear. In the presence of love and unity, time pauses, transforms or dissolves altogether. Divine love acknowledges historical events but transcends it, as Julian of Norwich reminds the devout, lest we get lost in the drama of Christ’s final days: “The Passion was a noble worshipful deed done in a time, but Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending”.[2] And here is Angela di Foligno, stopping time when approached by God’s love: “I beheld love advancing gently toward me, and I beheld the beginning but not the end. Unto me there seemed only a continuation and eternity thereof, so that I can describe neither likeness nor colour…”[3] The ecstatic moment halts the chronological flow and reveals divine joy as infinite, and as such, defying teleology.
Yet, in the mystic’s universe, the soul undergoes a frequent and highly jarring emotional see-saw, between the eternity of orgasmic abundance and the subsequent shock of falling back into the flow of time. This fall from grace is experienced through the terrifying thing that happens when God’s love is altogether absent, refusing to gift itself, or silent – refusing to bestow meaning and sense. The crisis cuts deep, and let’s remind ourselves that crisis, from Ancient Greek, refers to separation. (As I write this, the rhythmic tick-tocks of my clock appear cruelly and terrifyingly distant from one another, each silence a chasm within which to fall.) Nothing terrorises the mystic more than Christ’s sudden departure, in the face of the inexorable nature of time. There is no wait in eternity. In time, there is nothing but.
Yet time, the planet teaches us, moves backwards, forwards, but most of all in circles. Divine workings, both cosmogonic ones and the promised return of Christ-the-lover in mystical union, teaches humans about seasonal change, and with it, establishes a metaphysics of recursiveness. This, in turn, allows for the establishment of rituals and practices that are held in accordance with those of our more-than-human companions in wild and cultivated gardens alike. If visions of consumption and togetherness reminded us to accept the deep metabolic significance that death bestows upon our individual lives; then the mystic’s terror in silence, followed by ecstasy, followed by silence, and so on forever, invites us to bring patience to the whole process.
That is to say, that it is not only our death that we may fear, but the possibility that the sun may not rise again tomorrow; that life may not sprout again from the ground come spring. So, here, the rhythms, ebbs and flows of divine, erotic desire are none others than those of the seasonal cycles within which we are embedded, and around which we build story, song and ceremony.
“Dear Lord, I cannot control my longing; I would so dearly like to be with you."
Our Lord said: "I longed for you before the beginning of the world. I long for you and you long for me. Where two burning desires meet, there love is perfect."[4]
And here the sting, once again – for there is always a sting: that as atmospheric suffocation pushes climatic cycles and circles to breaking point, from the Gulf Stream to the certainties once afforded by familiar weather, life may eventually choose not to sprout again, when winter is over, after all. And the sun may choose, indeed, not to rise again. The silence of God on devastated land is unequivocal, and at times irrevocable.
[1] Áron Birtalan, “Fake You till You Make Me: A Body Scan for Lovers”, in ŠUM #23: Otherselves, 2024, p. X
[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love.
[3] The Book of Divine Consolations of the Blessed Angela di Foligno. Chatto and Windus, 1909, p. 176.
[4] Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. Paulist Press, 1988, Book VII, 16.
Full essay originally published by Spirit Journal, 2025
Extract from Wound, Mouth, Moons, Holes, Souls
Moons, Holes
“Practicing coming to terms with radio silence is part and parcel of a life-in-practice… We are clinging to meet love at a certain distance, while it has moved deeper into us.” (Áron Birtalan)[1]
God is the beginning of time; God is at the end of all times, the goal of history. God put the stars in the sky and that’s how living beings can tell time. God dances, and from this dance come the cycles of life and death, creation and destruction. When God is here, it’s daytime; when God is gone, it’s night. Or: summer when here, winter when not. God demands a sacrifice or there will be no more day and no more night. God is time itself. Or the opposite: time is divine in and of itself. Time is the originating principle of the cosmos. Each day of the year is a God. God’s cosmic egg spins, and in so doing, it separates space and time. Creation took 4.32 billion years; creation took 6 days.
There is a fundamental connection, in cosmogonic space, between the presence or absence of divinity and the possibility of experiencing the cycles of time. Whether as the creator of fundamental time, or as the force that teaches humans how to live in time; whether as an actor within the flow of time, or entirely identified with it, the interrelation of the divine and the chronological plays a critical role in structuring the metaphysics of a civilisation and its understanding of linearity, causality and cyclicality.
In mystical vision, this rhythm is underscored by an alternation between eternity and fear. In the presence of love and unity, time pauses, transforms or dissolves altogether. Divine love acknowledges historical events but transcends it, as Julian of Norwich reminds the devout, lest we get lost in the drama of Christ’s final days: “The Passion was a noble worshipful deed done in a time, but Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending”.[2] And here is Angela di Foligno, stopping time when approached by God’s love: “I beheld love advancing gently toward me, and I beheld the beginning but not the end. Unto me there seemed only a continuation and eternity thereof, so that I can describe neither likeness nor colour…”[3] The ecstatic moment halts the chronological flow and reveals divine joy as infinite, and as such, defying teleology.
Yet, in the mystic’s universe, the soul undergoes a frequent and highly jarring emotional see-saw, between the eternity of orgasmic abundance and the subsequent shock of falling back into the flow of time. This fall from grace is experienced through the terrifying thing that happens when God’s love is altogether absent, refusing to gift itself, or silent – refusing to bestow meaning and sense. The crisis cuts deep, and let’s remind ourselves that crisis, from Ancient Greek, refers to separation. (As I write this, the rhythmic tick-tocks of my clock appear cruelly and terrifyingly distant from one another, each silence a chasm within which to fall.) Nothing terrorises the mystic more than Christ’s sudden departure, in the face of the inexorable nature of time. There is no wait in eternity. In time, there is nothing but.
Yet time, the planet teaches us, moves backwards, forwards, but most of all in circles. Divine workings, both cosmogonic ones and the promised return of Christ-the-lover in mystical union, teaches humans about seasonal change, and with it, establishes a metaphysics of recursiveness. This, in turn, allows for the establishment of rituals and practices that are held in accordance with those of our more-than-human companions in wild and cultivated gardens alike. If visions of consumption and togetherness reminded us to accept the deep metabolic significance that death bestows upon our individual lives; then the mystic’s terror in silence, followed by ecstasy, followed by silence, and so on forever, invites us to bring patience to the whole process.
That is to say, that it is not only our death that we may fear, but the possibility that the sun may not rise again tomorrow; that life may not sprout again from the ground come spring. So, here, the rhythms, ebbs and flows of divine, erotic desire are none others than those of the seasonal cycles within which we are embedded, and around which we build story, song and ceremony.
“Dear Lord, I cannot control my longing; I would so dearly like to be with you."
Our Lord said: "I longed for you before the beginning of the world. I long for you and you long for me. Where two burning desires meet, there love is perfect."[4]
And here the sting, once again – for there is always a sting: that as atmospheric suffocation pushes climatic cycles and circles to breaking point, from the Gulf Stream to the certainties once afforded by familiar weather, life may eventually choose not to sprout again, when winter is over, after all. And the sun may choose, indeed, not to rise again. The silence of God on devastated land is unequivocal, and at times irrevocable.
[1] Áron Birtalan, “Fake You till You Make Me: A Body Scan for Lovers”, in ŠUM #23: Otherselves, 2024, p. X
[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love.
[3] The Book of Divine Consolations of the Blessed Angela di Foligno. Chatto and Windus, 1909, p. 176.
[4] Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. Paulist Press, 1988, Book VII, 16.
Full essay originally published by Spirit Journal, 2025
Curator, programmer and strategist Lucia Pietroiusti (based between London and the Netherlands) stewards research and experimentation at the intersection of art, ecology and systems. Pietroiusti is Head of Research & Emergence at the future Hartwig Museum, Amsterdam, opening in 2028, with a particular focus on lead-in programming, R&D, and the ecosystemic aspects of the future institution. In 2027, she will be the Curator of the 6th Autostrada Biennale (Prizren, Kosovo) and she is a Convenor of the 2028 Bergen Assembly (with Filipa Ramos). She is Chair of the Board of Trustees at Forma, London, and a Trustee of theGallery Climate Coalition.
BY LUCIA PIETROIUSTI
Extract from Wound, Mouth, Moons, Holes, Souls
Moons, Holes
“Practicing coming to terms with radio silence is part and parcel of a life-in-practice… We are clinging to meet love at a certain distance, while it has moved deeper into us.” (Áron Birtalan)[1]
God is the beginning of time; God is at the end of all times, the goal of history. God put the stars in the sky and that’s how living beings can tell time. God dances, and from this dance come the cycles of life and death, creation and destruction. When God is here, it’s daytime; when God is gone, it’s night. Or: summer when here, winter when not. God demands a sacrifice or there will be no more day and no more night. God is time itself. Or the opposite: time is divine in and of itself. Time is the originating principle of the cosmos. Each day of the year is a God. God’s cosmic egg spins, and in so doing, it separates space and time. Creation took 4.32 billion years; creation took 6 days.
There is a fundamental connection, in cosmogonic space, between the presence or absence of divinity and the possibility of experiencing the cycles of time. Whether as the creator of fundamental time, or as the force that teaches humans how to live in time; whether as an actor within the flow of time, or entirely identified with it, the interrelation of the divine and the chronological plays a critical role in structuring the metaphysics of a civilisation and its understanding of linearity, causality and cyclicality.
In mystical vision, this rhythm is underscored by an alternation between eternity and fear. In the presence of love and unity, time pauses, transforms or dissolves altogether. Divine love acknowledges historical events but transcends it, as Julian of Norwich reminds the devout, lest we get lost in the drama of Christ’s final days: “The Passion was a noble worshipful deed done in a time, but Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending”.[2] And here is Angela di Foligno, stopping time when approached by God’s love: “I beheld love advancing gently toward me, and I beheld the beginning but not the end. Unto me there seemed only a continuation and eternity thereof, so that I can describe neither likeness nor colour…”[3] The ecstatic moment halts the chronological flow and reveals divine joy as infinite, and as such, defying teleology.
Yet, in the mystic’s universe, the soul undergoes a frequent and highly jarring emotional see-saw, between the eternity of orgasmic abundance and the subsequent shock of falling back into the flow of time. This fall from grace is experienced through the terrifying thing that happens when God’s love is altogether absent, refusing to gift itself, or silent – refusing to bestow meaning and sense. The crisis cuts deep, and let’s remind ourselves that crisis, from Ancient Greek, refers to separation. (As I write this, the rhythmic tick-tocks of my clock appear cruelly and terrifyingly distant from one another, each silence a chasm within which to fall.) Nothing terrorises the mystic more than Christ’s sudden departure, in the face of the inexorable nature of time. There is no wait in eternity. In time, there is nothing but.
Yet time, the planet teaches us, moves backwards, forwards, but most of all in circles. Divine workings, both cosmogonic ones and the promised return of Christ-the-lover in mystical union, teaches humans about seasonal change, and with it, establishes a metaphysics of recursiveness. This, in turn, allows for the establishment of rituals and practices that are held in accordance with those of our more-than-human companions in wild and cultivated gardens alike. If visions of consumption and togetherness reminded us to accept the deep metabolic significance that death bestows upon our individual lives; then the mystic’s terror in silence, followed by ecstasy, followed by silence, and so on forever, invites us to bring patience to the whole process.
That is to say, that it is not only our death that we may fear, but the possibility that the sun may not rise again tomorrow; that life may not sprout again from the ground come spring. So, here, the rhythms, ebbs and flows of divine, erotic desire are none others than those of the seasonal cycles within which we are embedded, and around which we build story, song and ceremony.
“Dear Lord, I cannot control my longing; I would so dearly like to be with you."
Our Lord said: "I longed for you before the beginning of the world. I long for you and you long for me. Where two burning desires meet, there love is perfect."[4]
And here the sting, once again – for there is always a sting: that as atmospheric suffocation pushes climatic cycles and circles to breaking point, from the Gulf Stream to the certainties once afforded by familiar weather, life may eventually choose not to sprout again, when winter is over, after all. And the sun may choose, indeed, not to rise again. The silence of God on devastated land is unequivocal, and at times irrevocable.
[1] Áron Birtalan, “Fake You till You Make Me: A Body Scan for Lovers”, in ŠUM #23: Otherselves, 2024, p. X
[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love.
[3] The Book of Divine Consolations of the Blessed Angela di Foligno. Chatto and Windus, 1909, p. 176.
[4] Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. Paulist Press, 1988, Book VII, 16.
Full essay originally published by Spirit Journal, 2025
Extract from Wound, Mouth, Moons, Holes, Souls
Moons, Holes
“Practicing coming to terms with radio silence is part and parcel of a life-in-practice… We are clinging to meet love at a certain distance, while it has moved deeper into us.” (Áron Birtalan)[1]
God is the beginning of time; God is at the end of all times, the goal of history. God put the stars in the sky and that’s how living beings can tell time. God dances, and from this dance come the cycles of life and death, creation and destruction. When God is here, it’s daytime; when God is gone, it’s night. Or: summer when here, winter when not. God demands a sacrifice or there will be no more day and no more night. God is time itself. Or the opposite: time is divine in and of itself. Time is the originating principle of the cosmos. Each day of the year is a God. God’s cosmic egg spins, and in so doing, it separates space and time. Creation took 4.32 billion years; creation took 6 days.
There is a fundamental connection, in cosmogonic space, between the presence or absence of divinity and the possibility of experiencing the cycles of time. Whether as the creator of fundamental time, or as the force that teaches humans how to live in time; whether as an actor within the flow of time, or entirely identified with it, the interrelation of the divine and the chronological plays a critical role in structuring the metaphysics of a civilisation and its understanding of linearity, causality and cyclicality.
In mystical vision, this rhythm is underscored by an alternation between eternity and fear. In the presence of love and unity, time pauses, transforms or dissolves altogether. Divine love acknowledges historical events but transcends it, as Julian of Norwich reminds the devout, lest we get lost in the drama of Christ’s final days: “The Passion was a noble worshipful deed done in a time, but Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending”.[2] And here is Angela di Foligno, stopping time when approached by God’s love: “I beheld love advancing gently toward me, and I beheld the beginning but not the end. Unto me there seemed only a continuation and eternity thereof, so that I can describe neither likeness nor colour…”[3] The ecstatic moment halts the chronological flow and reveals divine joy as infinite, and as such, defying teleology.
Yet, in the mystic’s universe, the soul undergoes a frequent and highly jarring emotional see-saw, between the eternity of orgasmic abundance and the subsequent shock of falling back into the flow of time. This fall from grace is experienced through the terrifying thing that happens when God’s love is altogether absent, refusing to gift itself, or silent – refusing to bestow meaning and sense. The crisis cuts deep, and let’s remind ourselves that crisis, from Ancient Greek, refers to separation. (As I write this, the rhythmic tick-tocks of my clock appear cruelly and terrifyingly distant from one another, each silence a chasm within which to fall.) Nothing terrorises the mystic more than Christ’s sudden departure, in the face of the inexorable nature of time. There is no wait in eternity. In time, there is nothing but.
Yet time, the planet teaches us, moves backwards, forwards, but most of all in circles. Divine workings, both cosmogonic ones and the promised return of Christ-the-lover in mystical union, teaches humans about seasonal change, and with it, establishes a metaphysics of recursiveness. This, in turn, allows for the establishment of rituals and practices that are held in accordance with those of our more-than-human companions in wild and cultivated gardens alike. If visions of consumption and togetherness reminded us to accept the deep metabolic significance that death bestows upon our individual lives; then the mystic’s terror in silence, followed by ecstasy, followed by silence, and so on forever, invites us to bring patience to the whole process.
That is to say, that it is not only our death that we may fear, but the possibility that the sun may not rise again tomorrow; that life may not sprout again from the ground come spring. So, here, the rhythms, ebbs and flows of divine, erotic desire are none others than those of the seasonal cycles within which we are embedded, and around which we build story, song and ceremony.
“Dear Lord, I cannot control my longing; I would so dearly like to be with you."
Our Lord said: "I longed for you before the beginning of the world. I long for you and you long for me. Where two burning desires meet, there love is perfect."[4]
And here the sting, once again – for there is always a sting: that as atmospheric suffocation pushes climatic cycles and circles to breaking point, from the Gulf Stream to the certainties once afforded by familiar weather, life may eventually choose not to sprout again, when winter is over, after all. And the sun may choose, indeed, not to rise again. The silence of God on devastated land is unequivocal, and at times irrevocable.
[1] Áron Birtalan, “Fake You till You Make Me: A Body Scan for Lovers”, in ŠUM #23: Otherselves, 2024, p. X
[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love.
[3] The Book of Divine Consolations of the Blessed Angela di Foligno. Chatto and Windus, 1909, p. 176.
[4] Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. Paulist Press, 1988, Book VII, 16.
Full essay originally published by Spirit Journal, 2025
Curator, programmer and strategist Lucia Pietroiusti (based between London and the Netherlands) stewards research and experimentation at the intersection of art, ecology and systems. Pietroiusti is Head of Research & Emergence at the future Hartwig Museum, Amsterdam, opening in 2028, with a particular focus on lead-in programming, R&D, and the ecosystemic aspects of the future institution. In 2027, she will be the Curator of the 6th Autostrada Biennale (Prizren, Kosovo) and she is a Convenor of the 2028 Bergen Assembly (with Filipa Ramos). She is Chair of the Board of Trustees at Forma, London, and a Trustee of theGallery Climate Coalition.
BY LUCIA PIETROIUSTI
Extract from Wound, Mouth, Moons, Holes, Souls
Moons, Holes
“Practicing coming to terms with radio silence is part and parcel of a life-in-practice… We are clinging to meet love at a certain distance, while it has moved deeper into us.” (Áron Birtalan)[1]
God is the beginning of time; God is at the end of all times, the goal of history. God put the stars in the sky and that’s how living beings can tell time. God dances, and from this dance come the cycles of life and death, creation and destruction. When God is here, it’s daytime; when God is gone, it’s night. Or: summer when here, winter when not. God demands a sacrifice or there will be no more day and no more night. God is time itself. Or the opposite: time is divine in and of itself. Time is the originating principle of the cosmos. Each day of the year is a God. God’s cosmic egg spins, and in so doing, it separates space and time. Creation took 4.32 billion years; creation took 6 days.
There is a fundamental connection, in cosmogonic space, between the presence or absence of divinity and the possibility of experiencing the cycles of time. Whether as the creator of fundamental time, or as the force that teaches humans how to live in time; whether as an actor within the flow of time, or entirely identified with it, the interrelation of the divine and the chronological plays a critical role in structuring the metaphysics of a civilisation and its understanding of linearity, causality and cyclicality.
In mystical vision, this rhythm is underscored by an alternation between eternity and fear. In the presence of love and unity, time pauses, transforms or dissolves altogether. Divine love acknowledges historical events but transcends it, as Julian of Norwich reminds the devout, lest we get lost in the drama of Christ’s final days: “The Passion was a noble worshipful deed done in a time, but Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending”.[2] And here is Angela di Foligno, stopping time when approached by God’s love: “I beheld love advancing gently toward me, and I beheld the beginning but not the end. Unto me there seemed only a continuation and eternity thereof, so that I can describe neither likeness nor colour…”[3] The ecstatic moment halts the chronological flow and reveals divine joy as infinite, and as such, defying teleology.
Yet, in the mystic’s universe, the soul undergoes a frequent and highly jarring emotional see-saw, between the eternity of orgasmic abundance and the subsequent shock of falling back into the flow of time. This fall from grace is experienced through the terrifying thing that happens when God’s love is altogether absent, refusing to gift itself, or silent – refusing to bestow meaning and sense. The crisis cuts deep, and let’s remind ourselves that crisis, from Ancient Greek, refers to separation. (As I write this, the rhythmic tick-tocks of my clock appear cruelly and terrifyingly distant from one another, each silence a chasm within which to fall.) Nothing terrorises the mystic more than Christ’s sudden departure, in the face of the inexorable nature of time. There is no wait in eternity. In time, there is nothing but.
Yet time, the planet teaches us, moves backwards, forwards, but most of all in circles. Divine workings, both cosmogonic ones and the promised return of Christ-the-lover in mystical union, teaches humans about seasonal change, and with it, establishes a metaphysics of recursiveness. This, in turn, allows for the establishment of rituals and practices that are held in accordance with those of our more-than-human companions in wild and cultivated gardens alike. If visions of consumption and togetherness reminded us to accept the deep metabolic significance that death bestows upon our individual lives; then the mystic’s terror in silence, followed by ecstasy, followed by silence, and so on forever, invites us to bring patience to the whole process.
That is to say, that it is not only our death that we may fear, but the possibility that the sun may not rise again tomorrow; that life may not sprout again from the ground come spring. So, here, the rhythms, ebbs and flows of divine, erotic desire are none others than those of the seasonal cycles within which we are embedded, and around which we build story, song and ceremony.
“Dear Lord, I cannot control my longing; I would so dearly like to be with you."
Our Lord said: "I longed for you before the beginning of the world. I long for you and you long for me. Where two burning desires meet, there love is perfect."[4]
And here the sting, once again – for there is always a sting: that as atmospheric suffocation pushes climatic cycles and circles to breaking point, from the Gulf Stream to the certainties once afforded by familiar weather, life may eventually choose not to sprout again, when winter is over, after all. And the sun may choose, indeed, not to rise again. The silence of God on devastated land is unequivocal, and at times irrevocable.
[1] Áron Birtalan, “Fake You till You Make Me: A Body Scan for Lovers”, in ŠUM #23: Otherselves, 2024, p. X
[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love.
[3] The Book of Divine Consolations of the Blessed Angela di Foligno. Chatto and Windus, 1909, p. 176.
[4] Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. Paulist Press, 1988, Book VII, 16.
Full essay originally published by Spirit Journal, 2025
Extract from Wound, Mouth, Moons, Holes, Souls
Moons, Holes
“Practicing coming to terms with radio silence is part and parcel of a life-in-practice… We are clinging to meet love at a certain distance, while it has moved deeper into us.” (Áron Birtalan)[1]
God is the beginning of time; God is at the end of all times, the goal of history. God put the stars in the sky and that’s how living beings can tell time. God dances, and from this dance come the cycles of life and death, creation and destruction. When God is here, it’s daytime; when God is gone, it’s night. Or: summer when here, winter when not. God demands a sacrifice or there will be no more day and no more night. God is time itself. Or the opposite: time is divine in and of itself. Time is the originating principle of the cosmos. Each day of the year is a God. God’s cosmic egg spins, and in so doing, it separates space and time. Creation took 4.32 billion years; creation took 6 days.
There is a fundamental connection, in cosmogonic space, between the presence or absence of divinity and the possibility of experiencing the cycles of time. Whether as the creator of fundamental time, or as the force that teaches humans how to live in time; whether as an actor within the flow of time, or entirely identified with it, the interrelation of the divine and the chronological plays a critical role in structuring the metaphysics of a civilisation and its understanding of linearity, causality and cyclicality.
In mystical vision, this rhythm is underscored by an alternation between eternity and fear. In the presence of love and unity, time pauses, transforms or dissolves altogether. Divine love acknowledges historical events but transcends it, as Julian of Norwich reminds the devout, lest we get lost in the drama of Christ’s final days: “The Passion was a noble worshipful deed done in a time, but Love was without beginning, is, and shall be without ending”.[2] And here is Angela di Foligno, stopping time when approached by God’s love: “I beheld love advancing gently toward me, and I beheld the beginning but not the end. Unto me there seemed only a continuation and eternity thereof, so that I can describe neither likeness nor colour…”[3] The ecstatic moment halts the chronological flow and reveals divine joy as infinite, and as such, defying teleology.
Yet, in the mystic’s universe, the soul undergoes a frequent and highly jarring emotional see-saw, between the eternity of orgasmic abundance and the subsequent shock of falling back into the flow of time. This fall from grace is experienced through the terrifying thing that happens when God’s love is altogether absent, refusing to gift itself, or silent – refusing to bestow meaning and sense. The crisis cuts deep, and let’s remind ourselves that crisis, from Ancient Greek, refers to separation. (As I write this, the rhythmic tick-tocks of my clock appear cruelly and terrifyingly distant from one another, each silence a chasm within which to fall.) Nothing terrorises the mystic more than Christ’s sudden departure, in the face of the inexorable nature of time. There is no wait in eternity. In time, there is nothing but.
Yet time, the planet teaches us, moves backwards, forwards, but most of all in circles. Divine workings, both cosmogonic ones and the promised return of Christ-the-lover in mystical union, teaches humans about seasonal change, and with it, establishes a metaphysics of recursiveness. This, in turn, allows for the establishment of rituals and practices that are held in accordance with those of our more-than-human companions in wild and cultivated gardens alike. If visions of consumption and togetherness reminded us to accept the deep metabolic significance that death bestows upon our individual lives; then the mystic’s terror in silence, followed by ecstasy, followed by silence, and so on forever, invites us to bring patience to the whole process.
That is to say, that it is not only our death that we may fear, but the possibility that the sun may not rise again tomorrow; that life may not sprout again from the ground come spring. So, here, the rhythms, ebbs and flows of divine, erotic desire are none others than those of the seasonal cycles within which we are embedded, and around which we build story, song and ceremony.
“Dear Lord, I cannot control my longing; I would so dearly like to be with you."
Our Lord said: "I longed for you before the beginning of the world. I long for you and you long for me. Where two burning desires meet, there love is perfect."[4]
And here the sting, once again – for there is always a sting: that as atmospheric suffocation pushes climatic cycles and circles to breaking point, from the Gulf Stream to the certainties once afforded by familiar weather, life may eventually choose not to sprout again, when winter is over, after all. And the sun may choose, indeed, not to rise again. The silence of God on devastated land is unequivocal, and at times irrevocable.
[1] Áron Birtalan, “Fake You till You Make Me: A Body Scan for Lovers”, in ŠUM #23: Otherselves, 2024, p. X
[2] Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love.
[3] The Book of Divine Consolations of the Blessed Angela di Foligno. Chatto and Windus, 1909, p. 176.
[4] Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. Paulist Press, 1988, Book VII, 16.
Full essay originally published by Spirit Journal, 2025
Curator, programmer and strategist Lucia Pietroiusti (based between London and the Netherlands) stewards research and experimentation at the intersection of art, ecology and systems. Pietroiusti is Head of Research & Emergence at the future Hartwig Museum, Amsterdam, opening in 2028, with a particular focus on lead-in programming, R&D, and the ecosystemic aspects of the future institution. In 2027, she will be the Curator of the 6th Autostrada Biennale (Prizren, Kosovo) and she is a Convenor of the 2028 Bergen Assembly (with Filipa Ramos). She is Chair of the Board of Trustees at Forma, London, and a Trustee of theGallery Climate Coalition.