Hubeyb | ሁበይብ️

I was two calves in a flock of birds flying, without a heart that could sing or a wing that could turn around. The wind took us towards the west until we no longer knew: Is this our first round of precedence or the last round? I did not know that we were confederates and that we had many names, and that we were fools who had not been afflicted by the logic of birds and the secret of “Farid al-Din” except fanaticism. We were not looking for a path to the door of heaven, but rather we searched for paradise on earth. We heard stories about it, we saw pictures of it, so we said: It is the kingdom of the mind, and its people are rational, and it is the land of God, there is neither East nor West, and all people are its inhabitants, equal. Then we flew towards it in search of the secret, but we did not find anything except this affliction: exhausted cities, empty hearts, and debtors asking God about the story of Cain and Abel. The wealth of the poor is a state between two allies: the rich and the powerful. Prostitution is the craft of politicians. As for the wise, they are the mind that suggests to the Caesar before the pure: that God’s creation is of different races, and they are of various orders, and all the weak are sheep in the Caesar’s forest, and the Caesar is the Lord of the strong. We looked: and we were, as we had started, separated, and the forest had neither manna nor quail, nor any consolation.  Aristotle inspires Alexander to invade and conquer the tired cities and tempts him to kill the princes. As I looked at this fate and saw the human being in the pit, crippled, seeking shelter, and I saw the Caesar still as he was, a Titan who had the power to conclude, veto, and manage matters, I said: Then there must be another journey, and a final journey. Another trip? To where? And all the earth is Caesar's garden, and on its edges are soldiers who set up a thousand camps for him and sing drunkenly the poetry of Virgil while Rome struts? Another trip and nothing has changed since the earth turned around us, and the monkey became a thinking human? Another journey with a dagger in your back, a spear on your chest, and an exploding mine next to you? Another trip and nothing remains of the flock except a few flying birds? Let it be (I said), for silence is more dangerous. Let it be (I said), for today is dustier, and tomorrow the horizon may become clearer and the soul may become clearer and we will see a path to wisdom that no tyrant has known and Caesar has not taken. I said: There must then be another journey and a final journey, and let our journey be in the human tunnel, between good and evil, and in the cave of the darkness of the soul, in the well of conscience. I said: We must have another hope other than living in this hellfire.  Then I spread my wings and flew far and deep, but I was still flying alone.

In the dwindling years of the third century, a prosperous son of Libya, adorned with Italic and Punic lineage, emerged victorious over four challengers, adorning the crown of sovereign might over the Roman Empire—Septimius Severus. Beside him, a noblewoman from Emesa (present-day Homs), Syria, graced the realms, her spirit ablaze with a passion for philosophy's profound depths. Julia Domna, consort to the Emperor, found solace in the teachings of Athenodorus Cananites, the Stoic sage. In her court, wisdom danced and thoughts intertwined, weaving intellectual tapestries of sublime discourse. In the veils of antiquity, Julia Domna embraced enigmatic cults, paying homage to Magna Mater (Cybele), the Phrygian goddess, her secrets enshrined in Roman rites. A clandestine waltz, where the elite sought mystical communion, unfolded amidst those hallowed ceremonies. Syncretism, an alchemy of beliefs, held sway in those times—an eclectic fusion of faiths within the empire's embrace, within Julia Domna's very being. Severus, in his reign, unfurled a new chapter, unchaining the might of the legions, for in his words echoed the revolution of gold—“See that the soldiers have plenty of money. Nothing else matters.” The sun of culture shifted, its zenith found in the Hellenized East, as it cast shadows upon the Roman soul. A kaleidoscope of beliefs birthed a cosmic paradigm, embracing unorthodox doctrines, for the universal sought its throne. In this age, Sol Invictus, the Sun Unconquered, ascended hearts, its fiery essence not confined by doctrine, yet igniting a fervor for a singular sun god. Severus, though not a fervent proponent of a sole deity, extended an open hand to diverse devotions. Amidst his reign, Christians found moments of peace, though storms would sporadically lash their haven. Elagabalus, a scion of the dynasty, bore a vision—an incandescent deity, Elagabalus, a sun god of Syrian lands. He sought to anoint this deity in the Roman pantheon, a lofty ambition met with the thunderclap of resistance. In the Severan era, Christians glimpsed varying hues, from the gentle brush of tolerance to the harsh strokes of a tyrant's ire. A symphony of faiths, a dance of beliefs, the Severan era—an intricate tapestry in the grand design of time. Monotheistic whispers grew louder, an echo within the vast chambers of eternity, painting the canvas of destiny.

The lover's question, speaking or silent, is a repetition of a single desire: Who am I in your eyes? The lover's listening is a repetition of a lonely yearning for the answer to come, even if vaguely. The answer is the one who holds the hand of the lover and guides him to the mirror, where his image is, and says to him: This is you, in my eyes, and what you are in my eyes is the truth. The truth is complete when it is said once, even if only temporarily, and what is said is known and there is no confusion in it. What does a sad one who looks like me do when I count the defeats of time, it takes off the dress of its days thread by thread, like a rose of nostalgia and sits between the palms of memory, naked, with a body without details, counting how many lovers passed through  fingers, like water that did not quench the thirst of the body while he is still picking up the melody of an old song, whose words have eroded, and it wears them like a coat in the winter of forgetfulness! I walk on the edge of the world, carving my name on the water, reciting a Bible from the blank pages, writing hypothetical events, jotting down my other names that I desire, loving all the beautiful women in the world with a thousand hearts, breathing from my mind, letting my lungs go to tear gas canisters, I walk in all political demonstrations, raising my naked body as a banner, preparing the ground for my imminent death, reading all the details of emptiness, staring long into the distances. There is a distance between me and God, and I only think of the path carved like milk that gushed from the udder of cats, I call to prayer on the top of the mountains. Give me, O woman, your name, and take all my language, I am mute, and I only want your voice, to call upon God! Writing is like an emigration, when blood turns into ink due to pain, and it explodes all the distances of the veins. I am sure that I am a prophet, who failed to draw God's attention to all this devastation. Here, the war passed like an owl, for the forest was dark, and the fragments of flesh did not help them in the morning to breathe in a grave, so they rotted in their place and sprouted green flies with human nails. And here; I search for the meaning of life, and nothing answers me except a deep echo of death. Here, where my body is still imprisoned at the bottom of a well whose waters are bilious, and I was not Joseph until a divine coincidence saved me. I am still a carpenter, trees are all my wealth in the world, although modern civilization digs deep into the walls of the forest, but I still believe in the power of wood to make houses, shelters, children's toys, fishing machines, and boats. The village expands to become a city, but its stomach does not digest strangers, and keeps mass graves for them outside the borders of the village. Just give me a kiss, so that the world may equilibrate for a moment, before it falls back into chaos! Your face, the angel of God who sent it to the world, so the earth turned into an apple that I gnawed at, so God punished me with your love for eternity! I can love you, without reasons, only reasons that fail the love relationship! The body is the only fact that does not need proof. From the instinct of our body spring all the colors of the world. The world is in its roots completely black and opaque. Only love makes the blood of the world gush out, from a small wound in a woman’s heart. This blood, which takes the form of birds, fish, and roses, migrates perfume, does not need passports.

The lover's question, speaking or silent, is a repetition of a single desire: Who am I in your eyes? The lover's listening is a repetition of a lonely yearning for the answer to come, even if vaguely. The answer is the one who holds the hand of the lover and guides him to the mirror, where his image is, and says to him: This is you, in my eyes, and what you are in my eyes is the truth. The truth is complete when it is said once, even if only temporarily, and what is said is known and there is no confusion in it. What does a sad one who looks like me do when I count the defeats of time, it takes off the dress of its days thread by thread, like a rose of nostalgia and sits between the palms of memory, naked, with a body without details, counting how many lovers passed through  fingers, like water that did not quench the thirst of the body while she is still picking up the melody of an old song, whose words have eroded, and it wears them like a coat in the winter of forgetfulness! I walk on the edge of the world, carving my name on the water, reciting a Bible from the blank pages, writing hypothetical events, jotting down my other names that I desire, loving all the beautiful women in the world with a thousand hearts, breathing from my mind, letting my lungs go to tear gas canisters, I walk in all political demonstrations, raising my naked body as a banner, preparing the ground for my imminent death, reading all the details of emptiness, staring long into the distances. There is a distance between me and God, and I only think of the path carved like milk that gushed from the udder of cats, I call to prayer on the top of the mountains. Give me, O woman, your name, and take all my language, I am mute, and I only want your voice, to call upon God! Writing is like an emigration, when blood turns into ink due to pain, and it explodes all the distances of the veins. I am sure that I am a prophet, who failed to draw God's attention to all this devastation. Here, the war passed like an owl, for the forest was dark, and the fragments of flesh did not help them in the morning to breathe in a grave, so they rotted in their place and sprouted green flies with human nails. And here; I search for the meaning of life, and nothing answers me except a deep echo of death. Here, where my body is still imprisoned at the bottom of a well whose waters are bilious, and I was not Joseph until a divine coincidence saved me. I am still a carpenter, trees are all my wealth in the world, although modern civilization digs deep into the walls of the forest, but I still believe in the power of wood to make houses, shelters, children's toys, fishing machines, and boats. The village expands to become a city, but its stomach does not digest strangers, and keeps mass graves for them outside the borders of the village. Just give me a kiss, so that the world may equilibrate for a moment, before it falls back into chaos! Your face, the angel of God who sent it to the world, so the earth turned into an apple that I gnawed at, so God punished me with your love for eternity! I can love you, without reasons, only reasons that fail the love relationship! The body is the only fact that does not need proof. From the instinct of our body spring all the colors of the world. The world is in its roots completely black and opaque. Only love makes the blood of the world gush out, from a small wound in a woman’s heart. This blood, which takes the form of birds, fish, and roses, migrates perfume, does not need passports.

A departing body whose blood the prophets weep. Nothing but to place my heart, like a meteorite pierced with rust, under the fierce wheels to strike at the bones, and let the thunderbolt of the night be a pillow for the arrogant. I am standing in delirium, discovering now that I have watched the life of weaving an abyss for my steps, sleep by sleep, claiming that I am the strong, resistant, capable of confrontations. I am the weakest creature without certainty or argument. I am like a mountain hissing in the presence of clouds. A being standing like a scandal in the priest's heart. Lust opens the end, and takes my hand with the tenderness of crime and the laziness of the snake, so that I fall like a bride who loses her chastity in front of the crowds in the square, and people have blood proof. There is someone who goes leaf by leaf. I have enough hatred for a pack of wolves of lust, and you may unleash the astonishment of the attack in my delay, without a guilty conscience, and you are free to arms to take their share of what remains. I am the one who emerges from people's patience, stained by sin, the messenger of speech. There is only a fitting ending left. I am the only one standing in a pale brink, I have gone to it since the wilt of a frayed thread, delusional that it is the first spinning in the veil of solitude, I put my soul on the blow. It was said that galaxies would remember my eyelashes. You have the joy of killing, and you put the blades of your knives in my heart, you flee the flesh and reach the bone, so the silver of my soul floats in your faces for the rudeness of the fatwa. I am the wolf going into the night of refuge, the deceiver of experience, the fan of fires, the igniter of discord, the undertaker of wildfire, the unruly of blood, the sullen heart, the cheeks of devils. A hyena sucks in the blood of the dead with lustfully quivering labia, and its fangs poke over the bones of a corpse, as a prophet takes off his frayed shirt. It is worthy of all the lethality that you are capable of, and let your freedoms be the banner of revenge. I am the target of snipers, my soul is in your hands. Excuse me, it is not suitable for you. You are the excuses of the dead, your sins are more than the innocence of a child. It is not for you to exaggerate with a trembling hand while it is in the handle of the shovel slashed with ancient rust, like wine that overflowed me, and it could not bear patience in the bleeding that slays the cells. The night is about to become a sympathetic shroud for the stuttering in front of love, rejoicing in the wailing of the dying, trembling with the fear of the blade from many sides. It's time to travel It's time to travel, and there's no turning back. There was no air left in space for the corpse to inhale. May you be the bridesmaids of the night's hodgepodge. May you be of great strength, so that mourning may come from the farthest corners. And let the mourners be among you who joyfully push a corpse that goes away. I put my feet in the hanging bracket with the lust of the suicide. Time ate from me, the flower, the branch, the trunk and the roots. Guarded by heartbreak and fear, I was afraid of every side and everything, and I missed fear of myself, of an intrigue that spoils the step and the way. Stained by sins and mistakes, I do not seek pity, and you do not care about any hope, and there is no moment to flee from the glory of lamentations, the creaking of the coffin, and the power of the night. Let the diggers among you be firm, with shovels that reach deep from the ground. And let there be tyrants among you who are well-equipped with the precision of a jeweler and the insight of a scholar, so that the funeral appears rigorous and the end majestic, so that you have solid livers, so that the tremor of hesitation does not disturb your hearts as you put the corpse in the washing, the shroud, the coffin and the grave. It is not befitting for me to see you trembling at fate, pitying a submissive wolf saved by killing.

Your grandson threw a pebble to his student, and he sucked it, and if the tongues of the world are in his mouth, he understands it and memorizes it, so what is your excuse, exhausted one, when you heard us shouting, and we tell you to “go back”. So what did you fear for our small hearts, which tasted a fear much greater than the terror of chasing children for us? The wailing followed us, and the footprints of your sandal were traced on the sand, and we did not want to leave us, for in the mosque is the worst of God’s creation, and whoever does not deserve to see your face will strike your bald head and turn your gray hair. Marginal geese in the history books, but we shouted, a small nail near us, but it did not stop your dress, this wounding steel, it did not stop you, and its father did not move the shield to stand between your feet and your shoes, and we hoped that the soul would pass through your hands. Those that make the knights in vain, to pass on our soft feathers, O you who have not eaten geese, O brother of wheat and dates! Your cracked hands, the impact of the farming, passed us by, and we were no longer geese, and our vague voice wanted to wake up the sleepers, that your speaking Qur’an is heading to its death. We have no excuse, like the excuse of the Simargh birds, we have no wing to fly away from this land in grief, and we were not old enough to stop you, we are too small than the gate of Khaybar that did not stop you. The day will pass, and the wailing will follow us, but a scratch will remain in our voice forever, until our descendants, after hundreds, walk alongside the lion and the predators with faith, because some of you at that time will be. A long and successive sound will come out of our throat, O Imam whom God and His Messenger love, and the geese too.

ጀምስቶኖች (የከበሩ ድንጋዮች)ማዕድናት ስሆኑ የሚገኙትም ከክሪስታል ተቀርፀው ነው። ከተፈጥሮአዊነታቸው በተጨማሪ ለ ውበታቸው ፣ ለጽናታቸው እና ለብርቅዬነታቸው የተመረጡ እና ከዛም ጌጣጌጥን ወይም ሌሎች የሰዎችን ማስዋቢያ ለማድረግ የተቆረጡ ወይም የተለየ ገጽታ ያላቸው እና የተዋቡ ናቸው ፡፡ ምንም እንኳን አብዛኛዎቹ ጀምስቶኖች ከባድ እና ጠንካራ ቢሆኑም ፣ አንዳንዶቹ ለጌጣጌጥ አገልግሎት የሚውሉ በጣም ለስላሳ ወይም ለአደጋ የተጋለጡ ስለሆኑ ብዙውን ጊዜ በሙዝየሞች ውስጥ የሚታዩ ሲሆን ሰብሳቢዎችም ይፈልጉታል ፡፡ ጀምስቶኖች (የከበሩ ድንጋዮች) ከጥንት ጊዜያት ጀምሮ የሰው ልጆችን የሳቡ ሲሆን ለረጅም ጊዜ ለጌጣጌጥ ያገለግሉ ነበር ፡፡ ለጀምስቶኖች ዋናው ተፈላጊ መሆን ያለበት ቆንጅና ነው፡፡ ውበቱ በቀለሞቹ ልዩ አቀማመጥ ወይም በቀለሙ አንድነት ውስጥ ሊታይ ይችላል። ከተወዳጅ ባህሪው ውስጥ ልስላሴዉ ፣ የቀለም መቀያየሩ ፣ በተንፀባረቀ ሰአት ብርሃን የኮከብ ቅርጽ ያለው ሥዕላዊ ብልጭታ ማሳየቱ ፤ በጥቂቱ ይጠቀሱበታል። ጀምስቶኖች እንደ ጌጣጌጥ ከምንጠቀምባቸው በተጨማሪ በብዙ ስልጣኔዎች እንደ ተአምራዊ ተደርገው ይታዩ ነበር እና የተለየ ሚስጥራዊ ኃይሎች ተሰጥቷቸዋል ፡፡ የተለያዩ ጀምስቶኖች የተለያዩ ጥቅም ተሰጥቷቸዋል። ለምሳሌ አልማዝ በባለቤትነት የሚይዝ ሰው ጥንካሬን እንደሚሰጥ እና ከአስማት እና ከመጥፎ መንፈስ እንደሚጠብቀው ይታሰብ ነበር ፡፡ እንደነዚህ ዓይነቶቹ እምነቶች ትውልዶች የልደት ቀንን በመልበስ ዘመናዊ አሠራር ውስጥ ቀጥለዋል ፡፡ በአስቸጋሪ አካባቢዎች ውስጥ ለመንቀሳቀስ እና ለሚመኙት ሕይወት መንገድን ለመክፈት በጣም ኃይለኛ እና ብሩህ ከሆኑ መንገዶች አንዱ የከበሩ ድንጋዮች የመፈወስ ሀይልን መጠቀም ነው ፡፡ እያንዳንዱ ሰው በተወለደበት ትክክለኛ ጊዜ ውስጥ በህይወቱ ካሉ ሁኔታዎች ጋር የሚስማማ ከፍተኛ የግለሰብ የልደት ሰንጠረዥ አለው ፡፡ ከእርስዎ የአናኗር ሁኔታ ጋር የሚዛመድ የተወሰኑ የከበሩ ድንጋዮች ስብስብም አለ። እነዚህን ድንጋዮች ማወቅ እና ለእርስዎ እንዲሠሩ እንዴት እንደሚቻል ማወቅ ተገቢ ነው ፡፡ ለውበት እና ለጉልበት የሚስብ ሰው ከሆኑ ለእነዚህ ባሕሪዎች በእውቀትም ሆነ በአካል በከበሩ ድንጋዮች ውስጥ ምላሽ ይሰጣሉ ፡፡ የጌጣጌጥ ድንጋይ በኃይል መስክዎ ላይ የሚያሳድረውን ተጽዕኖ ወዲያውኑ ሊሰማዎት ይችላል ፡፡ አንድ ትንሽ የከበረ ድንጋይ እንኳን ወደ ኃይል መስክዎ እንደ ማጠናከሪያ ወይም እንደዳከመ ይሰማዎታል ፡፡ ይህ በከበሩ ድንጋዮች እና በሃይል መድኃኒት የመፈወስ መሠረት ነው ፡፡ በቀላሉ በሰውነትዎ ላይ ተስማሚ የከበረ ድንጋይ በመልበስ ሆን ብለው በመረጧቸው መንገዶች የኃይል መስክ ላይ ተጽዕኖ ማሳደር ይችላሉ ፡፡ ዘዴው ከደርዘን ቆንጆ ምርጫዎች መካከል ለእርስዎ በጣም ኃይለኛ ፈዋሾች እንደሆኑ እና በተወሰኑ የግል ችግሮችዎ እና ግቦችዎ ላይ በተሻለ ሁኔታ ሊረዳዎ የሚችል የትኛው የከበሩ ድንጋዮች በትክክል መፈለግ ነው ፡፡ በአለማዊ እንቅስቃሴ በሕይወታችን ላይ የሚያሳድረውን ተጽዕኖ ለመቀነስ የከበሩ ድንጋዮች ለዘመናት ጥቅም ላይ ውለዋል ፡፡ በቀደሙት መቶ ዘመናት ኮከብ ቆጣሪዎች የሚመከሩትን የከበሩ ድንጋዮች እና አስደናቂ ውጤቶቻቸው ያሏቸው በዘመኑ የነበሩት ነገሥታት እና ሀብታም ሰዎች ብቻ ነበሩ ፣ ግን ዛሬ ማንም ሊለብሳቸው እና እውነተኛ የከበሩ ድንጋዮችን ጥቅሞች ማግኘት ይችላል ፡፡ እነዚህን ዕንቁዎች የሚለብሱ ሰዎች በሕይወታቸው ከንግድ ፣ ከትምህርት ፣ ከጤና እና ከግል ሕይወታቸው በእያንዳንዱ የሕይወታቸው መስክ መሻሻል አይተዋል ፡፡ #Gemstones #ጀምስቶንስ #Definition @Hub_Precious_Stones

እቂቅ (አጌት): አካልን ፣ አእምሮን እና መንፈስን እንደገና ለማመጣጠን እና ለማጣጣም የሚጠቅም ጥሩ ድንጋይ ነው ፡፡ መንፈስን ያጸዳል እንዲሁም ያረጋጋዋል ፣ አሉታዊነትን ያስወግዳል እና ይለውጣል። አቂቅ የአእምሮን ተግባር ከፍ ያደርገዋል ፣ ትኩረትን ፣ ግንዛቤን እና ትንታኔያዊ ችሎታዎችን ያሻሽላል ፡፡ ውስጣዊ ስሜትን ወይም ውጥረትን የሚፈውስ እና የሚያረጋጋ ፣ የደህንነት እና የማጣት ስሜት ያጠፋል። አቂቅ ዓይኖችን ፣ ሆድን እና ማህፀንን ይፈውሳል። የሊንፋቲክ ስርዓቱን እና የጣፊያ ቆዳን ያጸዳል; የደም ሥሮችን ያጠናክራል እንዲሁም የቆዳ በሽታዎችን ይፈውሳል ፡፡ #Gemstones #Agate #Definition #ጀምስቶን #አቂቅ @Hub_Precious_Stones

ባልተረጋጋንበት ጊዜ ብዙዎቻችን የበለጠ ልብ እንዲኖረን ፣ ጭንቀትን እና ውጥረትን ለማረጋጋት መንገዶችን እንፈልጋለን ፣ ስለሆነም እንደ ክሪስታል ፈውስ ያሉ አማራጭ ሕክምናዎች ወደ ፊት እየመጡ ነው ፡፡ ክሪስታሎችን የመፈወስ ፅንሰ-ሀሳብ ለዘመናት የቆየ ነው ፣ ከቅርብ ዓመታት ወዲህ የበለጠ የተለመደ መነቃቃት ነበረው ፡፡ ክሪስታል ድፍን በሁሉም አቅጣጫዎች የሚዘልቅ ክሪስታል ዋልታ በመፍጠር ንጥረ ነገሮቻቸው በከፍተኛ ሁኔታ በታዘዘው ጥቃቅን መዋቅር ውስጥ የተስተካከለ ጠንካራ ቁሳቁስ ነው ፡፡ ክሪስታል ፈውስ የከበሩ ድንጋዮችን በመጠቀም ለግለሰቡ ሕይወት እና አእምሮ ሚዛንን ለማምጣት የሚያገለግል አማራጭ ሕክምና ዓይነት ነው ፡፡ ክሪስታሎች የተረጋጋ እና የማይለዋወጥ የኃይል ዘይቤ አላቸው, እያንዳንዱ ልዩ ድግግሞሽ እና የኃይል መስክ ወይም ልዩ ልዩ ንብረቶችን ይሰጣቸዋል ፡፡ የታሰበው የክሪስታል ፈውስ ጥቅሞች በአብዛኛው በአእምሮ ጤንነት ዙሪያ ያሉ አካባቢዎች ናቸው ፡፡ የመረጋጋት ስሜትን ፣ አዎንታዊነትን እና የትኩረት ስሜትን ፣ እንዲሁም የተጠናከረ የመከላከያ እና የህመም ማስታገሻ ስሜትን ጨምሮ። የግለሰብ ክሪስታሎችም በሕይወትዎ ውስጥ የተለያዩ ቦታዎቻቸውን ፣ ቅርጻቸው እና ቀለማቸው - እንዲሁም የእነሱ ዓይነት - ተጽዕኖዎትን የሚነኩ የተለያዩ የሕይወትዎ አከባቢዎችን የሚያስተካክሉ የራሳቸው ልዩ ኃይል እንዳላቸው ይታወቃል ፡፡ ክሪስታሎች የኃይል ንዝረትን ያጠናክራሉ እና ያሳድጋሉ ፣ ይህ ለእርስዎ ፣ ለእርስዎ ቦታ ፣ ለቤትዎ ወይም ለቤት እንስሳትዎም ቢሆን ፡፡ እነሱ የራሳችንን ጉልበት የበለጠ እንድናውቅ እንዲሁም በአሁኑ ሰዓት እና በአሁኑ ጊዜ እኛን ለማቆየት የእርዳታ እጅን ሊያቀርቡልን ይችላሉ። ምናልባት መዘባረቅ በሁሉም ቦታ ባለበት በዚህ በእጅ ዲጂታል ዘመን ውስጥ ፣ ለዚህ ​​ነው ክሪስታሎች እንደዚህ ያለ ጊዜ እያሳለፉ ያሉት ፡፡ እኛ ስንታገድ ፣ ኃይል ሲጎድለን ፣ የቀዘቀንነው ወይም መረጋጋት ሲያስፈልገን እኛን ይደግፉናል ፡፡ ከሱሜራውያን እና ከጥንት ግብፃውያን ጀምሮ ክሪስታሎች ለ 6000 ዓመታት ያህል ለፈውስ ጥቅም ላይ እንደዋሉ የሚጠቁሙ መረጃዎች አሉ ፡፡ በአሁኑ ጊዜ የክሪስታል ፈውስ አጠቃቀም ከቡድሃ እና ከሂንዱ ስለ ‹ቻካራችን› (በሰውነታችን ውስጥ ያሉ የኃይል ማዕከሎች) ግንዛቤ ጋር የበለጠ ይዛመዳል ፡፡ ምንም ይሁን ምን ፣ ክሪስታል ፈውስን የሚመለከቱ ሁሉም የተለያዩ ልምዶች ለተለያዩ ክሪስታል ዓይነቶች የተለያዩ ንብረቶችን ይመድባሉ ፡፡ የእያንዲንደ ክሪስታል ውጤት በአይነቱ ብቻ ብቻ ሳይሆን ቅርፁን እና እንዴት እንደነቃ እና እንዴት እንደጸዳ ይለውጣል። ይህ ሳይንስ እና ሚስጥራዊነት የሚገናኙበት ቦታ ነው-ክሪስታሎች በሚሊዮን የሚቆጠሩ ዓመታት ዕድሜ ያላቸው እና በምድር አፈጣጠር የመጀመሪያ ክፍል ውስጥ የተጭበረበሩ ናቸው ፡፡ እኔ ክሪስታሎች ጊዜ የማይሽረው የእውቀት ዳታቤዝ ይመስለኛል ፣ ምክንያቱም መቼም የተጋለጡባቸውን መረጃዎች ሁሉ ይይዛሉ ፡፡ ክሪስታሎች ከባድ የአየር ሁኔታ ወይም የጥንት ሥነ-ስርዓት ልምድን መረጃን በመሳብ ከእነሱ ጋር ለሚገናኝ ለማንም ያስተላልፋሉ ፡፡ በሳይንሳዊ መልኩ ክሪስታሎች በተፈጥሮ ውስጥ የሚገኝ እጅግ ሥርዓታማ የሆነ መዋቅር ናቸው ፣ ማለትም እነሱ አነስተኛ መጠን ያለው ኢንትሮፊ (የመረበሽ ልኬት) አላቸው ፡፡ ክሪስታሎች በዙሪያቸው ላሉት ለሁሉም ኃይሎች ግብዓቶች ምላሽ ለመስጠት በሚያስችል መንገድ የተዋቀሩ ናቸው ፣ ስለሆነም የተወሰኑ የንዝረት ድግግሞሾችን በመለዋወጥ ይወዛወዛሉ። ሚዛናዊነታቸው የተስተካከለበት መንገድ ፣ የሚለቁት ድግግሞሽ ብዛት እና እጅግ በጣም ብዙ መረጃዎችን የማከማቸት ችሎታቸው ክሪስታሎችን ለዘመናዊ ቴክኖሎጂዎች አስፈላጊ ያደርጋቸዋል ፡፡ ለዚህም ነው በኮምፒተር ፣ በቴሌቪዥን ፣ በሞባይል ስልኮች ፣ በሳተላይቶች እና በመሳሰሉት ውስጥ ክሪስታሎች ያሉት ፡፡ ሰዎች በሠርግ ሥነ-ስርአቶች ፣ ከጥበብ ልምዶች ፣ ከፈውስ ሥነ ሥርዓቶች ፣ ከመንፈሳዊ እድገቶች እና አልፎ ተርፎም ኃይልን ለማስዋብ እንደ ማስጌጥ ሰዎች ወደ ክሪስታሎች ይሳባሉ ፡፡ አባቶቻችን በሚለብሱበት ጊዜ የድንጋዮች ኃይል ከሰው የኤሌክትሮማግኔቲክ መስክ ጋር ኃይልን ለውጦችን እንደሚያመጣ በእውቀት ያውቃሉ ፡፡ ሰዎች የጥንት እና ግዙፍ አስማታዊ ድንጋዮች በኃይል መስመሩ አናት ላይ ስለሚቀመጡ ሰዎች እንደ ስቶንሄንጌ እና ሴዶና ያሉ ሰዎች ወደ አዙሪት (ሀይል ወደ ምድር እየገባ ወይም ከምድር አውሮፕላን የሚወጣበት) አቅጣጫን ይይዛሉ። ሰዎች ሁለት ሰዎችን አንድ ላይ የማስተሳሰር ምልክት አድርገው አልማዝ መልበስ ይመርጣሉ (አልማዝ በምድር ላይ የማይበሰብስ የማይበገር የተፈጥሮ ንጥረ ነገር ነው) ፣ እና የንጉሳዊ ዘውዶችን በክሪስታል ያጌጡታል ፡፡ እያንዳንዱ ክሪስታል ዓይነት የተለየ ዓላማ አለው ፣ ስለሆነም በሚፈልጉት ላይ የተመሠረተ ነው። አንዳንድ ድንጋዮች ሰውነትን ለመፈወስ ወይም በማሰላሰል ጊዜ ውስጣዊ ስሜትን ለማንኳኳት በተሻለ ጥቅም ላይ ሊውሉ ይችላሉ ፣ ሌሎች ድንጋዮች ደግሞ በቴክኖሎጂ ውስጥ ወይም እንደ የህንፃ ሕንፃዎች አካል ሆነው ያገለግላሉ ፡፡ #Crystals #ክሪስታል #Definition @Hub_Precious_Stones