Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life, page 1055

Birds of a feather

That the birds were there first means little to Ani. It is, as far as she is concerned, her garden and she decides who gets to play in it. Apart from the stray babies, those she makes an exception for and will even call the cavalry to their rescue. There is no malice in her vociferous warnings to the feathered fiends who invade her space. In fact she grins all the time she is chasing them off.

The cat next door, on the other hand, stalks them silently, moving a whisker at a time, closing in for that final, fatal pounce.

Me, on the other hand, I like birds. I love to hear them herald the morning as I wake, the first light washing the bedroom in pale colour. I love to watch them darting around the garden, or soaring in the blue above. They are creatures of grace and beauty who carry music within and rise above the landscape, seeing it with eyes other than my own. In quiet moments imagination lends me their wings and I can rise with them to greet the dawn.

The three of us watch the same sparrow on the fence from completely different viewpoints, with different emotions and imperatives fuelling our actions. I suppose we are simply following the dictates of our own species and nature. Yet these are neither inevitable nor unchangeable. There are many cats that never chase a bird. There are probably few dogs who warn them off quite so joyfully. And as a human being, I could simply ignore them, see them as a source of food or raw materials, or even through the eyes of myth and legend.

It is a personality shaped by instinct and experience that impels our individual reactions to the birds every day. Ani sees them as both invaders to be warned away and playthings with which she can have fun. The cat I don’t know personally... for some reason Ani refuses that acquaintance… so I cannot say whether it is the thrill of the chase, or a quest for dinner that drives it. For me it is many things. Memories of being taught their names and stories as a child, the simple love of their beauty and the knowledge of the thread of life that binds us, associations that run deeper than the surface, perhaps.

I remember my grandfather explaining a picture in a book to me, when I was very young, where the heart was weighed against the feather of truth. There is more to that than the simple lightness, for Horus, the Divine Child of the Egyptian faith, was depicted as a hawk and truth was a goddess with a feather in her hair. The Egyptians, indeed, had many birds associated with divinity, from the Benu bird, a symbol of rebirth, to the protective vulture goddess Nekhbet. Odin had his ravens, a story brought to life for me on a first visit to the Tower of London, observing their curiosity and intellect in action. Christianity has the Dove and the Pelican. Symbolism, folklore and fairytales are littered with feathers.

Experience shapes us in ways we often cannot see. The innate nature can be overridden by learned behaviours, habits and acquired reactions that may seem obvious to those looking on, but to which we ourselves are blind until something throws them into sharp relief. These habits can be both positive and negative, overcoming inner battles or seeing us lost in a sea of fears. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.

But we do not have to be a slave to our reactions, there is always that poised instant when we stand at the crossroads of choice and can break the cycle if we so will it and, to paraphrase the famous quotation, be the change we wish to see in ourselves.

Taking the biscuit

Today, dear friends, I am inspired.

By a biscuit.

A Rich Tea biscuit of renowned lineage to be exact. For those who have not encountered this denizen of the biscuit tin, it is a plain, thin and eminently dunkable thing. Not to be tackled by the unwary or uninitiated. It requires the touch of experience to achieve that perfect melding of beverage and biscuit, the transmutation of the alchemical marriage of liquid and solid, fixed and mutable into the perfection born of precision.

This particular pack of biscuits was a gift from a son to an ailing mother. It matters not that they arrived slightly battered, nor that he ate half the packet with his coffee upon arrival. Half a pack remained as proof of his thoughtful care, the empty half a witness to filial devotion and his concern for my bruised and swollen post-surgical waistline.

I seldom eat biscuits, but when I do, I dunk.

Do you dunk? Are you blatant and unashamed in your pursuit of the joyfulness of a well dunked biscuit or perhaps a closet dunker? Do you dunk in private and shy away from the possible horrors of any public dunking? Who, of the dunkers amongst us, has not encountered that particular moment when the sogginess goes one step too far, the biscuit curls ominously and lands with a self-satisfied plop back in the beverage of choice, as if desperate to be reunited with the steaming liquid that brought it to life? That momentary fear as we await the inevitable, wondering whether the poised imminence will slide gracefully into the cup or will splash loudly, leaving its trace upon the pristine surface of the table?

What do you do about it? Pretend it has not happened, leaving the now soggy mess to sink into the obscurity of the dregs, leaving enough in the cup to cover the traces of your transgression? Attempt to drink the lot and hope no-one notices? Or fish around nonchalantly with the spoon in the hopes of discretely catching the disintegrating mass? If successful, do you discard the mess upon the saucer, or glance furtively around before rapidly hiding the evidence in the fastness of your mouth?

Or… do you go boldly in with yet another biscuit, with swift precision, to capture the floating remnants upon its crisp surface, knowing full well that one slip will result in inescapable disaster, and inevitable splashes, knowing too that the slim chance of the success of this forlorn hope, this bravado, this daring will result in the satisfaction of perfection, covering the momentary failure in glory?

Dunking, of course, is an art, an exercise in the precision of attention and awareness. Perfection is only achieved when the correct ratio of time, volume, surface area and temperature is attained. Although it is a precise art, it is variable. No two biscuits are the same. The time factor varies between, say, a rich tea and a ginger nut. The first requires swiftness and a steady hand, the second is more forgiving of the novice dunker but optimal saturation is more difficult to gauge.

Too long an immersion in the steaming depths leads to mere sogginess or disaster, too little and the saturation is incomplete, negating the purpose of the dunking, leaving one unsatisfied and disconsolate, crunching the unsaturated inner heart of the biscuit.

But of course, personal taste makes this artform even more unique. There are those who prefer an incomplete saturation, relishing the inner crunchiness hidden beneath the melting surface, or simply willing to accept a lesser melding for the sake of safety and less risk. Some prefer a mere veneer of sogginess, while for others only total immersion will do.

Who can judge who is right? Optimal saturation varies biscuit to biscuit, dunker to dunker. Every dunk of the biscuit is different and serves a different purpose in different circumstances. Within the arcane art of the dunker many things may be observed, from the zest for life to the social pressures we impose upon ourselves, the embracing of risk to the need for security. Yet bold or tentative, success or failure cannot be measured by the observer, only by the dunker, as only the dunker can know what satisfies their inner need.

Next time you pick up a biscuit, take a moment to think about what your relationship with it tells you about yourself. It is a revealing process.

Things to treasure

It is tiny, barely bigger than a postage stamp, yet the little wooden box is a work of art. Crafted with loving precision, the grain matched. To my eyes, the pattern of the growth of the living tree captures a landscape of hills, tilled fields and clouds across its surface. Though made of wood, the colours of the earth and of gold are part of its fabric. It holds the stuff of tears and of life and memory, and of love. In my hands it holds an echo of the warmth of the sun it has known. Soul to soul, for a moment shared out of time.

Three hares, detailed, tiny, chasing each other in an endless round. Symbol that spans the ages, lands and faiths of the world, the Three in One, eternity from a creature of earth. Sharing a life interwoven, both giver and gift.

A star wrought of glass, Egyptian in style. The stars were the followers of Osiris, present in both this world and the Duat . The Ba ascends to live among them. Iridescent, yet the colour of home or the dark velvet night.

An angel carved from crystal, clear as water. A butterfly , symbol of the soul, a smokey globe of quartz, a door with an Eye, and an Eye of alabaster, a painting of the sun, a perfect pebble from a beach, spheres of volcanic stone…. and a cup of coffee.

All these things sit around my desk this morning, every one a gift given in loving friendship.

From the coffee I drink, to the pebble picked up and offered in sunlight beside the shore. From the hares shared in love, to the box placed warm and unseen in my hand in the darkness, each one is a treasure, not only in itself, but for what they are to me when I hold them in my hand or with my eyes.

Some mark the birth of the School, some my own passage from the murky shadows into a clearer light, some simply mark a moment shared. All are symbols of the greater gift of friendship. And as I look around me this morning, all I can see is Love, and I feel truly and deeply blessed.

The value of these gifts lies not in the gift but in the giver and in the heart. Each has the power to take me back to a single moment, annihilating distance and time, ensuring the persistence of memory. Hours, tears and laughter shared, the beauty of a communion of hearts, a few handwritten words, or the image of eyes meeting mine. These are the treasured gifts to cherish. The objects around me remind me of that and I carry these people with me always. And the oddest thing is, that the more you carry in your heart, the lighter it becomes.

Security

Have you ever noticed how many times we cling to the known rather than risk the adventure of the unknown… even when the known is not so good and the unknown full of alluring possibilities? Security is a major issue for most of us at some level.

I saw this in action recently as I watched an attempt to ‘go back’ to a place now long gone, by someone too afraid to move forward. I watched in sadness, knowing that the place that existed in memory was not the reality of that past, but an attempted escape from the present and the fears of an unknown future.

I recall a conversation with my boss very many years ago, when I was about to leave the security of her home and a decent salary for an itinerant musician. We sat in the garden just outside Paris, under the stars, talking for a long, long time over a bottle of Burgundy. It was a fabulous position with wonderful people, and in a place I loved. Possibly the first time in my adult life that I had been genuinely and consciously happy. Everything I could have wished for … and I was on the verge of giving it up and jumping into unknown territory.

There was no home to go to, and no real prospect of one at that time. Just a hotel room. He owned nothing but a guitar and a suitcase… I just had the suitcase, nothing more. There was no regular income, only the uncertain rewards of the music. There was, in fact, neither security nor stability in any material sense. Yet my boss put into words something I suppose I had always known but never understood. Material security didn’t matter much to me… emotional security did.

She was right, of course, though I had never seen it that way. I have thought about that a lot over the years.

I had been raised in a family where there was always ‘enough’, though there was seldom more. There had been periods in my teens of truly abject poverty and near starvation, even in this civilised society… but they had been survived and had become just part of the journey. I knew from that experience how little one truly needs. Most of what we count as necessity is, in fact, luxury.

I had been a child then, secure in my mother’s love, and with that security could survive anything.

Years move on, perceptions change and so do we, learning from the experiences life offers, or clinging to them and stagnating. There is always that choice. I clung to emotional security for years, living in a fog of nebulous hope, even when I knew it was an illusion. Looking back at the blindness I suppose I was still seeking that security of the child who knows itself loved. In pursuit of that I forgot who I was and moulded myself to the desires of others. It is a sad way to be.

When you think about it, as I did, this squeezing of oneself into expected moulds, regardless of the fit, reflects only insecurity and a lack of value of self. I had myself convinced that I had to be someone else in order to feel of value, to feel worthy of being loved. It took a long time before I understood that.

We are all worthy of love, every single one of us. But we have to be able to accept that in ourselves. To see ourselves for who we are, the fragility and flaws, the rough edges of a work in progress that yet holds the perfection of the master craftsman, waiting to be realised. We are each our own Pygmalion and Galatea at the same time.

Do you know that story? Pygmalion, a sculptor, carved a perfect woman and fell in love with her. Yet she was made of ivory, cold and lifeless. It was only when Love intervened that she was awakened with a kiss and the two united.

So it is with ourselves, the outer self that moves in the world, seeking, perhaps, for something deeper, and the inner self, waiting simply for us to remember its presence and embrace it before it can waken to Life.

There is a lot of spiritual and self-help stuff out there at present telling us we have to love ourselves. It doesn’t feel that simple when we have a lifetime of layers built around us, so deep, sometimes, that we forget who we are. But there is truth in it.

We are each of us responsible for the surface we present to the world. Just as we are responsible for the reflection we see in the mirror of our own heart. Next time you look at that reflection, look beyond the flaws that catch your attention to the innermost core, that child of the universe, and be secure in the knowledge that this inner child is beautiful and worthy of Love. And with Love, comes awakening.

Sacred places

All my life I have visited sacred sites when I could. Whether ancient church, temple, stone circle or legendary landscape, there is something about these sites that touches a place deep within. Perhaps it is a sense of kinship with those who built them, perhaps a sense of shared reverence for that greater Something touched unseen beyond the veil.
It has never mattered to me how that divinity was approached or what form it took, only that it was perceived, recognised by the heart and present in the lives of the builders. They, and I, share perhaps, a common sentiment, expressed in my favourite Hindu prayer, “Thou art without form, but I worship thee in these forms”. In these often strange, yet somehow familiar, edifices and landscapes we can glimpse the very real place that divinity took in the lives of our forefathers.
Theories on the technologies and purpose of these places abound. Yet have you ever stopped to consider the amount of sheer hard work that went into their building? Silbury Hill, for instance. It has been estimated that it would have taken 500 people, working every day for 10 years to construct the hill from 500,000 tonnes of chalk and earth. Stonehenge with its small forest of stone, in excess of 1200 tons… and the bluestones transported all the way from Wales.
I have driven from Presceli where the bluestones were quarried to Salisbury Plain. Even in a fast car on a clear road you are looking at a four hour drive. And four and a half thousand years ago there were no nice smooth roads. I worked in transport for a long time with cranes and often had to organise the transport and installation of large sculptures. Even with modern technology it is no easy task. Can you imagine what was involved in terms of sheer effort for our ancestors to move these great stones so far?
Wonderful churches and cathedrals sit in the midst of our towns, passed daily with barely a glance by many of us, yet these edifices are a testimony to ingenuity, innovation and craftsmanship, lifetimes of artistry and work. Here at least we can understand in modern terms how an artist would work for a living, yet those who built the ancient places … what drove them to do so? Would they not have been better occupied pursuing the necessities of survival?
They appear not to have thought so. Someone must have fed them, cared for their children, their parents and for them, so in the harsh and uncertain environment in which they lived, not only the workers themselves were involved in the effort, but whole communities must have supported it and taken part, each sacrificing time and sharing resources to maintain the workforce.
These ancient places, sacred to their builders, speak of humanity. Perhaps the planners, the decision makers, saw power in the building... that too is a human trait… yet to be able to envision such great works, to organise and coordinate, to maintain a workforce and create these wonders of which we see but the remnants, would have taken powerful leadership. It is not as if the tribes were equipped with the weaponry to enforce and impose these projects so many thousands of years ago.
So what drove them? We cannot know for certain, of course, with the ancient places. No record exists except the enigmatic traces on the landscape. Yet the human heart and mind has not changed so very much perhaps that we cannot divine a recognisable thread.
With the great cathedrals, of course, the wealth and power of the church was displayed. Religion dominated every aspect of life and was a very real force for peasant and noble alike. They took it seriously, awed, fearful of judgement perhaps, loving too and worshipping from the heart. In medieval times the physical and political power of wealth and weaponry could have imposed, the organised power of a multinational religion would have been able to ensure that such works were completed. Yet they could not have imposed the obvious and loving dedication of the artists and artisans who created the beauty that survives.
Amid the simplicity of domestic architecture and the poverty of the cities, amid the homes we would see as hovels, the cathedrals were built, reaching high to the heavens, magnificent structures of lace carved in stone, towering above the surrounding rooftops to the glory of their God.
I can only think that the ancient places too were built for much the same reasons.
Was it simply an effort to propitiate the gods and ensure survival? Yet if so, would the tribes not have been more profitably occupied in smaller works and greater effort hunting, farming and working in known ways to survive? I think there was more to it than that. These places, when we stand among their traces, are so vast, entire landscapes shaped and altered by human effort, sweat and blood, that the only reason I can feel is awe at their perception of something greater and their efforts to somehow reach out to it and bring it into their own life and land.
When I stand in the nave of a tiny chapel, a lonely temple on the moors or amid the splendour of a cathedral, when my bare feet walk the grass between the stones and landscapes carved by human hands, I marvel at their skill and dedication. Yet beyond and beneath the awe at the human achievement is a sense of companionship on a sacred quest, a journey of the soul towards a Light perceived, however dimly, that pervades and illuminates the world and each of us.
It matters not how that Light is seen, what Name we use or the stories we have woven in our attempts at understanding. It matters only that It is, and that seeing It, we look for It within. The sacred landscape that is our self is enough.

Saying Yes

I have recently come across a number of excellent articles on the value of learning to say ‘No’. And it is good advice. We bend over backwards, tie ourselves in knots and wear ourselves to shreds sometimes trying to do and be everything others ask of us. It is, just occasionally, okay to say no.

I will be the first to hold up my hand in guilt at this one, learning how and when to refuse has been a long, hard journey… and one I am still working on. The natural instinct is to be helpful, and personally I have found saying yes to everything a hard habit to break. It is not easy to learn to accept that sometimes No is the best answer.

But what I find strange, amid all the helpful and useful articles about learning to say No, is that there is a dearth of similar advice about saying Yes to life.

And sometimes that is precisely what we need to find the courage to do.

About a year ago I was given a simple yes/no option.

The ‘no’ would have preserved the status quo, involved no risk, cherished the familiar and allowed life to continue a familiar pattern. I knew where I was heading, could understand the possibilities of the future, and even the not-so-good bits were homely and not unknown.

A ‘yes’ would not only challenge all I knew and much of what I held dear, it would, it was clear, alter the dynamics of my life in ways I could not imagine or foretell. It would truly be a step in the dark, without any knowledge of the ground beneath my feet. Stepping out of my comfort zone and the life I knew would be like being stranded in a deep pool, blindfolded and disoriented, having to trust that I would be guided to shore.

Any deviation from the normality I knew was going to involve this journey into unknown territory. I could see some of the potential ‘cost’ in purely human terms but as the choice itself was quite tenuous and blurred, I could not see how far away from my usual path I would be walking.

In face of this uncertainty, my instinct was to say No. I freely admit it was fear… self-preservation… a fear of loss, if you will.

Yet, it pulled and tugged and niggled away. Knowing it was my own fear that held me back forced me to look closely at the whys and wherefores of my thoughts and actions. Once I had understood that I was permitting fear to make my decisions for me, I rebelled. After all, I am my own responsibility.

So I said Yes.

A year later as we wait to bring to birth a School whose first waiting students are already international, I cannot believe how close I came to allowing fear to rob me of what has been undoubtedly one of the best years of my life.

I have been challenged and worked, I have learned and taught, shared and given. I have driven many hundreds of miles across a country I love and made new friends the world over. A mirror has been held up for me in which I have seen many flaws and weaknesses, seen core beliefs challenged and stripped away and where I have been obliged to reassess much of what I had accepted through habit and lack of thought. And through fear.

My entire life and lifestyle have been turned upside down and inside out. I have been both shaken and stirred.

There has been loss, but only because I have felt it so. There have been huge changes, yet that is no bad thing. I barely recognise my life any more when I contrast it with the one I knew… yet I am deeply, completely happy. Happier than I have been in many years. And more myself than I have ever allowed myself to be.

And this is just a beginning.

Instead of worrying about where this path will lead and what it might mean, I now embrace it and walk out into that nebulous tomorrow with my head held high, as I follow what my innermost heart says is right.

I do not know where I will stand a year from now. I cannot see that shadowy me… but I do not need to. I have said Yes to life and will live it with all that I am.

Sometimes Yes is the only answer.

Nerkism

I had planned an amusing piece about a term coined by my sons some while ago at a point where they sought to understand the spiritual and philosophical principles upon which I base my life and unconventional faith.

After expounding at length and with passionate depth, my sons stripped it all back to bare bones and, while agreeing I was definitely weird, debated whether I qualified as a geek or a nerd. Deciding I was probably both, they pronounced, “So basically, you’re a Nerk.“

The epithet, along with a number of others, even less complimentary (which they regularly apply to my stature and person) stuck. Even on my own pages, my son referred to me as a hobbit in his post. Still, it could have been worse and I am grateful for small mercies. Even hobbit sized ones.

Bear in mind, here, that they are not being unreasonable. My frame is what you might call compact, at a mere five foot, while they are in the region six foot … I can’t be exact, they are too high. They invariably ask, should they have occasion to hug me, if I am shrinking. Though Nick did say I don’t have the demeanour of a small person. Not quite worked out if that was a compliment yet…

That the term ‘nerk’ has passed into the murky waters of the urban dictionary may, or may not, have anything to do with them. Heaven forfend that they ever realise it was used in an old BBC sitcom, “Porridge”, to signify an idiot. At least, I hope they don’t realise it… they surely can’t remember that…? Don’t mention it to them, please….

However, it is indisputable that they have coined an entirely new area of speech here. They refer to the majority of my friends, of course, as fellow Nerks. Fondly and indulgently, I must add, for any fellow Nerks reading this. They speak of nerkism, nerkishness, and nerkdom on a regular basis. And of course, we understand each other perfectly.

I’m not entirely happy that when asked what Mum does, they reply, “She’s a Nerk.” (I insist on capitalisation here.) But given some of the other aforementioned epithets, it is possibly the lesser of several evils.

However, my sons have learned, over the intervening years, to value nerkdom. When I speak of anyone new, it is almost the first thing they ask, “Another Nerk?” From what could be a mild insult a nebulous, but genuine, respect has grown. All the nerks they have encountered thus far have been exceptional people with hearts open to the world and minds open to knowledge. They have seen nerkdom come together in prayer, meditation and support when Nick was lying in the coma. They have watched as nerkish attitudes and nerkist philosophies have made real differences in lives other than their own.

They have seen how my fellow Nerks have performed extraordinary acts of kindness in silence and how they are always there for a fellow creature, regardless of species or the number of legs involved.

But what is a nerkism? It is hard to define because it takes in so very many philosophies, faiths and beliefs. Although, perhaps that does define it. Maybe it is as simple as that love and respect for life, the planet which is our home, our fellow creatures and most importantly, each other.

However you seek to define the term, one thing I do know..I am proud to be numbered as a Nerk among Nerks.

Rough diamond

The computer whirred into life this morning faster than I did… not difficult, of course. I need coffee, copious amounts of coffee. The computer, however, chirps into readiness almost as quickly as the dog.

To be fair to Ani, although she is poised with every muscle frozen mid-launch, those first few moments when I enter the room are special. No-one else will ever see them, she cannot possibly contain her excitement if anyone else is here, but for me there is a quiet hello. She tucks herself into a small, sphinx like bundle of taut immobility and waits near the window, eyes fixed on mine. Other than sleep, it is the only time she is ever at rest. But for those moments the whirly girl is still. I speak to her and she makes odd little grunting noises at me. I sit on the floor with her and we cuddle and share a few moments of quiet love.

She stays like this until I ask if she wants to go outside… at which point she becomes a small tornado, dancing in bouncy circles and grinning while I turn the key in the back door. Diving outside she greets the morning with exuberance, checking the sky for intruding pigeons and ensuring we have a cat free garden. She will not now be still unless I have to go out, then I know I will return to those few moments of stillness when I come home.

To everyone else she is either an annoyingly or delightfully bouncy creature, who definitely has several loose screws and more energy than a nuclear physicist would know how to handle. As I write the ball is constantly retrieved and placed on the shelf below the keyboard, ready for me to throw. She will break from this game if someone passes or she hears a noise she has to investigate. She would make a superb guard dog as long as she only had to play with intruders.

Before you say it, I am well aware her lunacy says far more about me than it does about her. In her daftness I let off steam, find laughter and with her I play like a child. I could, of course, take a hard line and train her into obedient and compliant sobriety. It would definitely have its uses. It would be convenient. Even I admit it would be nice to have a telephone conversation without the demands to play ball, or her inevitable bark intruding down the line. I freely admit I would rather find cheese in the fridge than the tennis ball she left there in its place.

But would she then be ‘my’ Ani? Or indeed her own?

In spite of the whirlwind quality, she is incredibly gentle with small creatures, cuddlesome when needed and treats my eldest son like glass, understanding his limitations instinctively, adapting her games and strength to his needs. Indeed, she overcompensates for the muscle weakness, is overprotective of him and Nick can barely get a decent game out of her.

She unstuffs her bed on a daily basis, rules me with a flick of her eye and the velvet glove of her head on my knee, kidnaps stray food, all the recycling and anything vaguely ball shaped. She is possibly the most inconvenient animal I have ever met. And would I change a thing? Honestly? No.

Of course a quiet, sedate Ani would be nice occasionally, but that is more for my convenience and that of my guests. Her nature is joyous, she shares her exuberance with the world and it is hardly her fault if the world is not in the mood to handle her energetic laughter.

And really, just because she is ‘mine’, does that give me any right to attempt to change her nature? Because she has traits that can be considered flaws in a dog, that are occasionally annoying, that reflect badly on me as an ‘owner’… like barking at pigeons or excited whirlyness… does that make her less beautiful, of less value?

She is a creature of absolutes who lives and loves and gives her attention to the moment. She loves with her whole being, laughs with her whole body, chases birds with utter abandon and sleeps in utter relaxation.

And I love her. As she is.

It is one thing, in a relationship, to make those changes that allow us to be able to fit the pieces of our lives together in harmony. Yet so often we try to change others, or even ourselves to fit an accepted ideal, to conform to what we feel we should or ought to be. When we love we can tie ourselves in knots to become what we think the other person wants… or we subtly attempt to bring them to change things about themselves that fit with our desires.

To recognise flaws and problems should not prevent us from loving regardless. To seek change within ourselves should not mean we hate what we are, we should be able to feel a love for who we are, and for each other, in wholeness and beauty. A love that recognises and includes the things that may need to change within. That sees the wholeness of the rough diamonds that we are, knowing that within the unpolished rock may be a flawless jewel waiting to be discovered.

Dance of imagination

I’m sitting in tears today as the final fragment of the launch falls into place. Of course, it isn’t quite that simple… it doesn’t just happen… though this almost did. But this critical part of the weekend has only just been drawn together. We knew what was needed in principle, but had to wait to be shown the how.

Now we know.

And the beauty in it is astonishing.

Yet on paper it looks like nothing, almost silence.

This is often the way with meditations, the sacred drama we will use, the Pathworkings that are voyages in the imagination. On paper they are quite lifeless. It is only when the imagination comes into play and emotion wakens in the inner heart that they take on reality and a life of their own.

You can test this for yourself, very easily. Recite a poem or a prayer learned by rote, something you learned as a child before it held any meaning in your life. Recite it as if it were a stranger and had no depth… as if you were reading entries in a telephone directory. Then recite it again, with all it means to you in every word, all the emotion, all the attachments…speak it with love and memory, and you feel it in every corner of your being.

Guided meditations, Pathworkings, prayer or a simple poem or story, they all work in the same way. The writer notes the words on paper or screen, attempting to capture an elusive vision, something that has sung in their own heart. For them the words have life and meaning, depth and colour, for they see the inner vision from which they were born. With them they seek to evoke a similar emotional response in the reader. But it is a two way process, and the words cannot take on life and colour unless the reader engages with them.

Then it becomes a dance, a duet that transcends space and time, a magical pas de deux where the minds and imaginations of writer and reader meet in a reality beyond the workaday world. Each add their own particular shades and colour to the words, emotive meaning being deeply unique to each of us and an inner landscape comes into being where the mind can wander.

This holds true for any artist seeking to share a vision. Even a painter can only set an image free into the world. It is the viewer’s heart that responds and brings it to life.

In our book, “The Mystical Hexagram”, Gary and I use vivid landscapes painted with word and imagination to take the reader on an inner journey that is one of healing and self-discovery. In the Silent Eye the School will also use this technique, an ancient one in the Mysteries.

The drama used in our workshops is an extension of this and brings the imagination into life, capturing the attention of body, heart and mind, taking the inner dance to new levels.

So today as I read through the document that sets out the simplest of scenes, a shared vision given form in words, I saw it played out on the screen of my heart and felt it there. I felt the emotions it evokes, saw the depth of meaning in the simple directions, brought to life in my imagination in vivid hues and I wept at the beauty it carries and the promise it holds for the future to which we have committed our lives.

Bloodbaths and butterflies

There are black sheets on the bed to protect it from the crimson. The bathroom, splattered with red looks like a small but very efficient massacre has taken place in the bathtub. No, I haven’t committed some atrocity nor had yet another accident, apart from the choice of colour. But I can now say categorically it wasn’t ‘Fiery Red’ either.

I am gradually working my way through the hair dye on the supermarket shelves in search of the one I really liked… the one in the profile pic… but this is just very red. Not that I dislike it... but not what I had in mind. It is, perhaps, not so much ‘fiery’ as ‘blatantly’ red.
But that’s fine.

The dog, of course, has been eyeing me askance while I sit steaming away. She doesn’t like it when I alter my appearance with scarf, hood or towel. I have the distinct impression that she thinks I have lost the plot. She may have a point. She almost laughed as she watched me scrub at various areas that were carefully, if uselessly, protected with Vaseline… a vain attempt to prevent the ‘fifty shades of orange’ syndrome around my ears.

I inevitably got caught up in work and forgot the 25 minute deadline. But that’s ok too. The results are fine… they are vivid. When my friend arrives at the airport in a week or two he won’t have any trouble finding me. He’ll just have to look for something small, excited and very, very visible.

A shaft of late afternoon sunlight strikes through the window and illuminates the blazing beacon. Ani looks almost startled, wearing a similar expression to the one I will find on my son’s face tomorrow. There will be comments. There always are. And particularly as I wear a lot of bright orange.

I have had a week of not being well… okay, months, but a week since illness won a round and dumped me in hospital. It feels much longer, and I don’t approve. My body and I usually operate an uneasy truce where it does as it is told on the whole, while I do my best to keep it moving and get it up and running at full speed again. The past week I have had to concede a temporary defeat. And I don’t like it. I’m supposed to be the one in control here.

So it was to affirm change the dye came out today.

It is a red flag I wear, a statement of intent, an affirmation of self. Not so much for anyone else as for myself. Every time I look in the mirror, or catch a reflection I am reminded that the worm turned some time ago. The caterpillar ceased to crawl and grew wings.

This caterpillar motif has come up a lot in discussion lately from various sources. It is an apt analogy. I have to say that the time inside the cocoon wasn’t particularly pleasant. There was a long period of knowing that something had changed, the old ‘me’ had gone and was being gradually dissolved, separated into its component parts. I had no idea what would emerge at the end of the process. It was unpleasant, rather scary and frequently painful. But it is from this emotional soup that the butterfly is formed and there can be no growth without change. I always felt I could fly if I had the wings but dissolution was required before they could unfurl.

I remember as a child there were vivid dreams in which I soared like a seagull, playing on the wind. So vivid were these dreams I can feel them still, recalling the sensations of flight in the pit of my stomach, how to steer with a simple shift of movement, what it felt like to climb and dive with a mastery of the element of air. Occasionally, if I am lucky, I dream these dreams again and glory in the sensation and the freedom I attain.

Granted, in my dreams I soared and rode the wind, rather than fluttering delicately, butterfly fashion, but flight is flight after all, and some butterflies manage to cover thousands of miles, in spite of their apparent fragility. And at least they get to stop and smell the flowers.

So although I may look like an incongruous red-head, that isn’t so much hair as a flying helmet.