“What if imagination isn’t something we use—but something we see through?”

Long ago, before the world was hemmed in by spreadsheets and satellite maps, there was a way of seeing that didn’t require eyes. The old mystics called it the soul’s eye, or sometimes the mundus imaginalis—the imaginal world.

Not imaginary. Not pretend.

Imaginal, as in a realm just as real as this one, only glimpsed through a different aperture.

We’ve forgotten this eye, most of us. We traded it for optics and logic, for evidence and utility. But the soul remembers. And if you listen—if you pause long enough to hear the silence beneath the noise—you may feel it stir again.

An ache behind your eyes.
A flicker just at the edge of thought.
A ripple through the fabric of the seen.

That’s the imaginal reaching for you.

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The Mapmaker’s Mistake

When I was younger, I believed imagination was a tool. A creative instrument. A function of the brain to solve problems, craft stories, build futures. I respected it—adored it even—but still treated it like an accessory.

It wasn’t until life cracked me open like a geode and urged me to look inside that I saw imagination not as something to summon but something to see through.

There’s a difference between fantasy and imaginal perception.
Fantasy is what the ego conjures to escape the weight of being.
Imaginal is what the soul perceives when it’s finally heard.

The imaginal reveals.
It doesn’t decorate reality—it unveils it.

It’s the bridge between flesh and spirit. The eye that sees meaning shimmer where others see only dust.

The Organ of Meaning

“The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.” — Henri Bergson

But what if the mind isn’t the only organ of perception?

What if there’s a subtler eye, veiled behind the forehead or seated in the chest, that reads the world not for fact, but for meaning?

Henry Corbin called this the organ of meaning—not metaphorically, but literally. Like your ears hear music, this part of the soul hears myth.

It perceives what your rational faculties cannot.
It drinks in symbol, resonance, vision, and dream.
It’s how you feel a truth that no one’s spoken.

You’ve felt this before.

• A line of poetry that stirs something ancient in you.
• A dream that lingers like prophecy.
• A recurring image or symbol that haunts your waking life with uncanny timing.

That’s not a glitch.
That’s perception.
That’s your soul’s eye blinking open.

In a culture obsessed with data and reason, we’ve numbed this sense. We’ve called it “irrational,” “unscientific,” “childish.” But the soul doesn’t speak in logic. It speaks in symbols.

To navigate life without the organ of meaning is to wander a living myth blindfolded, mistaking every synchronicity for coincidence and every archetype for inconvenience.

But when the imaginal reawakens, the world thickens.
Meaning returns.
You stop seeking signs and start seeing them.

Seeing Again: Practices for the Soul’s Eye

“You do not see the world as it is.
You see the world as you are.” — Talmudic saying

The soul’s eye doesn’t need effort to open. It needs invitation.

These are not tasks. They’re thresholds.
Not techniques—but rituals of remembrance.

Here are three such practices, offered as keys:

1. Active Imagination

The Art of Inner Dialogue

Begin with an image—a tarot card, a dream figure, an archetype. Don’t analyse it. Enter it.

Ask:

• “Why are you here?”
• “What do you want from me?”
• “What part of my life do you reflect?”

Listen.
Write down what it says.
Even if it doesn’t make sense.
Especially if it doesn’t.

This isn’t imagination in the modern sense.
It’s perception, inwardly turned.
A conversation between ego and soul.

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2. Walking the World as Symbol

The Landscape as Oracle

Next time you walk your neighbourhood or trail, treat the world as a living dream. Ask:

“If this were a dream, what would it mean?”

• A crow on a fencepost? A message.
• A torn billboard? A forgotten vow.
• The sound of wind in the trees? A breath from another world.

Let the world speak back.
Not in answers, but in images.

This is the language of the birds.
The secret tongue of the imaginal.

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3. Keep a Grimoire

A Mythic Record of the Unseen

Not a journal.
A grimoire.

A sacred container for:

• Dreams
• Symbols
• Synchronicities
• Quotes that strike like lightning
• Songs that haunt
• Visions that visit unbidden

You are not documenting life.
You are mapping meaning.

Let the entries be wild, cryptic, poetic, and raw. Over time, the pages will reveal a deeper story—the myth beneath your name.

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The Return of the Soul-Eye

“Myth is the transparency of the world through which the soul can be seen.” — James Hillman

When the soul-eye opens, the world changes texture.

The tree is no longer just a tree—it’s an elder.
The ache is no longer pain—it’s a message.
The random encounter is no longer chance—it’s a mirror.

This isn’t magical thinking.
It’s mythic perception.

You move from observer to participant. From confusion to story.
You stop asking what’s happening to me and start asking what myth am I in?

And here’s the quiet revolution:
The world becomes both map and mirror.
You become both seeker and symbol.

Every desire becomes a daemon.
Every struggle becomes a spell.
Every act of noticing becomes an invocation.

This is the return.
Not to belief. But to being.
Not to certainty. But to symbol.
Not to fantasy. But to the imaginal field where soul meets world.

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A Contemplative Prompt

Pause. Breathe.
Let the ordinary blur, just for a moment.

Now ask yourself:

Where in my life am I being asked to see differently—through the eye of the soul, not the lens of reason?

Maybe it’s a recurring dream.
Maybe it’s a hawk overhead.
Maybe it’s an ache you can’t explain.

Whatever it is—don’t decode it.
Dialogue with it.

Then ask:

What if this isn’t just a moment I’m going through… but a myth I’m being called to embody?

Write it.
Whisper it.
Walk it.

And remember: once the soul’s eye opens, it never fully closes again.

Welcome back.