Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life - Posts Tagged "fear"
...And By Opposing End Them
I’ve been at the Shakespeare again this morning.
“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?”
That really is the question, isn’t it?
There is a huge amount of stuff out there purporting to tell us how to come to full consciousness. Some of it valuable, some less so. No school, however, can confer or guarantee the gift of Being. That is for the student to find within themselves and in this we are all students. All any school or system can ever do is open a door and show a way, arming the student with the tools of the quest we have found to be of use, a map lovingly crafted by those who have walked this way before and a perhaps a star to follow.
That little word, Being, encompasses so much and will be defined subjectively by each of us, filtered by our emotions and intellect and shaped by our beliefs. It is very hard to pin down in words and describe completely what one means by the term.
In practical terms at least, it is for me partly an inner honesty that can see and accept the personality that masks the inmost self, observing the actions and reactions and understanding the motives without judgement or pity or the need to excuse. The outer shell we wear changes so much depending on our companions and situation and there are so very many masks that most of us do not truly know who we are. We pick an image of ourselves that we feel can accept… it may be a happy one or not, but it is familiar and we cling to it fondly until we actually find the courage and honesty to look at ourselves more deeply.
Viewing oneself warts and all is never comfortable. Few of us want to own to ourselves, not really, that we are different from our accepted self-image. Far safer to see ourselves only as mirrored in the eyes of others, never stopping to look beyond or to question the accuracy of the reflection, forgetting, perhaps, that what they show is only the image we have projected into that moment.
Of course this, as with most things, is a double edged sword. It allows, for instance, the timid to face an interview with all the appearance of confidence, but it also allows us to hide within the illusion, failing to address our fears and frailties.
But there can be a ‘turning within’ where the puppet of the personality can be seen for what it is, malleable and fluid, amorphous and shaped by the reflections it casts back upon itself. With that realisation comes a serenity that can face the world unafraid and embrace a wider life.
Now, don’t think for a minute that means the fears disappear. We still feel them. But our perspective shifts and we see them differently. I never understood the quote from Rumi until I was obliged to face my own fears: “Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.” And I know that I for one held back from life and hid behind many masks, mainly from myself.
A few years ago, for example, in an attempt to escape prosecution for assault, I was threatened by my attacker with exposure of the adolescent abuse which is now public knowledge. A moral and emotional coward, still a victim in my own mind, I caved in and begged the police to drop the case. They declined and the prosecution went ahead. So I found the courage to tell my children myself and was thus able to do so with love.
What had undoubtedly been my greatest fear had been faced, and more to the point, let go. In exorcising this fear I found a freedom, by letting it go it could no longer cause hurt and the guilt and self-disgust that I, in my self-perpetuated victimhood, had harboured so long could heal and dissipate. As an additional gift, I found the inner freedom to uncover the good in the negative experience and let it be of use to others.
We worry about the past is in case it haunts our future, as I think it is only the future that breeds fear. When fear strikes it is of what might happen, what could…imagination runs riot into the future. Yet in the moment we stand with our fears and face them, or we run and hide. And if we can face them we face our Self and they hold no terror as they slide into the past.
I think we find this inner freedom and self-awareness go hand in hand with a certain serenity. Within it we understand that time does not really exist and so we can live in the moment. Think about it, Now is already the past before we have had chance to count it, and the future has become the present and slid into memory as I write. If only now exists, where else can one Be?
“'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd”
“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?”
That really is the question, isn’t it?
There is a huge amount of stuff out there purporting to tell us how to come to full consciousness. Some of it valuable, some less so. No school, however, can confer or guarantee the gift of Being. That is for the student to find within themselves and in this we are all students. All any school or system can ever do is open a door and show a way, arming the student with the tools of the quest we have found to be of use, a map lovingly crafted by those who have walked this way before and a perhaps a star to follow.
That little word, Being, encompasses so much and will be defined subjectively by each of us, filtered by our emotions and intellect and shaped by our beliefs. It is very hard to pin down in words and describe completely what one means by the term.
In practical terms at least, it is for me partly an inner honesty that can see and accept the personality that masks the inmost self, observing the actions and reactions and understanding the motives without judgement or pity or the need to excuse. The outer shell we wear changes so much depending on our companions and situation and there are so very many masks that most of us do not truly know who we are. We pick an image of ourselves that we feel can accept… it may be a happy one or not, but it is familiar and we cling to it fondly until we actually find the courage and honesty to look at ourselves more deeply.
Viewing oneself warts and all is never comfortable. Few of us want to own to ourselves, not really, that we are different from our accepted self-image. Far safer to see ourselves only as mirrored in the eyes of others, never stopping to look beyond or to question the accuracy of the reflection, forgetting, perhaps, that what they show is only the image we have projected into that moment.
Of course this, as with most things, is a double edged sword. It allows, for instance, the timid to face an interview with all the appearance of confidence, but it also allows us to hide within the illusion, failing to address our fears and frailties.
But there can be a ‘turning within’ where the puppet of the personality can be seen for what it is, malleable and fluid, amorphous and shaped by the reflections it casts back upon itself. With that realisation comes a serenity that can face the world unafraid and embrace a wider life.
Now, don’t think for a minute that means the fears disappear. We still feel them. But our perspective shifts and we see them differently. I never understood the quote from Rumi until I was obliged to face my own fears: “Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.” And I know that I for one held back from life and hid behind many masks, mainly from myself.
A few years ago, for example, in an attempt to escape prosecution for assault, I was threatened by my attacker with exposure of the adolescent abuse which is now public knowledge. A moral and emotional coward, still a victim in my own mind, I caved in and begged the police to drop the case. They declined and the prosecution went ahead. So I found the courage to tell my children myself and was thus able to do so with love.
What had undoubtedly been my greatest fear had been faced, and more to the point, let go. In exorcising this fear I found a freedom, by letting it go it could no longer cause hurt and the guilt and self-disgust that I, in my self-perpetuated victimhood, had harboured so long could heal and dissipate. As an additional gift, I found the inner freedom to uncover the good in the negative experience and let it be of use to others.
We worry about the past is in case it haunts our future, as I think it is only the future that breeds fear. When fear strikes it is of what might happen, what could…imagination runs riot into the future. Yet in the moment we stand with our fears and face them, or we run and hide. And if we can face them we face our Self and they hold no terror as they slide into the past.
I think we find this inner freedom and self-awareness go hand in hand with a certain serenity. Within it we understand that time does not really exist and so we can live in the moment. Think about it, Now is already the past before we have had chance to count it, and the future has become the present and slid into memory as I write. If only now exists, where else can one Be?
“'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd”
Freedom and fear
This week in the UK is National Storytelling Week. Stories are very close to my heart, be they the shared experience of truth or the flights of fantasy and imagination. I learn more from stories shared heart to heart than from any text book.
On 3rd July 2009 I wrote a story. I know the date, it was the day before my world was turned upside down by the attack on my son, and it is odd to know precisely where my attention lay the night before That Morning. While my son’s evening was unfolding 150 miles away, I was tapping away at the keyboard, writing a tale I hoped would help a woman in trouble on the other side of the world.
Abusive relationships are also a subject close to my heart. I know from the inside the damage done by abuse. It does not always have to fall neatly into the categories of sexual or violent abuse, it can be more insidious than that. Less easy for both the abuser and the victim to realise and understand, less obvious to the observer. Yet it is just as damaging, if not more so. A physical bruise will heal, the inner scars seldom do without help or a major shift in perspective.
So, from my heart to yours…..
Freedom and Fear
Once upon a time there lived a woman. She was very far from her homeland but that didn’t matter. She had her children and a little home. One day, she found that she had fallen in love unexpectedly, and as her lover also had children, they decided to make a home and journey towards happy ever after together.
It was hard work sometimes, trying to meld the two separate families into one, but love was enough to help the couple through. Steadily they made progress. Then the problems began, cracks began to appear in the household and everything the couple had strived for was on the verge of being lost. The man became very depressed, drank and began to talk of suicide, while the woman struggled and juggled to keep them afloat, trying to protect the man from any further worries, scared that anything else would push him over the edge. The stability they had achieved, the home they had worked for, everything was at risk.
The depression became the primary factor in his life and little by little had become the ruling factor in hers. Unconsciously he controlled her every action through fear of upsetting him, causing more instability and disturbing what little peace they had. She lived on a knife edge, waiting for the next outburst of anger, the next plunge into darkness and it took its toll as these things do, eroding her energy, her sense of self-worth and her ability to act. Every word had to be watched, money had to be available. She was so wrapped in worry and fear for him she failed to see how much of herself she was surrendering to his control and her own fear.
Finally a letter arrived, giving the little family three days to leave their home. Three days. They had nothing, and nowhere to go. Yet, the sun was shining and the woman never gave up. She tried for those three days to find a solution.
And little by little, as all other means hit a brick wall, a solution occurred to her.
She could not see her family without a home. She knew that they only needed to buy a little time for it to be possible to avert disaster. She tried all the official and normal avenues, but finally, she could think of only one way. The woman did not believe anyone could be so cruel as to throw her family onto the streets on a day of tragedy. Logic gave her a solution. Fear and love blinded her to its flaws.
It never occurred to her that the one thing that made any home special was the family within it... all the family.
Now this woman did not believe in suicide as a solution to any problem. Unless it was a symptom of a real mental illness, that was different. She saw it as running away, and she knew that whatever one runs from keeps coming back over and over until it is dealt with. The Karmic debt of suicide was, she believed, a heavy one and would take lifetimes to pay. She accepted that. She loved her family and could not see them homeless. She had tried to talk to the man, but he was so imprisoned within his depression he did not hear what she was telling him. She had nowhere else to turn.
She knew that no-one would understand her actions. Knew she would be hated... and hoped that hatred would lessen the grief for her loved ones.
Of course, her logic was flawed. Home is where people are, the people one loves. Family is about facing problems together. And of course, her children would rather face anything than the loss of their mother.
Yet, she could think of no other way to protect them. She felt she had failed them somehow, by allowing disaster to touch them, forgetting that it was not of her making, not seeing that by taking the responsibility to herself, she had robbed them of a chance to learn and grow together. Fear for her family made her blind to many things.
So, those last three days she was calm and happy. She stored up each moment of joy with her man, she treasured each smile from her children, and then, on the last day, she set her alarm very early, and settled down beside him, revelling in his warmth.
She didn’t sleep much. There was no longer any reason to sleep. As she got up before dawn, the man opened one eye and she smiled at him, taking one last look with her heart aching. She wished she could look at her children too. She went downstairs and wrote a note for them, telling them how proud of them she was and how much she loved them. She wrote a note to her man, telling him she was sorry, that she loved him, and why this was the only way left; giving him detailed instructions on what to do to save their home, knowing he would not be able to think clearly.
Then she took every pill she could find until she knew she had taken enough and more than enough, and she closed her eyes, smiling, with the image of her children in her mind and knew no more.
Yet, fate took a hand. An hour or so later, one of her children came downstairs early. The alarm was raised and an ambulance was called. The woman was within minutes of death when they arrived, and over the next few days she hovered between the worlds. The only thing that held her was her youngest child, holding her hand, stroking her hair, willing her to live and pouring love, strength and understanding into her.
Strange dreams and visions peopled the silence where she hovered, many things became clear in the darkness and she was sent back.
As she awoke once more to the world, inconceivably, it seemed that her ridiculous solution had worked. A miracle of human kindness saved their home, the man had snapped out of his insulated bubble of pain and began to live, doubts were laid to rest and the two families learned they could act as one.
Yet there is always a price to be paid, and the price of her action was a double edged sword.
The doctors pronounced that there was no mental problem. Fear had offered a logical, if radical, solution to an actual problem, and desperation had blinded her to the desperate errors the plan contained. Only her youngest child understood the extravagance of her actions and forgave her with unconditional love. One or two stood by her with understanding and empathy. Some despised her cowardice, some hated her for the hurt she had caused, friends turned their backs on her and on the family, and some believed she owed them a debt because they had not turned their backs. Some used it as an excuse to cover their own mistakes and justify their actions.
She herself could not forgive herself for her blindness. She had given everything for love and had said her goodbyes. And yet, all she loved most dearly was given back to her. But fear had gone. She was no longer afraid to speak her mind when things went wrong. No longer afraid to see the weakness in her man and admit to herself that his very human weaknesses were an echo of her own. No longer afraid to risk losing the things she loved, simply because she loved them. No longer afraid to see the deeper problems which had placed her family at risk in the first place. No longer afraid to see her own fear, faults and weakness.
The woman had voluntarily relinquished all she had and all she was... and nothing had a hold on her any more. She had the freedom of strength to choose her path and her actions. And the blinkers were removed from her eyes. And as she began to grow in strength and understanding, the man withdrew from her, challenged by her clarity until finally they parted.
Many things that she had believed were essential to her life she found herself discarding. Her own viewpoint had changed and she was, for the first time, able to see how fear had defined her life so far… fear of loss, fear of failure, fear of disapprobation... and most of all, the fear of not being loved.
She felt herself at once to be empowered and adrift in an unfamiliar sea. As the weeks and months passed and her life, to all outward appearances settled back to normality, she knew in her heart that this was not so. She was even able to finally see that her desperate action had not been inspired by love, as she had truly believed, but by fear… the fear of letting her family down, the fear of failing to protect them, the fear of allowing them to be responsible for their own choices.
Finally, the woman saw that life had come full circle and she had the chance to break the cycle of fear, handing back to her loved ones responsibility for their own lives and actions. She learned that loving does not give one any rights over the object of that affection… only the responsibility to be the type of person that one believes the loved one deserves to be loved by. She learned that true love, even a lifetime long, is a precious thing that is lent to us for just a little while and should be treasured like a jewel, for it may be as lasting as the rainbow caught in a diamond, or as transient as the prism in a dewdrop in the morning sunlight.
She learned too, what she had always known, but never understood. The only thing to fear is fear itself.
On 3rd July 2009 I wrote a story. I know the date, it was the day before my world was turned upside down by the attack on my son, and it is odd to know precisely where my attention lay the night before That Morning. While my son’s evening was unfolding 150 miles away, I was tapping away at the keyboard, writing a tale I hoped would help a woman in trouble on the other side of the world.
Abusive relationships are also a subject close to my heart. I know from the inside the damage done by abuse. It does not always have to fall neatly into the categories of sexual or violent abuse, it can be more insidious than that. Less easy for both the abuser and the victim to realise and understand, less obvious to the observer. Yet it is just as damaging, if not more so. A physical bruise will heal, the inner scars seldom do without help or a major shift in perspective.
So, from my heart to yours…..
Freedom and Fear
Once upon a time there lived a woman. She was very far from her homeland but that didn’t matter. She had her children and a little home. One day, she found that she had fallen in love unexpectedly, and as her lover also had children, they decided to make a home and journey towards happy ever after together.
It was hard work sometimes, trying to meld the two separate families into one, but love was enough to help the couple through. Steadily they made progress. Then the problems began, cracks began to appear in the household and everything the couple had strived for was on the verge of being lost. The man became very depressed, drank and began to talk of suicide, while the woman struggled and juggled to keep them afloat, trying to protect the man from any further worries, scared that anything else would push him over the edge. The stability they had achieved, the home they had worked for, everything was at risk.
The depression became the primary factor in his life and little by little had become the ruling factor in hers. Unconsciously he controlled her every action through fear of upsetting him, causing more instability and disturbing what little peace they had. She lived on a knife edge, waiting for the next outburst of anger, the next plunge into darkness and it took its toll as these things do, eroding her energy, her sense of self-worth and her ability to act. Every word had to be watched, money had to be available. She was so wrapped in worry and fear for him she failed to see how much of herself she was surrendering to his control and her own fear.
Finally a letter arrived, giving the little family three days to leave their home. Three days. They had nothing, and nowhere to go. Yet, the sun was shining and the woman never gave up. She tried for those three days to find a solution.
And little by little, as all other means hit a brick wall, a solution occurred to her.
She could not see her family without a home. She knew that they only needed to buy a little time for it to be possible to avert disaster. She tried all the official and normal avenues, but finally, she could think of only one way. The woman did not believe anyone could be so cruel as to throw her family onto the streets on a day of tragedy. Logic gave her a solution. Fear and love blinded her to its flaws.
It never occurred to her that the one thing that made any home special was the family within it... all the family.
Now this woman did not believe in suicide as a solution to any problem. Unless it was a symptom of a real mental illness, that was different. She saw it as running away, and she knew that whatever one runs from keeps coming back over and over until it is dealt with. The Karmic debt of suicide was, she believed, a heavy one and would take lifetimes to pay. She accepted that. She loved her family and could not see them homeless. She had tried to talk to the man, but he was so imprisoned within his depression he did not hear what she was telling him. She had nowhere else to turn.
She knew that no-one would understand her actions. Knew she would be hated... and hoped that hatred would lessen the grief for her loved ones.
Of course, her logic was flawed. Home is where people are, the people one loves. Family is about facing problems together. And of course, her children would rather face anything than the loss of their mother.
Yet, she could think of no other way to protect them. She felt she had failed them somehow, by allowing disaster to touch them, forgetting that it was not of her making, not seeing that by taking the responsibility to herself, she had robbed them of a chance to learn and grow together. Fear for her family made her blind to many things.
So, those last three days she was calm and happy. She stored up each moment of joy with her man, she treasured each smile from her children, and then, on the last day, she set her alarm very early, and settled down beside him, revelling in his warmth.
She didn’t sleep much. There was no longer any reason to sleep. As she got up before dawn, the man opened one eye and she smiled at him, taking one last look with her heart aching. She wished she could look at her children too. She went downstairs and wrote a note for them, telling them how proud of them she was and how much she loved them. She wrote a note to her man, telling him she was sorry, that she loved him, and why this was the only way left; giving him detailed instructions on what to do to save their home, knowing he would not be able to think clearly.
Then she took every pill she could find until she knew she had taken enough and more than enough, and she closed her eyes, smiling, with the image of her children in her mind and knew no more.
Yet, fate took a hand. An hour or so later, one of her children came downstairs early. The alarm was raised and an ambulance was called. The woman was within minutes of death when they arrived, and over the next few days she hovered between the worlds. The only thing that held her was her youngest child, holding her hand, stroking her hair, willing her to live and pouring love, strength and understanding into her.
Strange dreams and visions peopled the silence where she hovered, many things became clear in the darkness and she was sent back.
As she awoke once more to the world, inconceivably, it seemed that her ridiculous solution had worked. A miracle of human kindness saved their home, the man had snapped out of his insulated bubble of pain and began to live, doubts were laid to rest and the two families learned they could act as one.
Yet there is always a price to be paid, and the price of her action was a double edged sword.
The doctors pronounced that there was no mental problem. Fear had offered a logical, if radical, solution to an actual problem, and desperation had blinded her to the desperate errors the plan contained. Only her youngest child understood the extravagance of her actions and forgave her with unconditional love. One or two stood by her with understanding and empathy. Some despised her cowardice, some hated her for the hurt she had caused, friends turned their backs on her and on the family, and some believed she owed them a debt because they had not turned their backs. Some used it as an excuse to cover their own mistakes and justify their actions.
She herself could not forgive herself for her blindness. She had given everything for love and had said her goodbyes. And yet, all she loved most dearly was given back to her. But fear had gone. She was no longer afraid to speak her mind when things went wrong. No longer afraid to see the weakness in her man and admit to herself that his very human weaknesses were an echo of her own. No longer afraid to risk losing the things she loved, simply because she loved them. No longer afraid to see the deeper problems which had placed her family at risk in the first place. No longer afraid to see her own fear, faults and weakness.
The woman had voluntarily relinquished all she had and all she was... and nothing had a hold on her any more. She had the freedom of strength to choose her path and her actions. And the blinkers were removed from her eyes. And as she began to grow in strength and understanding, the man withdrew from her, challenged by her clarity until finally they parted.
Many things that she had believed were essential to her life she found herself discarding. Her own viewpoint had changed and she was, for the first time, able to see how fear had defined her life so far… fear of loss, fear of failure, fear of disapprobation... and most of all, the fear of not being loved.
She felt herself at once to be empowered and adrift in an unfamiliar sea. As the weeks and months passed and her life, to all outward appearances settled back to normality, she knew in her heart that this was not so. She was even able to finally see that her desperate action had not been inspired by love, as she had truly believed, but by fear… the fear of letting her family down, the fear of failing to protect them, the fear of allowing them to be responsible for their own choices.
Finally, the woman saw that life had come full circle and she had the chance to break the cycle of fear, handing back to her loved ones responsibility for their own lives and actions. She learned that loving does not give one any rights over the object of that affection… only the responsibility to be the type of person that one believes the loved one deserves to be loved by. She learned that true love, even a lifetime long, is a precious thing that is lent to us for just a little while and should be treasured like a jewel, for it may be as lasting as the rainbow caught in a diamond, or as transient as the prism in a dewdrop in the morning sunlight.
She learned too, what she had always known, but never understood. The only thing to fear is fear itself.
Out of Season
He probably didn’t need to laugh quite so much.
I have an excuse... I have flu… migraine...I’m not well…
My son had found me, head in hands… and knowing this had asked what was wrong.
I knew I shouldn’t have told him….
…to be fair, he has every reason to laugh.
I’d just turned the phone ringer volume up…
..in case Ani needed to call me.
I know she is a very clever dog, but…
Yep. I’m losing the plot.
To be fair, I’m not alone.
The roses are in full bloom, primulas sparkle in the pale sunlight, the fish are active, jumping at the clouds of midges above the pond. Geum’s dot the garden with flame. Perfume from the choisya blossom… the clear blue of campanulas and the deep purple of hebe…and the bright yellow of winter mahonia….
It is November. It is cold. Even the garden is confused.
It seems many things are bending normality to suit themselves.
And really, why ever not?
Who says we have to conform to a normality predefined by who knows who? And who does define it anyway? When you really think about it… we do.
There is no law that says you have to get old when you reach a certain age, retire to the armchair and wait for a decorous finale… And no rule that says a child cannot be as gifted as a Mozart… Or the fallacy that old dogs can’t learn new tricks…
Lots of platitudes, accepted norms… yet really, there is nothing set in stone. Fear, perhaps, is the definer of normality. We fear to step outside the narrow boundaries that we see as acceptable…And while we do so we narrow the boundaries of acceptable behaviour more and more, setting our own limits just a smidgen inside the safe zone. Being conventional, behaving as one ‘ought’, becomes an unconscious boundary we fear to cross.
We look out at a society whose concept of the ‘usual’ is defined by its own fears of standing out from the crowd... falling flat on its face… looking ‘silly’ in the eyes of others. Why should that matter? It is those who take risks…go out on a limb for an idea, an ideal, an innovation that get things done and move life forward for the rest of us.
As teenagers we push the envelope of acceptability with fashions and music, crusading ideas that challenge the normality of preceding generations. I think that is perhaps the only reason we, as a society, haven’t imploded, or followed the example of the mythical Oozlum bird. Each generation pushes the bounds out a little further… perhaps so it has a slightly bigger prison of normality to play in as it, in turn, ages and settles for convention. The revolutions of our youth become the bars of mediocrity in middle age.
There are also some who defy normality through fear of being swallowed whole by the gaping maw of age or mediocrity. Fear, on both sides of the equation, defines… and has a lot to answer for. Yet we are the ones who give it life.
Those who defy these unwritten rules are cast in one of two roles... they are either labelled with epithets such as Bohemian, hippy, weird… you know the type of thing… those half envious names that we secretly wish we could live up to, while endowing them with a tone of quasi-indulgent superiority. Or we hail them as examples of what we could be. The dividing line seems also to be defined by society... if you are successful, you may be hailed as the latter category... the rest serve as a measure of our own slavery to convention.
Yet we all have that spark within us that makes us unique. The rebellious teenager still lives within each one of us, ready to challenge the limits the mundane world seems to impose. We are all capable of the inner freedom to be great… even if that greatness is never seen beyond the confines of our own hearts and minds.
I have an excuse... I have flu… migraine...I’m not well…
My son had found me, head in hands… and knowing this had asked what was wrong.
I knew I shouldn’t have told him….
…to be fair, he has every reason to laugh.
I’d just turned the phone ringer volume up…
..in case Ani needed to call me.
I know she is a very clever dog, but…
Yep. I’m losing the plot.
To be fair, I’m not alone.
The roses are in full bloom, primulas sparkle in the pale sunlight, the fish are active, jumping at the clouds of midges above the pond. Geum’s dot the garden with flame. Perfume from the choisya blossom… the clear blue of campanulas and the deep purple of hebe…and the bright yellow of winter mahonia….
It is November. It is cold. Even the garden is confused.
It seems many things are bending normality to suit themselves.
And really, why ever not?
Who says we have to conform to a normality predefined by who knows who? And who does define it anyway? When you really think about it… we do.
There is no law that says you have to get old when you reach a certain age, retire to the armchair and wait for a decorous finale… And no rule that says a child cannot be as gifted as a Mozart… Or the fallacy that old dogs can’t learn new tricks…
Lots of platitudes, accepted norms… yet really, there is nothing set in stone. Fear, perhaps, is the definer of normality. We fear to step outside the narrow boundaries that we see as acceptable…And while we do so we narrow the boundaries of acceptable behaviour more and more, setting our own limits just a smidgen inside the safe zone. Being conventional, behaving as one ‘ought’, becomes an unconscious boundary we fear to cross.
We look out at a society whose concept of the ‘usual’ is defined by its own fears of standing out from the crowd... falling flat on its face… looking ‘silly’ in the eyes of others. Why should that matter? It is those who take risks…go out on a limb for an idea, an ideal, an innovation that get things done and move life forward for the rest of us.
As teenagers we push the envelope of acceptability with fashions and music, crusading ideas that challenge the normality of preceding generations. I think that is perhaps the only reason we, as a society, haven’t imploded, or followed the example of the mythical Oozlum bird. Each generation pushes the bounds out a little further… perhaps so it has a slightly bigger prison of normality to play in as it, in turn, ages and settles for convention. The revolutions of our youth become the bars of mediocrity in middle age.
There are also some who defy normality through fear of being swallowed whole by the gaping maw of age or mediocrity. Fear, on both sides of the equation, defines… and has a lot to answer for. Yet we are the ones who give it life.
Those who defy these unwritten rules are cast in one of two roles... they are either labelled with epithets such as Bohemian, hippy, weird… you know the type of thing… those half envious names that we secretly wish we could live up to, while endowing them with a tone of quasi-indulgent superiority. Or we hail them as examples of what we could be. The dividing line seems also to be defined by society... if you are successful, you may be hailed as the latter category... the rest serve as a measure of our own slavery to convention.
Yet we all have that spark within us that makes us unique. The rebellious teenager still lives within each one of us, ready to challenge the limits the mundane world seems to impose. We are all capable of the inner freedom to be great… even if that greatness is never seen beyond the confines of our own hearts and minds.
“You never loved me anyway.”
One of my all-time favourite fantasy cycles is the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant by Stephen Donaldson. They were the first adult fantasy books I ever read other than the classics such as Tolkien. My grandfather sent me a copy of the first book in paperback when I was living in France, “You’ll like this. The cover says it all…”
Well, if it did, I have to say, I didn’t fancy it. Bear in mind the fantasy genre hadn’t come my way back then and flicking through the first chapters the style didn’t appeal, the hero was an anti-hero and even commits unspeakable acts. I didn’t care for the way the opening chapters were written and honestly, the only reason I persevered was because I had already read my way through all the English language books in the local library. Reading in French wasn’t quite as relaxing and engaged areas of the brain other than the imagination.
Then, within the pages, I met the central character of the story… and it wasn’t hero or heroine, it was the Land. I was hooked. The plot deepened and it became more than a living landscape that sang to me of my own roots and the moors of home. It became a story of the awakening of beauty in a soul to whom it had been lost, it was the opening to love and trust in a place of darkness.
“Something there is in beauty
which grows in the soul of the beholder
like a flower:
fragile –
for many are the blights which may waste
the beauty
for the beholder –
and imperishable –
for the beauty may die,
or the world may die,
but the soul in which the flower grows
survives.”
Stephen R. Donaldson
There have been many books that have made me laugh and cry… but I think few have touched such a deep place with such intimacy. Yet it is just a story… something unreal, made-up… and still, somehow the leper’s journey into his own inner darkness leads to light.
I couldn’t wait for the second series…and my horror when I found the land wasted was real. Again I had to persevere. No longer because there were things I did not like, but , as Covenant says, “This you have to understand. There’s only one way to hurt a man who’s lost everything. Give him back something broken.” And this time he wasn’t alone… there was a woman with him, Linden Avery… a doctor. And she too was broken, feeling the hurt of the Land through her physician’s senses in every pore.
I suppose you could read the books as just stories. Like most people I suspect, I don’t read that way. Imagination paints pictures into which I step and live the story with the characters and see the parallels between their stories and challenges and my own, played out in full view or hidden in symbolism within the tale. Fantasy became a firm favourite because of this depth.
“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.”
Lloyd Alexander
As a reader, Linden was a challenge. You couldn’t like her. She was uncomfortable, damaged, withdrawn from her own reality by hiding within the utter professionalism of the hyper-reality of medicine. There is a moment when the story breaks through her barriers and a litany commences in her mind, “You never loved me anyway.” I won’t spoil the story by telling you why, but it rose from the deep past, a child’s cry in a woman’s mind that defined the reality she believed in for herself and which built a barrier she dare not cross for fear of what the truth might really be… and for fear of finding that pain once again… fresh in memory and anew in her current situation.
It has been this phrase that has been playing through my mind the past few days as I have pondered the way in which we perceive reality; how we unconsciously… often helplessly… allow the past to layer veil after veil upon the truth of who we are and the lives we live. We construct barriers of logic and reason, and walls equally secure, if not thicker, of fantasy and emotion behind which we can hide. The rose coloured veils are perhaps the hardest to rend because they destroy our illusions of self and make us question who we are, who we think we are and why we prefer to live in the illusion rather than face the reality in the mirror. I think it is a question we must all face at some point in our lives when we begin to seek to understand rather than simply move through life day by day.
“The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling”
Stephen R. Donaldson
Near the end of the second trilogy of the Chronicles, there is a moment of utter transcendence, which left me gasping at its beauty the first time I read it. It illustrated the power hidden, latent, within each of us to shape our lives and futures. It showed what can be achieved by the human heart that is truly open to love and learns the meaning of that much overused word ‘unconditional’. In letting go of past belief and allowing the veils of self-imposed illusion to be rent we can find a freedom to act, to live and to be in truth, accepting the sometimes inevitable hurts of life as part of the process, but knowing, quite simply, that beyond them lies a path to freedom and joy.
“Despair and bitterness are not the only songs in the world”
Stephen R. DonaldsonThe Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever
Well, if it did, I have to say, I didn’t fancy it. Bear in mind the fantasy genre hadn’t come my way back then and flicking through the first chapters the style didn’t appeal, the hero was an anti-hero and even commits unspeakable acts. I didn’t care for the way the opening chapters were written and honestly, the only reason I persevered was because I had already read my way through all the English language books in the local library. Reading in French wasn’t quite as relaxing and engaged areas of the brain other than the imagination.
Then, within the pages, I met the central character of the story… and it wasn’t hero or heroine, it was the Land. I was hooked. The plot deepened and it became more than a living landscape that sang to me of my own roots and the moors of home. It became a story of the awakening of beauty in a soul to whom it had been lost, it was the opening to love and trust in a place of darkness.
“Something there is in beauty
which grows in the soul of the beholder
like a flower:
fragile –
for many are the blights which may waste
the beauty
for the beholder –
and imperishable –
for the beauty may die,
or the world may die,
but the soul in which the flower grows
survives.”
Stephen R. Donaldson
There have been many books that have made me laugh and cry… but I think few have touched such a deep place with such intimacy. Yet it is just a story… something unreal, made-up… and still, somehow the leper’s journey into his own inner darkness leads to light.
I couldn’t wait for the second series…and my horror when I found the land wasted was real. Again I had to persevere. No longer because there were things I did not like, but , as Covenant says, “This you have to understand. There’s only one way to hurt a man who’s lost everything. Give him back something broken.” And this time he wasn’t alone… there was a woman with him, Linden Avery… a doctor. And she too was broken, feeling the hurt of the Land through her physician’s senses in every pore.
I suppose you could read the books as just stories. Like most people I suspect, I don’t read that way. Imagination paints pictures into which I step and live the story with the characters and see the parallels between their stories and challenges and my own, played out in full view or hidden in symbolism within the tale. Fantasy became a firm favourite because of this depth.
“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.”
Lloyd Alexander
As a reader, Linden was a challenge. You couldn’t like her. She was uncomfortable, damaged, withdrawn from her own reality by hiding within the utter professionalism of the hyper-reality of medicine. There is a moment when the story breaks through her barriers and a litany commences in her mind, “You never loved me anyway.” I won’t spoil the story by telling you why, but it rose from the deep past, a child’s cry in a woman’s mind that defined the reality she believed in for herself and which built a barrier she dare not cross for fear of what the truth might really be… and for fear of finding that pain once again… fresh in memory and anew in her current situation.
It has been this phrase that has been playing through my mind the past few days as I have pondered the way in which we perceive reality; how we unconsciously… often helplessly… allow the past to layer veil after veil upon the truth of who we are and the lives we live. We construct barriers of logic and reason, and walls equally secure, if not thicker, of fantasy and emotion behind which we can hide. The rose coloured veils are perhaps the hardest to rend because they destroy our illusions of self and make us question who we are, who we think we are and why we prefer to live in the illusion rather than face the reality in the mirror. I think it is a question we must all face at some point in our lives when we begin to seek to understand rather than simply move through life day by day.
“The heart cherishes secrets not worth the telling”
Stephen R. Donaldson
Near the end of the second trilogy of the Chronicles, there is a moment of utter transcendence, which left me gasping at its beauty the first time I read it. It illustrated the power hidden, latent, within each of us to shape our lives and futures. It showed what can be achieved by the human heart that is truly open to love and learns the meaning of that much overused word ‘unconditional’. In letting go of past belief and allowing the veils of self-imposed illusion to be rent we can find a freedom to act, to live and to be in truth, accepting the sometimes inevitable hurts of life as part of the process, but knowing, quite simply, that beyond them lies a path to freedom and joy.
“Despair and bitterness are not the only songs in the world”
Stephen R. DonaldsonThe Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever
Eastern promise
I was up and out very early yesterday . I didn’t get very far… the lane at the end of my street to be exact… before I stopped the car and got out. The sun was cresting the horizon and the view over the fields was too beautiful to miss. Pushing my way through the gap in the hedge I stood among the last of the nettles to watch.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
Omar Khayyam
It only lasted a few moments, as the sun lit the clouds, turning them to molten gold, but that burst of glory made the day begin in beauty. I was, not for the first time and certainly not the last, grateful to live away from the town, where dawn is seldom truly seen. The sun makes its appearance there much later, obscured by rooftops. In the town the horizon becomes our habitations and places of work… here I see the Sun-god caress the curved body of Earth with a lover’s tenderness, bathing her in the delicate grace of his light.
The bigger the city the less likely we are to see the world waken to a true dawn with our skyscrapers and edifices. We see the light flood the sky, perhaps, as it is doing here now. As I look out of my window the sky is suffused with the pale grey of a pigeon’s breast as the sun rises beyond my horizon… soon the eye of heaven will open above the distant hills. The sky is cloudy, I may not see that moment today… perhaps there will be but a blush against the clouds…or maybe just the silent creeping light suffusing the sky.
For now there is quiet… no birds sing welcome to the dawn. In a few more minutes they will lift their voices in joy and busily begin their day. I sit here frozen with the door to the garden standing wide for Ani and listen for the first song to begin. I cannot know what is to come… I can only wait in stillness and wonder.
Ah, fill the Cup: -- what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!
Omar Khayyam
It doesn’t really matter if I, one small being with one pair of eyes, see the dawn in splendour. This morning the cloud is heavy and only the faintest flush of rose touches the world through their blanket. But as I write the birds begin to greet the morning, silhouettes turn from black to grey, less stark, less imposing, melding into the background of the day. Colour begins to warm the monochrome landscape and the whirring of busy wings becomes a subliminal thrum as the feathered denizens of the garden begin their busy quest for food.
Dawn crept upon a misty world almost unawares, stealing in behind the clouds. Yet I only have to listen to hear the world wake and know a new day has begun. Beneath this sky a world wakes or sleeps, holding all that I love in a single embrace.The sky may stay cloudy, or the mists may part to reveal the blue of beyond. Like the dawn, it is there, even though it is veiled from sight. As winter shrouds the world in frozen, misted shadows there is comfort in that thought. Beyond the horizon is always a dawn waiting to unfurl, beyond the clouds the azure canvas waits for us to write our dreams upon it, beyond the curtains of darkest night a new morning waits silently in the wings and will not miss the cue. An eternal dance where the veils that are dropped reveal both dancer and watcher to be one and the same, sharing the rhythm of the heartbeat of creation.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
Omar Khayyam
It only lasted a few moments, as the sun lit the clouds, turning them to molten gold, but that burst of glory made the day begin in beauty. I was, not for the first time and certainly not the last, grateful to live away from the town, where dawn is seldom truly seen. The sun makes its appearance there much later, obscured by rooftops. In the town the horizon becomes our habitations and places of work… here I see the Sun-god caress the curved body of Earth with a lover’s tenderness, bathing her in the delicate grace of his light.
The bigger the city the less likely we are to see the world waken to a true dawn with our skyscrapers and edifices. We see the light flood the sky, perhaps, as it is doing here now. As I look out of my window the sky is suffused with the pale grey of a pigeon’s breast as the sun rises beyond my horizon… soon the eye of heaven will open above the distant hills. The sky is cloudy, I may not see that moment today… perhaps there will be but a blush against the clouds…or maybe just the silent creeping light suffusing the sky.
For now there is quiet… no birds sing welcome to the dawn. In a few more minutes they will lift their voices in joy and busily begin their day. I sit here frozen with the door to the garden standing wide for Ani and listen for the first song to begin. I cannot know what is to come… I can only wait in stillness and wonder.
Ah, fill the Cup: -- what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!
Omar Khayyam
It doesn’t really matter if I, one small being with one pair of eyes, see the dawn in splendour. This morning the cloud is heavy and only the faintest flush of rose touches the world through their blanket. But as I write the birds begin to greet the morning, silhouettes turn from black to grey, less stark, less imposing, melding into the background of the day. Colour begins to warm the monochrome landscape and the whirring of busy wings becomes a subliminal thrum as the feathered denizens of the garden begin their busy quest for food.
Dawn crept upon a misty world almost unawares, stealing in behind the clouds. Yet I only have to listen to hear the world wake and know a new day has begun. Beneath this sky a world wakes or sleeps, holding all that I love in a single embrace.The sky may stay cloudy, or the mists may part to reveal the blue of beyond. Like the dawn, it is there, even though it is veiled from sight. As winter shrouds the world in frozen, misted shadows there is comfort in that thought. Beyond the horizon is always a dawn waiting to unfurl, beyond the clouds the azure canvas waits for us to write our dreams upon it, beyond the curtains of darkest night a new morning waits silently in the wings and will not miss the cue. An eternal dance where the veils that are dropped reveal both dancer and watcher to be one and the same, sharing the rhythm of the heartbeat of creation.
The long night
The sky is beautiful this morning after the winds of the night, a clear, deep blue graced with the lights of heaven. The world is still and silent, even the birds are hushed as dawn creeps over the horizon of a rain-washed world.
It was dark when the doglet and I went out, dark still when we returned, for it is Solstice tomorrow, the longest night. But the moon lit the village and touched the rooftops with silver. Branches are down in the lane and few are the leaves that still cling tenaciously to the trees, most stripped away by the vicious fingers of a winter gale.
There is such strength in the grasp of leaf to twig, both so fragile they can be plucked and broken by a child, yet the bond of life so strong it can withstand the most inclement weather. Until it is time for them to fall.
Even when the leaves fall it is part of a greater renewal, the confetti of the marriage of the seasons, nourishing the earth and the tree from whence they fell. The tree sleeps through the winter, seemingly lifeless, husbanding its resources against the coming of spring. Beneath the skeletal surface of this dying time the life within shapes new leaves and blossoms, waiting in pregnant patience for the warm kiss of the sun.
Leaves fall, branches break… the old and sere stripped away by the turning wheel of the year, clearing the way for a green birth.
There is so much laid out before us, even in the avenues of our city streets. The life of nature is so strong and so beautifully balanced. So easy to damage when, with careless hands her children grasp at her skirts, taking anything that claims their attention and desire… yet strong enough to recover when we are no more.
In the little wood where we walk, the small dog and I, man has left his traces. From the earliest times track and road have passed this way, from the air the circled mark of ancient homes can be seen in the fields, the line of a roman road, lost now to plough and furrow. Still we carve this little patch of green to serve our needs. Yet as soon as we turn our back the wild things cover our tracks, reclaiming the earth for themselves, our little lives more fragile than their delicate blooms.
In towns and cities sites that were once hives of industry fall silent as technology moves on and we are proud of our advances, not noticing the quiet crown of plant and sapling our forgotten edifices wear, the gentle but inexorable hand of nature taking back her own as soon as we depart.
The seasons of the earth are echoed too within our own lives… we are part of the cycle, our bodies dance to the same natal song of the seasons. Life springs from death, death from life in an endless round.
The cadence is echoed within us as we laugh for joy beneath the sun of summer and weep in grief when winter touches our hearts. In the dark days we too may feel as if leaf and branch are being stripped from us, battered by the winds of change and the storms of emotion. Yet like the trees only the damaged and broken falls from us… the green heart is strong and holds the pattern of renewal within itself.
As the wheel turns it is easy to become lost in the dark days, feeling a verdant spring to be too far to reach, fearing in the shadows that it will not come. Perhaps, like the trees, we too are then husbanding our strength, withdrawing within where growth and renewal can work their magic unseen, ready to blossom at the first touch of the sun.
Tomorrow is Solstice and the world, still with the worst of winter yet to come, turns, almost unseen, towards summer. We know this, yet the winter is still to be endured. The days will lengthen, the light will be bright on days covered in snow, ice is yet to break open the cracked stones this year, and we will huddle by our hearths as if there is no warmth in the world, forgetting that we have passed the nadir and the eternal dance of the seasons carries us onwards towards a brighter dawn.
When we are lost in grief, gripped by the cold of fear, it is hard to see that light at the end of the tunnel, hard to believe that we have passed the worst point when we see a dark road still looming ahead. Yet this is the rhythm of life itself, as if the earth holds us in the reassuring and loving embrace of a mother and shows us that not all is lost in winter, it merely endures the frost while within, nourished by the fallen leaves that were stripped away by the storms and the turning year, the green life springs anew.
It was dark when the doglet and I went out, dark still when we returned, for it is Solstice tomorrow, the longest night. But the moon lit the village and touched the rooftops with silver. Branches are down in the lane and few are the leaves that still cling tenaciously to the trees, most stripped away by the vicious fingers of a winter gale.
There is such strength in the grasp of leaf to twig, both so fragile they can be plucked and broken by a child, yet the bond of life so strong it can withstand the most inclement weather. Until it is time for them to fall.
Even when the leaves fall it is part of a greater renewal, the confetti of the marriage of the seasons, nourishing the earth and the tree from whence they fell. The tree sleeps through the winter, seemingly lifeless, husbanding its resources against the coming of spring. Beneath the skeletal surface of this dying time the life within shapes new leaves and blossoms, waiting in pregnant patience for the warm kiss of the sun.
Leaves fall, branches break… the old and sere stripped away by the turning wheel of the year, clearing the way for a green birth.
There is so much laid out before us, even in the avenues of our city streets. The life of nature is so strong and so beautifully balanced. So easy to damage when, with careless hands her children grasp at her skirts, taking anything that claims their attention and desire… yet strong enough to recover when we are no more.
In the little wood where we walk, the small dog and I, man has left his traces. From the earliest times track and road have passed this way, from the air the circled mark of ancient homes can be seen in the fields, the line of a roman road, lost now to plough and furrow. Still we carve this little patch of green to serve our needs. Yet as soon as we turn our back the wild things cover our tracks, reclaiming the earth for themselves, our little lives more fragile than their delicate blooms.
In towns and cities sites that were once hives of industry fall silent as technology moves on and we are proud of our advances, not noticing the quiet crown of plant and sapling our forgotten edifices wear, the gentle but inexorable hand of nature taking back her own as soon as we depart.
The seasons of the earth are echoed too within our own lives… we are part of the cycle, our bodies dance to the same natal song of the seasons. Life springs from death, death from life in an endless round.
The cadence is echoed within us as we laugh for joy beneath the sun of summer and weep in grief when winter touches our hearts. In the dark days we too may feel as if leaf and branch are being stripped from us, battered by the winds of change and the storms of emotion. Yet like the trees only the damaged and broken falls from us… the green heart is strong and holds the pattern of renewal within itself.
As the wheel turns it is easy to become lost in the dark days, feeling a verdant spring to be too far to reach, fearing in the shadows that it will not come. Perhaps, like the trees, we too are then husbanding our strength, withdrawing within where growth and renewal can work their magic unseen, ready to blossom at the first touch of the sun.
Tomorrow is Solstice and the world, still with the worst of winter yet to come, turns, almost unseen, towards summer. We know this, yet the winter is still to be endured. The days will lengthen, the light will be bright on days covered in snow, ice is yet to break open the cracked stones this year, and we will huddle by our hearths as if there is no warmth in the world, forgetting that we have passed the nadir and the eternal dance of the seasons carries us onwards towards a brighter dawn.
When we are lost in grief, gripped by the cold of fear, it is hard to see that light at the end of the tunnel, hard to believe that we have passed the worst point when we see a dark road still looming ahead. Yet this is the rhythm of life itself, as if the earth holds us in the reassuring and loving embrace of a mother and shows us that not all is lost in winter, it merely endures the frost while within, nourished by the fallen leaves that were stripped away by the storms and the turning year, the green life springs anew.
Inside story
It is Christmas morning. For those of the Christian faith it is the moment that celebrates the birth of Jesus, a fragile babe who grew to change the world. Whether or not we accept that story as literal truth, it is symbolic of one that has wound itself through our human lives, casting its light into our hearts.
Many cultures have told of the birth of a Child: Horus, Krishna, Mithras, Mabon, Zoroaster…. There are these and many other threads to this tapestry. Their stories differ in detail, but a common strand runs through them and it is golden. These are the Divine Sons, the Children of Light who illuminate a path we might tread.
Many are now consigned to mythology by the modern mind that dismisses the miraculous or magical. Few now would accept the story of a Child who sprang fully formed from the rock on this day, whose worshippers came together in a communion of bread and wine. Yet Mithraism was widespread in the world of Rome, and the symbol of the unconquered Sun still persists.
Zoroaster was born laughing, a glow about him… Horus was the Hawk of the Sun… the theme of Light pervades the faith of the races of Man. Religions have risen and faded over millennia, but faith remains ever fresh and constant in the heart of those who seek the Light, regardless of the Name it bears in our tongue, the symbols we use or the stories we have woven.
We have, throughout our history, followed with love and faith the path of the Lightbringers of our age and our belief has changed our lives. Religions, those organised bodies of doctrine, have not always changed the world for the better, but the quiet, personal faith that carries us through the days and nights of our lives, upholding us and comforting us through the dark times, giving joy in the brighter days.. this is a different thing… a personal, intimate thing, a relationship between the heart of man and the Divine. Religious institutions, like any other, may be rife with politics and intolerance, in spite of their message of love. But the flame that burns in each individual heart owes allegiance only to the Source of that Light.
Whatever path we choose to tread, whichever way our hearts are called, it is belief… faith… that shapes us. Even those who profess no faith in the One, by any Name, are shaped by whatever belief their heart holds in Its place. For myself it is simple; all life, all creation is part of the great and multifaceted jewel that is the One. And I believe that we can find the Light of the One within the world, within ourselves and in each other.
The familiar Christmas story is a beautiful one, of a carpenter and his wife far from home, a babe born in a stable and cradled in a manger while a Star lights the way. There are many ways we can understand the tale, from simple acceptance to the deeply symbolic. Imagine that stable… animals and the warm smell of hay, a very earthy, humble place, very much of this world. Yet from this simple beginning a story unfolded… a Light was born… that guides millions of lives still today.
Within our ordinary lives we too many feel far from Home, the humble things of earth occupy our hands and minds while the heart seeks a star to guide it. Yet within the frames of our lives we are carrying that star… that spark of Divine Light… and this is what shines for us in those silent moments of turning within. Seeing it we find our own bright birth in the earthy place we live. We do not have to seek far and wide, like the Magi, nor wait for angelic hosts to point the way.
“….And when he was demanded of the Pharisees, when the kingdom of God should come, he answered them and said, The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.”
Luke 17:20-21 (King James Version)
Many cultures have told of the birth of a Child: Horus, Krishna, Mithras, Mabon, Zoroaster…. There are these and many other threads to this tapestry. Their stories differ in detail, but a common strand runs through them and it is golden. These are the Divine Sons, the Children of Light who illuminate a path we might tread.
Many are now consigned to mythology by the modern mind that dismisses the miraculous or magical. Few now would accept the story of a Child who sprang fully formed from the rock on this day, whose worshippers came together in a communion of bread and wine. Yet Mithraism was widespread in the world of Rome, and the symbol of the unconquered Sun still persists.
Zoroaster was born laughing, a glow about him… Horus was the Hawk of the Sun… the theme of Light pervades the faith of the races of Man. Religions have risen and faded over millennia, but faith remains ever fresh and constant in the heart of those who seek the Light, regardless of the Name it bears in our tongue, the symbols we use or the stories we have woven.
We have, throughout our history, followed with love and faith the path of the Lightbringers of our age and our belief has changed our lives. Religions, those organised bodies of doctrine, have not always changed the world for the better, but the quiet, personal faith that carries us through the days and nights of our lives, upholding us and comforting us through the dark times, giving joy in the brighter days.. this is a different thing… a personal, intimate thing, a relationship between the heart of man and the Divine. Religious institutions, like any other, may be rife with politics and intolerance, in spite of their message of love. But the flame that burns in each individual heart owes allegiance only to the Source of that Light.
Whatever path we choose to tread, whichever way our hearts are called, it is belief… faith… that shapes us. Even those who profess no faith in the One, by any Name, are shaped by whatever belief their heart holds in Its place. For myself it is simple; all life, all creation is part of the great and multifaceted jewel that is the One. And I believe that we can find the Light of the One within the world, within ourselves and in each other.
The familiar Christmas story is a beautiful one, of a carpenter and his wife far from home, a babe born in a stable and cradled in a manger while a Star lights the way. There are many ways we can understand the tale, from simple acceptance to the deeply symbolic. Imagine that stable… animals and the warm smell of hay, a very earthy, humble place, very much of this world. Yet from this simple beginning a story unfolded… a Light was born… that guides millions of lives still today.
Within our ordinary lives we too many feel far from Home, the humble things of earth occupy our hands and minds while the heart seeks a star to guide it. Yet within the frames of our lives we are carrying that star… that spark of Divine Light… and this is what shines for us in those silent moments of turning within. Seeing it we find our own bright birth in the earthy place we live. We do not have to seek far and wide, like the Magi, nor wait for angelic hosts to point the way.
“….And when he was demanded of the Pharisees, when the kingdom of God should come, he answered them and said, The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.”
Luke 17:20-21 (King James Version)
A simple gift
“…But what would you like for Christmas?”
It is always a difficult thing to decide what to give sons who are grown with lives they have filled with things you no longer know, especially on a tight budget. As children you are aware of their needs as well as their changing tastes, as men they have huge chunks of life you are no longer intimately acquainted with. You may know the ‘bigger’ needs and dreams, but that doesn’t mean you can still provide them in the way you did when they were small. Or can you?
“A home-cooked Christmas dinner. It’s all I want.” Well… that one was easy to provide… and a joy, as it meant I got Christmas with my eldest son. It was one of those invisible gifts for me too… I love cooking, love feeding people…and it was good to set a pretty table with glass and candles and a shared meal. There is something magical in that.
His gift to me was also magical… a moment of adventure earlier in the month, his awe at the landscape I was able to share with him in the northern hills that I love. Then Christmas morning out together taking photographs in a sunny world.
My younger son has been adopted into his partner’s delightful family … he was made for the big, close family we do not have and he has blossomed in that warmth. He was made for the kind of celebration that spans the generations in laughter and it is a joy for me to see that. Yet he and his Laura are always on my doorstep on Christmas Day and that is a gift in itself.
They came, as always, bearing gifts… the cosiest slippers and something special they had made themselves… a miniature bottle of their ‘Christmas pudding vodka’ and handmade chocolates, beautifully done with ribbons and a gift tag Laura had embroidered herself.
I remember vividly the years of making hand dipped chocolates, decorating boxes and painting cards as a young wife. I often wondered back then if people were just being polite in their thanks. To have someone do that for me now tells me they were not… for what you are being given here is time, love and care and that is priceless.
The other gifts I was given show the same loving thought… and it is that intangible gift that truly matters. The warm fleece that shows a very practical care that arrives with the little luxuries a friend knows you would not buy for yourself… a sparkling bit of beauty… the gifted words of books specially chosen… messages that are gifts of time and thought; the knowledge that you are held in the heart and mind of those far away.
These are symbols of a deeper gift. Warmth and friendship, care and kindness cannot be wrapped and tagged. They are the true gifts behind the presents, and all are faces of a simple gift that cannot be bought, cannot be held and which can wear many faces … and one. What is truly given is a priceless gift we can all afford … the gift of Love.
And today I am a rich woman.
It is always a difficult thing to decide what to give sons who are grown with lives they have filled with things you no longer know, especially on a tight budget. As children you are aware of their needs as well as their changing tastes, as men they have huge chunks of life you are no longer intimately acquainted with. You may know the ‘bigger’ needs and dreams, but that doesn’t mean you can still provide them in the way you did when they were small. Or can you?
“A home-cooked Christmas dinner. It’s all I want.” Well… that one was easy to provide… and a joy, as it meant I got Christmas with my eldest son. It was one of those invisible gifts for me too… I love cooking, love feeding people…and it was good to set a pretty table with glass and candles and a shared meal. There is something magical in that.
His gift to me was also magical… a moment of adventure earlier in the month, his awe at the landscape I was able to share with him in the northern hills that I love. Then Christmas morning out together taking photographs in a sunny world.
My younger son has been adopted into his partner’s delightful family … he was made for the big, close family we do not have and he has blossomed in that warmth. He was made for the kind of celebration that spans the generations in laughter and it is a joy for me to see that. Yet he and his Laura are always on my doorstep on Christmas Day and that is a gift in itself.
They came, as always, bearing gifts… the cosiest slippers and something special they had made themselves… a miniature bottle of their ‘Christmas pudding vodka’ and handmade chocolates, beautifully done with ribbons and a gift tag Laura had embroidered herself.
I remember vividly the years of making hand dipped chocolates, decorating boxes and painting cards as a young wife. I often wondered back then if people were just being polite in their thanks. To have someone do that for me now tells me they were not… for what you are being given here is time, love and care and that is priceless.
The other gifts I was given show the same loving thought… and it is that intangible gift that truly matters. The warm fleece that shows a very practical care that arrives with the little luxuries a friend knows you would not buy for yourself… a sparkling bit of beauty… the gifted words of books specially chosen… messages that are gifts of time and thought; the knowledge that you are held in the heart and mind of those far away.
These are symbols of a deeper gift. Warmth and friendship, care and kindness cannot be wrapped and tagged. They are the true gifts behind the presents, and all are faces of a simple gift that cannot be bought, cannot be held and which can wear many faces … and one. What is truly given is a priceless gift we can all afford … the gift of Love.
And today I am a rich woman.
