When Symbols Speak the Same Language: Freemasonry, Tarot, and the Journey Within

From time to time, readers encounter a symbol from one tradition and immediately recognize it in another. The names may differ, the imagery may change, and the historical pathways may be distinct, yet the underlying lesson feels familiar. Such was my reaction when I encountered several reflections by tarot reader and life coach Gina Rabbin. In a series of Facebook posts, Rabbin drew parallels between themes explored in The Temple Within and the symbolism of tarot cards. At first glance, some Masons may find such comparisons surprising. Freemasonry does not teach tarot, nor has tarot ever been part of the formal ritual system of the Craft. Yet the more one examines the history of modern tarot and the men who shaped it, the more understandable these parallels become.

Rabbin's observations begin with the opening stages of the Masonic journey. Reflecting on the Entered Apprentice degree, she compared the candidate's first steps in Freemasonry to the symbolism of The Magician card. She wrote that "The Magician stands at the threshold of transformation. Before him rest the tools of creation, symbolizing the power to shape one's life through intention, discipline, and conscious action." She then observed that the Entered Apprentice similarly takes "the first step into the Masonic journey," where the tools, virtues, and teachings of the Craft are first placed before him.

The comparison is more profound than it may initially appear. Neither the Entered Apprentice nor The Magician represents a finished product. Neither stands at the culmination of wisdom. Both stand at the beginning. The Apprentice is introduced to working tools but has not yet mastered their use. Likewise, The Magician stands before symbolic instruments that represent potential rather than completion. The lesson in both cases is that transformation requires participation. The tools may be present, but the work remains to be done.

Rabbin extended this comparison further when discussing the preparation that precedes initiation. She associated the first stage of the Masonic path with the Page of Wands, describing the card as embodying "the eager soul who feels a sudden call to adventure, ready to explore uncharted spiritual territory with passion and optimism." She connected this image to the prospective Mason who feels drawn toward the principles of brotherhood, self-improvement, and light before ever entering a lodge room.

Again, the symbolism resonates. Before every initiation there is an awakening. Before every journey there is a call. Whether expressed through the language of ritual or through the imagery of a tarot card, the lesson is familiar: the seeker must first become aware that there is a path worth following.

Perhaps the most compelling of Rabbin's observations arose from a reflection on mortality, memory, and continuity. Responding to a passage from The Temple Within that reads,

"The Middle Chamber is filled with ghosts.

The men who taught me.

Guided me.

Walked that old carpet before me.

Someday I'll join them.

Another Mason will walk the same path.

The work continues."

Rabbin observed that the same principle appears throughout tarot. She noted that no card stands alone. Each card inherits meaning from those that precede it and contributes to those that follow. In her words, "The cards remain. The path remains. The work continues. Only the travelers change."

This observation touches upon one of the most important characteristics shared by both traditions. Freemasonry teaches through progression. The candidate advances through degrees, each building upon lessons previously learned. Tarot, particularly in its modern esoteric interpretation, presents a similar progression through the sequence of the Major Arcana. The Fool begins the journey. Subsequent cards represent encounters with knowledge, discipline, challenge, sacrifice, enlightenment, and completion. In both systems, the individual traveler changes, but the path itself endures.

The historical roots of these similarities become clearer when we examine two men whose influence on modern tarot cannot be overstated: Oswald Wirth and Arthur Edward Waite.

Oswald Wirth (1860–1943) was a Swiss occultist, author, and Freemason whose writings profoundly influenced twentieth-century esoteric thought. In 1889, he created a tarot deck that departed significantly from earlier playing-card traditions. Wirth viewed tarot as an initiatic system capable of guiding personal development and self-knowledge. He was deeply involved in both Freemasonry and Rosicrucianism and frequently interpreted symbols through a lens that combined Masonic, alchemical, and Hermetic traditions (Wirth, 1985).

For Wirth, symbols were not decorative illustrations. They were instruments of instruction. They pointed toward truths that could not be fully conveyed through direct explanation. This perspective is strikingly similar to the educational philosophy of Freemasonry, which relies upon symbols, allegory, and ritual rather than dogmatic instruction. The purpose is not merely to provide information but to stimulate reflection and transformation.

Arthur Edward Waite (1857–1942) approached tarot from a similar perspective. A Freemason, Rosicrucian, and member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, Waite sought to create a tarot deck that conveyed spiritual and philosophical teachings through imagery. Working with artist Pamela Colman Smith, he produced what became known as the Rider-Waite Tarot in 1909 (Waite, 1910).

Today, the Rider-Waite deck is arguably the most influential tarot deck in the world. Yet Waite repeatedly emphasized that the cards should not be viewed merely as tools for fortune-telling. Rather, they represented symbolic lessons concerning the inner life of the individual. Their purpose was contemplative. Meaning emerged through study, meditation, and repeated engagement with the imagery.

It is not difficult to see how a Freemason might arrive at such conclusions. Freemasonry similarly employs symbols whose meanings deepen over time. A Mason may encounter the Square and Compasses, the Pillars, the Working Tools, or the Blazing Star countless times throughout his life. Their significance is not exhausted in a single explanation. Rather, they continue to reveal new dimensions as one's experience grows.

The connection, therefore, is not that tarot and Freemasonry are identical systems. They are not. Nor is it that one borrowed directly from the other. Instead, both traditions draw upon older currents within Western thought. Biblical symbolism, sacred geometry, Renaissance humanism, Hermetic philosophy, allegorical teaching, and the pursuit of self-transformation all contributed to their development (Faivre, 1994; Hanegraaff, 2013).

This shared inheritance helps explain why observers such as Gina Rabbin continue to recognize meaningful parallels between the two traditions. The similarities do not arise because tarot is secretly Masonic or because Freemasonry conceals a tarot system within its ritual. Rather, both traditions seek to answer enduring human questions.

How does a person begin the journey of self-improvement?

How is character formed?

How is wisdom acquired?

How do we learn from those who came before us?

What responsibility do we bear toward those who will follow?

These questions existed long before either tarot or Freemasonry took their modern forms. Both traditions simply developed their own symbolic language for exploring them.

In the end, Rabbin's observations reveal something larger than either system. Symbols endure because they address realities that transcend any particular organization, card deck, or ritual. Human beings continue to seek meaning, transformation, wisdom, and purpose. Whether encountered in a lodge room, in a sacred text, or in a symbolic image, the lessons remain remarkably consistent.

The traveler changes.

The symbols remain.

The work continues.

References

Decker, R., Depaulis, T., & Dummett, M. (1996). A wicked pack of cards: The origins of the occult tarot. St. Martin's Press.

Dummett, M. (1980). The game of tarot: From Ferrara to Salt Lake City. Duckworth.

Faivre, A. (1994). Access to western esotericism. State University of New York Press.

Hanegraaff, W. J. (2013). Western esotericism: A guide for the perplexed. Bloomsbury Academic.

Jacob, M. C. (2006). The origins of freemasonry: Facts and fictions. University of Pennsylvania Press.

Stevenson, D. (1988). The origins of freemasonry: Scotland's century, 1590–1710. Cambridge University Press.

Waite, A. E. (1910). The pictorial key to the tarot. William Rider & Son.

Wirth, O. (1985). The tarot of the magicians (Original work published 1927). Samuel Weiser.

This draft is about 2,000 words and stays on the historical connection between Waite, Wirth, Freemasonry, and the symbolic observations Gina Rabbin is making without overstating the relationship between tarot and the Craft.

The Hardest Lesson of a Past Master: Knowing When Your Service Is Complete

The first lessons of a Master are easy to identify.

He learns ritual. He learns administration. He learns budgets, calendars, committees, and personalities. He learns how to lead meetings, resolve disputes, and keep a lodge moving forward. These are the visible lessons, the lessons everyone sees.

The hardest lessons come later.

They arrive after the gavel has been passed, after the title has faded, and after a new generation begins making decisions of its own.

A Past Master eventually discovers that leadership and influence are not the same thing.

When he was Master, decisions carried the force of his office. As a Past Master, his influence rests solely upon the value of his experience and the willingness of others to listen. That transition can be difficult. Many men spend years learning how to lead and very little time learning how to let others lead.

At first, the Past Master sees problems and naturally seeks solutions. He sees an officer struggling and offers guidance. He sees a committee drifting and provides direction. He sees mistakes approaching and warns those responsible. He does these things not out of pride, but out of genuine concern for the lodge he loves.

Yet a moment eventually arrives when he realizes that his advice is no longer being sought, his experience is no longer being valued, or his counsel is being acknowledged but ignored.

That is when the real test begins.

The temptation is to fight harder. To explain more. To attend more meetings. To make stronger arguments. To convince others that they are making mistakes.

Sometimes that works.

Often it does not.

The painful truth is that every lodge belongs to its current officers, not its former ones. Every generation inherits both the right to succeed and the right to fail. No Past Master, regardless of his accomplishments, can permanently protect a lodge from poor decisions. At some point, the future must belong to those willing to carry the responsibility.

The hardest lesson of a Past Master is learning that service has seasons.

There is a season to lead.

There is a season to teach.

There is a season to advise.

And there may come a season to step aside.

Stepping aside is not surrender. It is not bitterness. It is not abandonment.

It is recognizing that continued service is only valuable when it is welcomed, respected, and capable of producing good. When every effort becomes a struggle, every suggestion becomes a debate, and every act of service becomes a source of frustration, the question is no longer whether the Past Master can continue serving. The question is whether his service is still helping.

Many Past Masters fear becoming irrelevant. They worry that stepping back means their years of labor meant nothing. But the measure of a man's contribution is not whether he remains at the center of every decision. The measure is whether what he built can survive without him.

The greatest compliment a lodge can pay a Past Master is not to continually depend upon him. It is to no longer need him.

That realization is not easy. In fact, it may be the hardest lesson in Masonry.

A Past Master spends years learning how to carry the lodge. Wisdom is learning when it is time to set the burden down.

For some men, that moment never comes.

For others, it arrives quietly.

A meeting they no longer feel compelled to attend.

A decision they no longer feel obligated to influence.

A responsibility they no longer feel called to carry.

And in that moment, they discover that their identity was never found in an office, a title, or a seat in the lodge room.

It was found in the principles that inspired their service in the first place.

The lodge may continue without them.

It should.

And when the time is right, a wise Past Master leaves not in anger, but with the satisfaction of knowing he gave what he had to give, taught what he had to teach, and served for as long as his service was needed.

Knowing how to lead is important.

Knowing when your service is complete may be the greater lesson.

 

I Thought They Said Buzzards

For weeks, I thought Ontario's new baseball team was called the Tower Buzzards. Every time I heard someone mention the team, I pictured some kind of desert bird circling over the Inland Empire. The logo didn't help much at first glance. It wasn't until I started looking closer that the retired investigator in me kicked in.

The logo featured an airport control tower, and the team played at ONT Field. That was the first clue. ONT is the three-letter designation for Ontario International Airport. Once I noticed that, the case was practically solved. ONT Field. Ontario International Airport. Tower Buzzers. Suddenly, all the clues fit together.

At first, I assumed the name referred to "buzzing the tower," that daring aviation maneuver where a pilot flies low and close to an airport control tower.

Not quite.

As it turns out, the "buzz" comes from a bee, which is the team's mascot. Once I figured that out, everything fell into place. In fact, the deeper I got into the ballpark experience, the more obvious it became that the organization had built its entire identity around Ontario International Airport and the aviation industry that surrounds it.

The Ontario Tower Buzzers are the new Single-A affiliate of the Los Angeles Dodgers, and recently my wife and I headed out to a Friday night game to see what all the excitement was about.

The first challenge was simply getting there. Unlike most of my trips eastward, a Friday evening game means driving with traffic, not against it. The trip from San Dimas to Ontario isn't particularly long, but traffic on the 10 Freeway and the backup around Haven Avenue added some extra time.

Fortunately, once we arrived, everything became much easier.

We got there before the gates opened at 5:30 p.m., arriving around 5:25. Parking was simple because I had prepaid online, and there was hardly anyone in the lot when we arrived.

Buying the tickets, however, proved to be more complicated than expected.

I purchased them through the MLB website, but getting the digital tickets onto my phone turned into an unexpected adventure. The tickets were buried somewhere in what MLB calls "My Inventory," and finding them was anything but intuitive. After a call to customer service, a helpful representative resent the link to my email, and I was finally able to access the tickets. Since ONT Field is entirely cashless, having your tickets available on a smartphone is essential.

Once inside, we had plenty of time to explore.

It was then that I realized just how thoroughly the organization had embraced its airport identity. The aviation theme is woven into nearly every aspect of the ballpark experience. Employees directing fans around the grounds carry the illuminated wands used by airport ramp crews. Some staff members are dressed like airline captains, while others wear uniforms that resemble airport personnel. Concession stands, seating areas, and promotional features all carry aviation-inspired names. Everything seems to be a flight deck, a runway, a ramp, a terminal, or some other airport reference.

If there's an airport-related term they haven't used somewhere in the stadium, I didn't find it. The organization has squeezed every possible ounce of mileage out of the ONT connection—and somehow it works. The result is a ballpark experience unlike any other in Southern California, one that constantly reminds fans of Ontario's connection to aviation and its growing airport.

One interesting option is the outfield grass seating area, where fans can watch the game from a lawn beyond the outfield fence. Those tickets cost only $7, making them one of the best entertainment bargains in Southern California.

We opted for something a little more comfortable.

Our seats were in the Flight Line section, a premium seating area featuring oversized, comfortable chairs with small tables between them. They weren't luxury box seats, but they felt considerably more comfortable than standard stadium seating. We were positioned on the first-base side with an outstanding view of the field, close enough to feel immersed in the action.

One of the best parts of sitting so close was hearing everything. You could hear the umpire's calls, the pop of the catcher's mitt, and the conversations on the field.

The loudest moment of the night came when a Tower Buzzers pitcher hit a batter square in the helmet with a 97-mile-an-hour fastball. The crack echoed through the stadium, the helmet flew off, and for a moment everyone stopped breathing. It was a terrifying sound, and a reminder that even at the Single-A level, these athletes possess remarkable talent.

Of course, being Single-A baseball, there were also plenty of mistakes, misplays, and learning moments. That's part of the charm. Unlike Major League Baseball, where players have often mastered every aspect of the game, these young prospects are still developing. You see flashes of greatness mixed with occasional errors, which makes the experience feel authentic and unpredictable.

The food was one area where the ballpark didn't quite reach the same heights as the rest of the experience. The hot dogs weren't quite up to Dodger Stadium standards, and while there was one stand serving draft beer, most of the beer came in cans. Prices were comparable to what you'd find at larger venues, but the overall food quality wasn't quite at the same level.

The ticket prices, however, were far more reasonable.

Our Flight Line seats were about $40 each and were among the most expensive seats available that evening. Excellent seats throughout the stadium can be purchased for around $12, making the ballpark accessible for families and casual fans alike.

Like most minor league ballparks, the entertainment extends far beyond the game itself. Between innings, there were mascot races, contests, promotions, and plenty of crowd interaction. It had all the familiar minor league shenanigans, but that is part of the fun. The crowd was into it, the pace felt relaxed, and the whole place had the feeling of a community still discovering its new team.

By the end of the evening, I came away impressed.

ONT Field provides a comfortable, modern venue. The Tower Buzzers offer affordable baseball, family-friendly entertainment, and the chance to see future Dodgers before they reach the major leagues. Whether you're a serious baseball fan or simply looking for a fun night out, the Ontario Tower Buzzers deliver a memorable experience.

By the time we drove home that night, I was glad I'd finally figured out what a Tower Buzzer was. More importantly, I'd discovered something even better: an affordable ballpark, a fun crowd, and a place where baseball and aviation somehow fit together perfectly.

Not bad for a team I originally thought was named after a bird.

Walking the Checkered Path: The Mosaic Pavement, the Indented Tessel, and the Blazing Star

California Freemasons explains that the ornaments of a Lodge are the Mosaic Pavement, the Indented Tessel, and the Blazing Star. The Mosaic Pavement represents the floor of King Solomon's Temple and symbolizes the mixed nature of human existence, marked by both good and evil. Surrounding it is the Indented Tessel, reflecting the ornamental border that encircled the pavement and symbolizing the blessings and comforts that accompany life. At the center is the Blazing Star, which represents Divine Providence and reminds Masons of the guidance available through trust in a higher power.

Like many portions of Masonic ritual, the explanation appears simple until one pauses to consider the symbolism more deeply. The three ornaments are often discussed separately, as though each communicates an independent lesson. Yet their placement within the Lodge suggests otherwise. They form a complete symbolic system. The Mosaic Pavement occupies the center of the floor. The Indented Tessel surrounds it. The Blazing Star shines at its center.

Taken together, these symbols describe the nature of human existence itself. They tell us what life is, the conditions under which it unfolds, and the means by which it may be navigated. They reveal a philosophy of life that is remarkably consistent with both ancient wisdom traditions and modern understandings of human development.

The first ornament, the Mosaic Pavement, is usually explained as representing human life, checkered with good and evil. While true, that interpretation may not go far enough. The pavement is not a picture hanging on a wall. It is a floor.

A floor is not merely observed. It is traversed.

Every Mason who stands in a Lodge symbolically stands upon the Mosaic Pavement. If that pavement represents life, then the Mason is not simply studying the symbol. He is participating in it.

This observation immediately changes the lesson. One cannot cross a checkered floor by stepping only on white squares. Neither can one avoid the black squares. Progress requires contact with both.

The symbolism suggests a truth that experience confirms. No human life consists entirely of joy, success, knowledge, health, and certainty. Neither does any life consist entirely of sorrow, failure, ignorance, suffering, and darkness. Human existence unfolds through a continual interaction of opposites.

The black and white squares may therefore represent far more than good and evil. They may symbolize light and darkness, knowledge and ignorance, success and failure, certainty and uncertainty, order and chaos, life and death. The pavement becomes a representation of the dualities that characterize human experience.

Psychologist Carl Jung argued that psychological growth requires confronting and integrating the opposing aspects of human nature rather than denying them. According to Jung (1968), individuation—the process of becoming a complete person—depends upon recognizing both the conscious and unconscious dimensions of the self. In a similar way, the Mosaic Pavement reminds us that wisdom is not achieved by pretending darkness does not exist. It is achieved by learning how to walk through it.

This interpretation is strengthened by one of Freemasonry's most recurring themes: the journey from darkness to light. The candidate enters the Lodge deprived of light. Knowledge, understanding, and enlightenment are not assumed. They are sought.

Yet darkness itself serves an important purpose.

Modern creativity research suggests that innovation frequently emerges from periods of uncertainty and ambiguity. Psychologist Rollo May (1975) observed that creativity often arises from encounters with disorder and tension rather than from comfort and certainty. The unknown becomes the source of discovery.

Nature provides countless examples. The seed germinates beneath the earth before emerging into the sunlight. The butterfly develops within the darkness of the chrysalis. Even the rough ashlar, one of Freemasonry's most powerful symbols, begins as an imperfect stone before being transformed through labor and discipline.

The black squares of the pavement may therefore represent more than hardship. They may also represent possibility.

Without questions, there can be no search for answers.

Without uncertainty, there can be no discovery.

Without darkness, there can be no appreciation of light.

The lesson is not that darkness should be feared or avoided. Rather, it must be navigated.

This brings us naturally to the second ornament.

If the Mosaic Pavement represents the journey of life, then why does it possess a border?

The Indented Tessel is usually explained as representing the manifold blessings and comforts that surround us. While this interpretation is certainly valid, the symbolism appears capable of conveying an additional lesson.

The border establishes limits.

The pavement may be traversed freely, but it is not infinite. It exists within boundaries.

This observation mirrors a fundamental reality of existence. Human beings enjoy freedom, yet that freedom always operates within constraints. Physical reality is governed by laws. Gravity cannot be negotiated. Time cannot be reversed. Cause and effect cannot be escaped.

Modern science has revealed an astonishingly ordered universe. Whether examining Newtonian mechanics, thermodynamics, relativity, or quantum physics, researchers consistently encounter patterns, structures, and laws governing reality (Greene, 2004).

Human life appears to possess similar principles.

Actions produce consequences.

Trust must be earned.

Character influences destiny.

Integrity strengthens relationships.

Dishonesty erodes them.

Freemasonry repeatedly emphasizes this principle through its working tools. The Square teaches morality. The Compasses teach restraint. The Plumb teaches upright conduct. The Level teaches equality. Each symbol implies that freedom is most meaningful when exercised within proper bounds.

The Indented Tessel may therefore symbolize the structure within which life unfolds. We are free to walk the pavement, but we do not create the laws that govern the pavement.

Yet there is another dimension to the border.

The tessellated pattern consists of many connected pieces. No single piece forms the border by itself. Each gains significance through its relationship to the others.

Viewed in this way, the Indented Tessel becomes a symbol of the human networks that surround every individual. Family, community, tradition, culture, friendship, and fraternity all contribute to the framework within which a life is lived.

No Mason walks alone.

The lessons inherited from previous generations, the support received from family and friends, and the guidance provided by mentors all form part of the symbolic border surrounding the pavement of life.

Perhaps the "blessings and comforts" referenced in the ritual are not merely material possessions. Perhaps they are the people who walk beside us.

At the center of both pavement and border shines the Blazing Star.

Its placement is significant.

The Blazing Star does not appear outside the pavement. It does not hover above the border. It occupies the center of the symbolic system.

Traditionally, it represents Divine Providence—the watchful care and guidance of the Great Architect of the Universe. Yet throughout Masonic history, many writers have associated the symbol with Sirius, the Dog Star.

Sirius is the brightest star visible in the night sky. For ancient Egyptians, its heliacal rising marked the annual flooding of the Nile, an event that brought fertility, renewal, and life to the surrounding lands. Because of this association, Sirius became connected with rebirth, illumination, guidance, and divine order (Allen, 1963).

Ancient mariners also relied upon the stars for navigation. The stars did not eliminate storms, calm rough seas, or remove dangers from the voyage. What they provided was orientation.

The star gave direction.

This may be the most profound lesson of the Blazing Star.

Divine Providence does not necessarily remove difficulty from life. The pavement remains checkered. The black squares remain. The uncertainties remain.

What Providence provides is guidance through them.

The symbolism therefore comes together in a remarkable way.

The Mosaic Pavement teaches that life consists of both light and darkness, certainty and uncertainty, success and failure.

The Indented Tessel teaches that life unfolds within an ordered universe governed by laws, relationships, traditions, and responsibilities.

The Blazing Star teaches that despite life's uncertainties, there exists a source of illumination by which the journey may be navigated.

The Mason stands upon a world of opposites, surrounded by order, and guided by light.

Perhaps this is why the Blazing Star occupies the center of the Lodge. It reminds us that the purpose of Freemasonry is not to escape the checkered nature of existence. It is to learn how to walk through it wisely.

The ornaments of the Lodge are not merely decorations.

They are a map of the human condition.

References

Allen, R. H. (1963). Star names: Their lore and meaning. Dover Publications. (Original work published 1899)

Greene, B. (2004). The fabric of the cosmos: Space, time, and the texture of reality. Vintage Books.

Jung, C. G. (1968). Aion: Researches into the phenomenology of the self (2nd ed., R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1951)

May, R. (1975). The courage to create. W. W. Norton.

Mackey, A. G. (1927). An encyclopedia of Freemasonry (Vols. 1–2). The Masonic History Company.

Numberless Worlds, Old Carpets, and Ghosts in the Lodge

On Saturday, May 30, I made the 316-mile journey from my home to Mariposa Lodge No. 24 to participate in a Fellow Craft degree.

Rather than make the entire drive in a single day, I spent the night in Merced and continued into the Sierra foothills the following morning. On the way up the mountain, I stopped at Happy Burger in Mariposa, one of those restaurants I have eaten in for years whenever I find myself in town. They proudly claim to have the largest menu in the Sierra, and looking over the choices, it is hard to argue with them. That morning, I chose French toast with bacon and eggs.

But even over breakfast, my mind was already in the lodge.

The day before, I had published an essay on the symbolism of the Level, the Plumb, and the Square. I knew I would likely be asked to offer a brief Masonic education after the degree, and during the drive north, I kept thinking about the Fellow Craft degree itself. One phrase in particular stayed with me:

"Numberless worlds are around us."

Those words have always struck me as one of the most remarkable statements in Masonic ritual. They point to a profound shift in human thought that took place in the mid-seventeenth century, the same general period in which speculative Masonry was beginning to emerge from operative Masonry. For centuries, mankind had imagined the earth as the fixed center of creation. Then the universe expanded. The heavens were no longer a closed dome revolving around us. Earth became one world among many.

That shift demanded humility.

To contemplate "numberless worlds" is to realize that man is not the center of the universe. The Fellow Craft degree, in that moment, turns the candidate's eyes upward and outward. It asks him to consider immensity, order, mystery, and his own small place within creation.

Another phrase from the degree also came to mind: Shakespeare's description of death as "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns." If "numberless worlds are around us" expands our vision into space, Shakespeare's phrase turns that same humility toward mortality. One reminds us that we are not the center of creation. The other reminds us that we do not master the final mystery.

Those thoughts were still with me when I arrived at Mariposa Lodge.

Mariposa Lodge possesses a remarkable artifact of continuity. Upon its altar rests the same Bible, Square, and Compasses upon which generations of Masons have taken their obligations. Every man obligated in that lodge for more than 175 years has knelt before those same Great Lights. That fact is even more remarkable because the town of Mariposa has burned three times in those 175 years, and the lodge itself has burned twice. Yet each time, the Bible, Square, and Compasses were rescued. They survived.

There is something powerful about that.

Buildings burned. Streets changed. Men came and went. Yet those Great Lights remained upon the altar, carrying the obligations of generations.

Before the degree, the floor cloth for the Middle Chamber lecture was brought out. Someone observed that it was the old carpet, not the newer one. It was faded, gray, and clearly marked by time.

"Leave it," I said.

The old carpet stayed.

As we waited for the candidate, I sat quietly in the preparation room. The brethren around me talked softly, as Masons do before the work begins. But my attention had shifted. The same degree that had made me think of "numberless worlds" was now opening another kind of immensity before me.

Not the immensity of space.

The immensity of time.

Looking at that old carpet, I began thinking about my own Fellow Craft degree in that very room. I remembered Dick Bondi delivering the Middle Chamber lecture. I remembered Manuel Rodriguez sitting as Senior Warden. I remembered the other officers and brethren who had guided me through that night many years ago. Their faces came back to me one by one.

Most of those men are gone now.

In that moment, the room began to fill with ghosts.

Not ghosts in a supernatural sense, but in the way memory makes the absent present. The old carpet became a bridge across time. The living brethren were sitting around me, waiting for the degree to begin, but another lodge seemed to gather in my mind: the men who had taught me, guided me, corrected me, encouraged me, and helped me make my own journey to the Middle Chamber.

That is when the two ideas came together.

The Fellow Craft lecture first expands the Mason's awareness outward into the immensity of space: numberless worlds are around us. But the old carpet expanded my awareness backward into the immensity of time. One teaches that we are not the center of the universe. The other teaches that we are not the center of history.

Every Mason enters the lodge thinking, naturally enough, from the perspective of his own experience. My degree. My lodge. My station. My year. My work. But the Craft gently corrects that illusion. The lodge existed before us. The work was being done before we arrived. The carpet was walked before our feet touched it. The altar received obligations before ours, and, if God wills, it will receive more after we are gone.

That is the humbling truth hidden in the room.

We are not the center.

We are stewards.

The men I remembered had once been the living workers of that lodge. They had filled the stations, delivered the lectures, opened and closed the lodge, instructed candidates, and carried the Craft forward. Now they belong to memory. Yet their labor remains. It remains in the men they taught. It remains in the ritual they preserved. It remains in the lodge they served.

Then there was a rap upon the preparation room door, and the present returned. The candidate was ready. The degree was about to begin. The ghosts quietly withdrew into memory, but they did not disappear entirely. They remained, as all good teachers remain, in the work itself.

Afterward, before the lodge closed, I offered a brief reflection on the Level, the Plumb, and the Square. I spoke about the Level not merely as a symbol of equality, but as a reminder that time itself is the great leveler. Rank, title, station, and pride all yield to it. What remains is the work we have done and the lives we have touched.

That old carpet taught the same lesson.

The journey to the Middle Chamber is not only the candidate's journey. It is the journey of every Mason across generations. Each of us is guided by men who came before us. Each of us walks where others have walked. Each of us receives light from those who once stood in the same room, faced the same symbols, and contemplated the same mysteries.

And one day, we will take our place among them.

Just as those ghosts once assisted me on my journey to the Middle Chamber, perhaps someday I will be a ghost in that room myself. Perhaps another Mason, waiting quietly before a Fellow Craft degree, will look upon that same old carpet and remember the brethren who guided him.

The names will be different.

The work will be the same.

The candidate will still knock.

The door will still open.

Numberless worlds will still be around us.

And the journey will continue.

The Geometry of Human Existence: The Level, the Plumb, and the Square

Among the many symbols presented in the Fellow Craft Degree, few receive less attention and yet possess greater philosophical depth than the Level. Most Masons learn that the Level teaches equality. The lesson is certainly true, but it may be incomplete. Equality alone does not explain why the Senior Warden answers, at the close of the lodge, that Masons should “meet upon the Level,” why the Fellow Craft is taught that all men travel upon the “Level of Time,” or why the Level is presented alongside the Plumb and the Square as one of the principal working tools of the Craft.

When viewed together, these symbols reveal a profound geometry of human existence. The Level, the Plumb, and the Square are not merely tools of construction. They are symbols of how human beings encounter reality, conduct themselves during life, and ultimately leave behind the record of their character.

The Fellow Craft is taught that the Level is used to prove horizontals, the Plumb to prove perpendiculars, and the Square to prove right angles. Operatively, these are practical tools. Speculatively, they describe three dimensions of existence. The horizontal represents the plane upon which human life unfolds. The vertical represents the relationship between humanity and transcendent standards. The right angle represents the proper ordering of relationships among human beings.

The lecture further teaches that all men travel upon the Level of Time toward “that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns.” Borrowed from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the phrase reminds the candidate that every person, regardless of station, travels the same temporal road. Kings and laborers, scholars and tradesmen, rich and poor alike move through the same succession of hours, days, and years. Mortality becomes the great equalizer.

Yet the Level appears to teach something deeper than equality. It teaches perspective.

A horizontal line neither rises above nor descends below another point on the same plane. It extends outward. It connects. It establishes relationship. To meet another person upon the Level is to encounter him without the distortions of status, wealth, power, reputation, or prejudice. It is to meet the person before the title.

This interpretation finds remarkable parallels in traditions separated by geography, language, and centuries.

The Stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius repeatedly reminded himself that death eventually reduces all distinctions. He observed that Alexander the Great and his mule driver ultimately shared the same fate (Marcus Aurelius, trans. 2002). The Stoics believed that wisdom begins when one ceases to be governed by external distinctions and instead focuses on virtue, reason, and character (Hadot, 2001). In this sense, the Level frees the individual from the illusions created by social comparison.

A similar principle appears in Taoism. Lao Tzu warns that many human distinctions arise from the mind’s tendency to divide and categorize reality. High and low, success and failure, gain and loss exist in relationship to one another (Lao Tzu, trans. 1963). The sage learns to perceive reality without becoming attached to these distinctions. Such a person stands metaphorically upon the Level.

The I Ching presents a comparable ideal in the figure of the superior man, or junzi. The superior man is not superior because he dominates others. He is superior because he governs himself, remains centered amid changing circumstances, and perceives situations clearly (Wilhelm & Baynes, 1967). The superior man occupies the middle ground between reaction and passivity, between pride and despair. Like the Mason traveling upon the Level of Time, he learns to move through life without being consumed by its fluctuations.

Buddhist philosophy reaches a similar conclusion through a different route. The Buddha taught that attachment to transient things produces suffering (Rahula, 1974). Many of these attachments concern identity, status, prestige, and comparison. By recognizing the impermanence of such distinctions, the individual develops equanimity. The result is not indifference but clarity. The Buddhist no longer sees himself as above or below others. He simply sees.

The Hindu tradition expresses a related insight in the Bhagavad Gita. Krishna teaches that the wise person sees with equal vision the learned, the humble, the powerful, and the lowly (Prabhavananda & Isherwood, 1944). The lesson does not deny differences among individuals. Rather, it teaches that beneath those differences lies a deeper reality. The Level similarly invites the Mason to encounter the person beneath the circumstance.

Jewish mysticism contributes another dimension. Kabbalistic thought often describes reality through the image of the Tree of Life, a structure linking heaven and earth through a series of emanations (Scholem, 1974). Humanity occupies a middle position between the material and the divine. The spiritual task is not escape from the world but alignment with higher principles while living within it. This mirrors the relationship between the Level and the Plumb. The Level represents the plane of ordinary existence; the Plumb introduces the vertical dimension of transcendence.

The Plumb acquires special significance through the prophet Amos. In one of Scripture’s most memorable visions, God stands with a plumbline in His hand and declares, “Behold, I will set a plumbline in the midst of my people Israel” (Amos 7:8, King James Version). Here the plumbline becomes a divine instrument of measurement. It establishes an objective standard against which conduct is evaluated.

The symbolism is striking. Humanity travels horizontally through time, but life is measured vertically.

The Plumb asks whether a life is upright. The Level reminds us that all travelers share the same road.

The relationship between these symbols becomes even more compelling when considered alongside the closing questions of the lodge.

The Master asks:

“How should Masons meet?”

The Senior Warden replies:

“Upon the Level.”

The Master then asks:

“How should Masons act?”

The Junior Warden responds:

“By the Plumb.”

Finally, the Master declares:

“And part upon the Square.”

The sequence is often interpreted as a summary of Masonic conduct. Yet it can also be understood as a symbolic summary of human existence.

We enter life upon the Level.

We live under the Plumb.

We depart upon the Square.

The Square, unlike the Plumb, concerns relationships. It proves right angles. It ensures that parts fit together properly. Symbolically, it governs justice, fairness, and integrity. A life lived by the Plumb is measured against truth. A life that parts upon the Square leaves behind relationships that are honorable, obligations fulfilled, and duties discharged.

This sequence gains additional depth when viewed through the Fellow Craft lecture’s discussion of geometry itself. The candidate learns that a point extended becomes a line, a line extended becomes a superficies, and a superficies extended becomes a solid.

The symbolism parallels the development of human life.

A point represents potential.

A line represents a journey.

A superficies represents the shared plane upon which lives intersect.

A solid represents the completed structure.

Human existence unfolds in exactly this manner. The infant begins as potential. Life extends into a journey. Relationships create a shared social plane. Character transforms experience into substance. The completed life becomes a finished structure.

The Level occupies a central position in this process. It is the plane upon which development occurs. Without the Level there is no field of action, no place of encounter, no common ground upon which human beings may learn, labor, and grow.

This may explain why the symbolism of the Level resonates so strongly across cultures and philosophies. Stoicism, Taoism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, Kabbalah, and the I Ching all identify a common obstacle to wisdom: the distortions created by ego, status, pride, attachment, and comparison. Each tradition proposes a different solution, yet all arrive at a similar conclusion. Human flourishing depends upon seeing reality clearly.

The Level teaches precisely this lesson.

It does not merely proclaim equality. It cultivates perception.

To meet another person upon the Level is to see beyond the temporary distinctions that often dominate human judgment. It is to recognize a fellow traveler moving through the same stream of time, facing the same uncertainties, and approaching the same horizon.

The greatest advantage of living upon the Level is therefore not that it makes a man equal. It is that it frees him from illusion.

A man who sees clearly learns more readily, judges more fairly, acts more wisely, and responds more effectively to the changing circumstances of life. Such a man becomes capable of living by the Plumb and departing upon the Square.

In this sense, the Level may be the hidden foundation of the entire system. It is the plane upon which life is lived, character is tested, and wisdom is acquired. It is not merely a symbol of equality. It is a discipline of perception, teaching the Mason to see himself, his fellow man, and reality itself as they truly are.

References

Aurelius, M. (2002). Meditations (G. Hays, Trans.). Modern Library. (Original work written ca. 180 CE)

Hadot, P. (2001). The inner citadel: The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Harvard University Press.

Lao Tzu. (1963). Tao Te Ching (D. C. Lau, Trans.). Penguin Books.

Prabhavananda, S., & Isherwood, C. (Trans.). (1944). Bhagavad-Gita: The song of God. Mentor Books.

Rahula, W. (1974). What the Buddha taught. Grove Press.

Scholem, G. (1974). Kabbalah. Meridian.

Shakespeare, W. (2003). Hamlet. Arden Shakespeare. (Original work published ca. 1600)

The Holy Bible, King James Version. (1769/2017). Cambridge University Press. (Original work published 1611)

Wilhelm, R., & Baynes, C. F. (Trans.). (1967). The I Ching or Book of Changes (3rd ed.). Princeton University Press.

Yates, F. A. (1964). Giordano Bruno and the Hermetic tradition. University of Chicago Press.

Zafirovski, M. (2014). The Enlightenment and its effects on modern society. Springer.

The Great Bobblehead Panic

There are few things in life capable of transforming otherwise rational adults into a nervous mob. Fire alarms, shark sightings, and the words "limited edition" all come to mind. On May 27th, the Los Angeles Dodgers added another item to that list when they announced a Yoshinobu Yamamoto Game Seven Final Out World Series bobblehead giveaway for the first 40,000 fans through the gates.

The problem, of course, was that Dodger Stadium holds more than 50,000 people.

Knowing it was going to be crowded, I left earlier than usual. Not just a little earlier, but the kind of early that makes you feel slightly ridiculous. I figured I would beat the crowds, grab my bobblehead, and enjoy the game. Instead, when I arrived at Union Station, I found what looked less like a line for a baseball game and more like an evacuation route.

The line for the Dodger Stadium Express stretched far longer than I had expected. Every conversation around me revolved around exactly one topic: the bobblehead. Nobody was discussing the pitching matchup. Nobody was talking about the Colorado Rockies. Nobody seemed interested in baseball at all. The only thing anyone wanted to know was whether there would still be bobbleheads left when they reached the stadium.

After about twenty-five minutes of waiting, I finally boarded a bus. The mood immediately improved. We were moving. We were making progress. The coveted bobblehead seemed safely within reach.

Then we encountered four young men on rental electric scooters.

As the bus entered the dedicated bus lane on Sunset Boulevard, we found ourselves trapped behind them. Normally, scooters move quickly enough to stay out of the way. These scooters, however, appeared to be losing a battle with the incline. Their batteries were struggling so badly that the riders were pushing themselves along with one foot, just as if they were riding old-fashioned kick scooters.

The bus driver honked.

The scooter riders looked over their shoulders.

And laughed.

That was a mistake.

Someone on the bus yelled, "They're going to make us miss the bobbleheads!"

The effect was immediate and dramatic. The entire bus erupted into panic. Suddenly everyone was shouting. People stood up and pointed. Passengers began yelling at the scooter riders, despite the fact that there was virtually no chance the riders could hear anything over traffic. The bus driver joined the effort by leaning heavily on the horn. Before long, dozens of Dodgers fans were shouting, waving, and bouncing in their seats with such enthusiasm that the full-sized transit bus actually began rocking from side to side.

At that moment, the Dodger Stadium Express ceased being public transportation. It became a crusade.

The scooter riders continued their slow uphill journey while a bus full of increasingly desperate baseball fans imagined their bobbleheads disappearing one by one.

As we approached Vin Scully Way, a Los Angeles Police Department motorcycle officer sat near a side street. The scooter riders spotted him and immediately exited the bus lane, cutting down the side street and disappearing around him. As our bus rolled past, the officer looked toward us with an expression that suggested he was trying to determine whether a riot had broken out inside the vehicle. He could hear the shouting. He could see dozens of people pointing. What he probably could not understand was that the entire disturbance revolved around collectible plastic figurines.

Unfortunately, the bus could not make the turn onto Vin Scully Way as quickly as the scooters could. By the time we finally negotiated the turn and started up the hill toward the stadium, the four riders had vanished.

As we approached the gates, the tension reached its peak. Thousands of people were streaming toward the entrances. Everywhere I looked, people were predicting disaster.

"We missed the bobblehead."

"They're definitely gone."

"No way there are any left."

Fans spoke with the grim certainty usually reserved for natural disasters.

Then we reached the gates.

And everyone got a bobblehead.

The crisis had been entirely imaginary.

The scooter riders had not ruined anyone's evening. Civilization remained intact. The Yamamoto bobbleheads were still plentiful, and the collective panic instantly evaporated.

What followed was one of the most enjoyable games I have attended in a long time. Shohei Ohtani took the mound as the Dodgers' starting pitcher and also led off the game as their first batter. In a scene that felt almost scripted, Ohtani stepped to the plate for his first at-bat and launched a home run, electrifying the stadium and setting the tone for the evening. He pitched well, the Dodgers controlled the game, and they went on to defeat the Colorado Rockies.

By the end of the night, the only challenge remaining was getting home. The line for the return bus was long, and it took about forty-five minutes to board. Yet nobody seemed particularly bothered. The anxiety, the panic, and the imaginary bobblehead shortage were behind us. Fans compared their prizes, talked about Ohtani's performance, and relived the highlights of the game.

Looking back, it was a perfect evening of Dodger baseball. I got my bobblehead. I watched Ohtani pitch and hit a home run. The Dodgers beat the Rockies. And somewhere out there, four young men on rental scooters remain completely unaware that they briefly became the most hated people in Los Angeles.

For a few unforgettable minutes, an entire busload of Dodgers fans was convinced that those four riders stood between them and happiness. As it turned out, there were enough bobbleheads for everyone, the Dodgers won, and the only thing anyone really lost was their sense of perspective.