Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life, page 1062
January 6, 2013
Posing a Question
My friend and co-author of the Mystical Hexagram, Gary Vasey posted a link to a response to an article on his blog, Asteroth’s Domain. It doesn’t take a lot to set me off, sometimes… I occasionally feel the urge to respond in detail
Gary, after writing his thoughts with his customary openness, had asked the question, ‘where does selfishness begin and end?’
As it deals with a theme that I have found recurring in discussions lately, I thought I would re-post it here in case it strikes a chord.
I have often wondered if there is any such thing as a truly selfless action. I have spent a lifetime doing all I can for others, those I love and especially those I do not. Yet, I came to realise that while the conscious intent was genuine, there were, ultimately, ulterior motives. Whether it was a subconscious seeking of approval, a justification for my own existence or simply the desire to make someone smile… even that smile is a reward and therefore, in some ways, negates the selflessness.
Then I came to understand that the almost universal desire to protect those we love and care for from hurt, sorrow and pain, to shoulder their burdens and wish to carry them on their behalf, is also potentially fraught with the danger of selfishness. For by what right can I judge what is ‘best’ for the progress of another soul? In my desire to help, was I denying my loved ones the opportunity to learn and grow?
And yet, of course, there is the obverse side of the coin. Can I stand by and watch while a fellow creature suffers? Should I keep the life lessons I have learned to myself for fear of denying the opportunity of growth? No, of course not. What one has learned for one’s Self, can and should be shared.
As a parent, one gets no handbook. So we do the best we can and try to equip our children to the best of our ability, with the life skills they will need. Yet there comes a point when we have to step back and allow them to make their own choices. If that leads them to make mistakes, we pick them up, if they will let us, and help them through. Yet the choices they make must be their own. No matter how much we try and teach, only they can choose to learn.
As a partner, we can give and give… only to find that by doing so we have defined our own role as giver and our partner has been forced into the role of taker. Then when we need them, the relationship has to be redefined once more, with huge effort. It reminds me of DF’s comment on stopping the gears of the universe before one can change direction again. People, and relationships, can break under that kind of strain.
Or perhaps we try to ‘do what is best’ in our relationships. But again, the gap between desire and need can be a vast chasm. Stripped down to the basics, our true needs are both very small and yet all encompassing. Desire is personal, and can be based on a real desire to attain a goal, or merely a wistful longing, a daydream or a desire for change. That change may have no real correlation to the object of the desire, but may signal a desire to change a seemingly unrelated situation or relationship.
It is a minefield, of course
In a nutshell, my own belief is simple. All one can ever do is follow the dictates of heart and conscience. Our lives stem from the crossroads of every step we take, every decision and choice. Each choice leads us down the path of our own choosing. We cannot control circumstance, but we can always choose how we will react. And we alone are responsible for those choices.
It won’t mean we always get things right, but we learn from our mistakes, so the experience is not wasted. After all, if we were not still wearing our spiritual ‘L’ plates, why would we be here?
I had a conversation recently regarding Fate and predestination. His belief is that our entire lives are mapped out in advance and all we have to do is live them. So our choices do not matter as they have been made for us by Fate. To me, this seems a sad and pointless existence, and the more we learn about this universe through science, the less it seems possible that anything at all can exist pointlessly.
For myself I believe we choose the circumstances and broad outline of possibilities that will provide the soul with the learning opportunities we need. Once incarnate, it is up to us to choose what to do with those opportunities. If we fail or ignore them, life has a way of spiralling round to re-present them to us until we face them. In this respect, we truly are the architects of our own lives and we alone are responsible for the results.
So I reiterate, what is the line between selfishness and selflessness? Choice, intent and responsibility, I think, guided by experience, understanding and love. All we can do is follow where our heart and the still small voice within tells us it is right to go.
Gary, after writing his thoughts with his customary openness, had asked the question, ‘where does selfishness begin and end?’
As it deals with a theme that I have found recurring in discussions lately, I thought I would re-post it here in case it strikes a chord.
I have often wondered if there is any such thing as a truly selfless action. I have spent a lifetime doing all I can for others, those I love and especially those I do not. Yet, I came to realise that while the conscious intent was genuine, there were, ultimately, ulterior motives. Whether it was a subconscious seeking of approval, a justification for my own existence or simply the desire to make someone smile… even that smile is a reward and therefore, in some ways, negates the selflessness.
Then I came to understand that the almost universal desire to protect those we love and care for from hurt, sorrow and pain, to shoulder their burdens and wish to carry them on their behalf, is also potentially fraught with the danger of selfishness. For by what right can I judge what is ‘best’ for the progress of another soul? In my desire to help, was I denying my loved ones the opportunity to learn and grow?
And yet, of course, there is the obverse side of the coin. Can I stand by and watch while a fellow creature suffers? Should I keep the life lessons I have learned to myself for fear of denying the opportunity of growth? No, of course not. What one has learned for one’s Self, can and should be shared.
As a parent, one gets no handbook. So we do the best we can and try to equip our children to the best of our ability, with the life skills they will need. Yet there comes a point when we have to step back and allow them to make their own choices. If that leads them to make mistakes, we pick them up, if they will let us, and help them through. Yet the choices they make must be their own. No matter how much we try and teach, only they can choose to learn.
As a partner, we can give and give… only to find that by doing so we have defined our own role as giver and our partner has been forced into the role of taker. Then when we need them, the relationship has to be redefined once more, with huge effort. It reminds me of DF’s comment on stopping the gears of the universe before one can change direction again. People, and relationships, can break under that kind of strain.
Or perhaps we try to ‘do what is best’ in our relationships. But again, the gap between desire and need can be a vast chasm. Stripped down to the basics, our true needs are both very small and yet all encompassing. Desire is personal, and can be based on a real desire to attain a goal, or merely a wistful longing, a daydream or a desire for change. That change may have no real correlation to the object of the desire, but may signal a desire to change a seemingly unrelated situation or relationship.
It is a minefield, of course
In a nutshell, my own belief is simple. All one can ever do is follow the dictates of heart and conscience. Our lives stem from the crossroads of every step we take, every decision and choice. Each choice leads us down the path of our own choosing. We cannot control circumstance, but we can always choose how we will react. And we alone are responsible for those choices.
It won’t mean we always get things right, but we learn from our mistakes, so the experience is not wasted. After all, if we were not still wearing our spiritual ‘L’ plates, why would we be here?
I had a conversation recently regarding Fate and predestination. His belief is that our entire lives are mapped out in advance and all we have to do is live them. So our choices do not matter as they have been made for us by Fate. To me, this seems a sad and pointless existence, and the more we learn about this universe through science, the less it seems possible that anything at all can exist pointlessly.
For myself I believe we choose the circumstances and broad outline of possibilities that will provide the soul with the learning opportunities we need. Once incarnate, it is up to us to choose what to do with those opportunities. If we fail or ignore them, life has a way of spiralling round to re-present them to us until we face them. In this respect, we truly are the architects of our own lives and we alone are responsible for the results.
So I reiterate, what is the line between selfishness and selflessness? Choice, intent and responsibility, I think, guided by experience, understanding and love. All we can do is follow where our heart and the still small voice within tells us it is right to go.
January 5, 2013
Refuse to Lose
I have just witnessed a miracle. And no, that is not a melodramatic statement. Simply true. I just watched my son walk again. Unsupported. For the first time in three and a half years. Five steps.
Yes it has already made the papers. Of course he had been on the phone jubilant the first time, the other day. That alone had me in tears. But today I saw, with my own eyes, through tears I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried, as my son took five steps away from me.
This, we have always been told, is impossible. And when the impossible occurs I think we can safely call it a miracle. Especially when it brings with it such emotion. Such beauty. Such joy.
I don’t suppose it was wise driving home with tears streaming. They are probably not doing the keyboard much good either. The dog is already quite soggy.
For those who do not know his story, my son was stabbed through the brain in an unprovoked attack in 2009. The screwdriver was rammed through his skull, creating a depressed fracture with shards of bone lodged in the brain, causing extensive brain damage, dangerously elevated intracranial pressures and massive subarachnoid haemorrhage. He was in a coma with a GCS of 4 when he was found and, through brain surgery and other traumas, remained that way for a very long time. He had been expected to die.
He woke, weeks later, paralysed down the right side, unable to speak, coordinate any movement, swallow or see. The damage was so severe we were warned to expect little of his mind, language or personality to remain. Yet I had said from the start that he had always been so stubborn that if he survived and woke at all, Nick would be back. He has proved me right.
His motto was always ‘refuse to lose’. A year after the attack he adopted a variant of that and had it tattooed on his arm ‘Possum ergo facit’, I can, therefore I do.
It has not been an easy journey, nor is it over. There is a very long way to go before Nick could be said to be recovered. His sight, clarity of speech and coordination, balance and…well, I can no longer say inability to walk… We have employed everything from common sense to parcel tape and every shade of ingenuity and unorthodox approach that we can and he had worked relentlessly for his recovery.
His mind and his intellect are clear as a bell, though there are a few invisible issues, he handles them extraordinarily well. He has developed a wisdom far beyond his years in many things. He realised some time ago that he would not now change a thing as he has gone from a successful and ambitious young man to being a happy one who appreciates living.
After he had hugged me while I wept all over him, we stood in his garden talking today. He said that after all the biological and mathematical odds against any one of us being born, it was simply a matter of respect for life to do our best with it. He has a point. We spoke of the power of the imagination and how we create a reality in our minds that is mirrored in the world if we allow it to be and work for it. We spoke of the will and the determination to succeed, to hope and to believe in the impossible and to achieve it with all we are, against all odds and predictions. Against all logic. We spoke of having faith in the impossible being possible. His face lit with passion as he spoke of these things with great eloquence and I wished I could record it for you to hear, for it came from the heart.
Then my son spoke of his dreams, if he can now learn to walk. The places he wants to see and the things he wants to do. All the things he never thought he would be able to do since the attack. The things he could have done, perhaps, before but did not think to spare the time or the joy to do.
“You’ll get postcards from everywhere,” he said, “telling you about all the things I’ve done… not all of them sane.” The lunacy must be genetic, as my only response to that, through the mist of tears, was, “Good!”
He has refused to lose… and today I saw the most beautiful thing I have seen since the day I watched him take his first breath for the second time in his life. I saw my son walk.
Be glad with me.
Yes it has already made the papers. Of course he had been on the phone jubilant the first time, the other day. That alone had me in tears. But today I saw, with my own eyes, through tears I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried, as my son took five steps away from me.
This, we have always been told, is impossible. And when the impossible occurs I think we can safely call it a miracle. Especially when it brings with it such emotion. Such beauty. Such joy.
I don’t suppose it was wise driving home with tears streaming. They are probably not doing the keyboard much good either. The dog is already quite soggy.
For those who do not know his story, my son was stabbed through the brain in an unprovoked attack in 2009. The screwdriver was rammed through his skull, creating a depressed fracture with shards of bone lodged in the brain, causing extensive brain damage, dangerously elevated intracranial pressures and massive subarachnoid haemorrhage. He was in a coma with a GCS of 4 when he was found and, through brain surgery and other traumas, remained that way for a very long time. He had been expected to die.
He woke, weeks later, paralysed down the right side, unable to speak, coordinate any movement, swallow or see. The damage was so severe we were warned to expect little of his mind, language or personality to remain. Yet I had said from the start that he had always been so stubborn that if he survived and woke at all, Nick would be back. He has proved me right.
His motto was always ‘refuse to lose’. A year after the attack he adopted a variant of that and had it tattooed on his arm ‘Possum ergo facit’, I can, therefore I do.
It has not been an easy journey, nor is it over. There is a very long way to go before Nick could be said to be recovered. His sight, clarity of speech and coordination, balance and…well, I can no longer say inability to walk… We have employed everything from common sense to parcel tape and every shade of ingenuity and unorthodox approach that we can and he had worked relentlessly for his recovery.
His mind and his intellect are clear as a bell, though there are a few invisible issues, he handles them extraordinarily well. He has developed a wisdom far beyond his years in many things. He realised some time ago that he would not now change a thing as he has gone from a successful and ambitious young man to being a happy one who appreciates living.
After he had hugged me while I wept all over him, we stood in his garden talking today. He said that after all the biological and mathematical odds against any one of us being born, it was simply a matter of respect for life to do our best with it. He has a point. We spoke of the power of the imagination and how we create a reality in our minds that is mirrored in the world if we allow it to be and work for it. We spoke of the will and the determination to succeed, to hope and to believe in the impossible and to achieve it with all we are, against all odds and predictions. Against all logic. We spoke of having faith in the impossible being possible. His face lit with passion as he spoke of these things with great eloquence and I wished I could record it for you to hear, for it came from the heart.
Then my son spoke of his dreams, if he can now learn to walk. The places he wants to see and the things he wants to do. All the things he never thought he would be able to do since the attack. The things he could have done, perhaps, before but did not think to spare the time or the joy to do.
“You’ll get postcards from everywhere,” he said, “telling you about all the things I’ve done… not all of them sane.” The lunacy must be genetic, as my only response to that, through the mist of tears, was, “Good!”
He has refused to lose… and today I saw the most beautiful thing I have seen since the day I watched him take his first breath for the second time in his life. I saw my son walk.
Be glad with me.
Door of Dreams
Would you walk the corridor of dreams,
Into the dark and unknown inner places,
Where silent voices whisper your desires
From unkissed lips upon amorphous faces?
Dare you cross the Temple chequerboard,
Where black and white in alternating tread
Reflect the hope and terror of the night,
To face imaginations deepest dread?
Could you face each inner world you find,
Knowing that they are a true reflection
That show the turmoil of the conscious mind
Destroying your illusion of perfection?
Can you face the demons hidden there,
Where every rock and tree and fragrant flower,
May hold the cryptic kernel of your fears
Reverberating with emotive power?
Look deep into the mirror of your dreams
To see reflected ancient joys and sorrow,
Begin to read the soul that journeys there
And face today and walk toward tomorrow.
http://scvincent.com/
Into the dark and unknown inner places,
Where silent voices whisper your desires
From unkissed lips upon amorphous faces?
Dare you cross the Temple chequerboard,
Where black and white in alternating tread
Reflect the hope and terror of the night,
To face imaginations deepest dread?
Could you face each inner world you find,
Knowing that they are a true reflection
That show the turmoil of the conscious mind
Destroying your illusion of perfection?
Can you face the demons hidden there,
Where every rock and tree and fragrant flower,
May hold the cryptic kernel of your fears
Reverberating with emotive power?
Look deep into the mirror of your dreams
To see reflected ancient joys and sorrow,
Begin to read the soul that journeys there
And face today and walk toward tomorrow.
http://scvincent.com/
January 3, 2013
Scarlet Woman
Ok, scarlet may be a slight misnomer if we are going to be chromatically accurate. In fact, as I sit here dripping colour onto the dog towel draped around my shoulders, I could as easily end up vermillion or ginger. Not that it matters. As long as it is vivid.
Oddly enough, given my age, I’m not covering grey hair. I have a few, of course, but would wear them, like the laughter lines, as a badge of honour… sort of a campaign medal for living. But great granny’s genes run strong and her hair stayed dark into her tenth decade.
No. Red hair is a statement of intent.
It started a couple of years ago when my 52nd birthday came and went much the same way as all the others for the past couple of decades. Pretty much unremarked. I sort of thought, bugger it and decided to change the mousey brown to something a little more noticeable. I never fancied peroxide blonde… I recall my mother’s highlights that started with the grey hairs in her forties and gradually spread to incongruous yellow by her seventies. Pink was never my style, the family vetoed the bright purple I fancied… probably with good reason… so I went red. And justified it in verse. After all, there are few decent rhymes for ‘purple’…
I dyed my hair scarlet on Tuesday,
I admit that it doesn’t look great…
But a glance in the mirror convinced me
That a girl really should celebrate!
No letters save bills on the doorstep,
No candlelit dinner awaited,
(And even a day or two later,
No envelopes postmarked ‘belated’..)
There were flowers and chocs from the children,
And a couple of much wanted tomes,
A romantic card from the hubby
Who went out and left me at home.
He did say I could buy an outfit,
But as I have exquisite taste
The things that came close to my budget
Did not come so close to my waist!
A friend called to sing Happy Birthday!
(With words written ‘specially for me!)
Then the phone went suspiciously silent
So I made chocolate gateau for tea.
I’d thought of Great Granny that morning,
How she’d say as I braided her hair,
“I take twenty seven pills daily!’
Realising I’m half the way there!
I could dress in velvets and corsets,
Becoming an elderly Goth,
Or be a recycled teenager
In chintz with a vague hint of moth….
So, I dyed my hair scarlet on Tuesday,
It just seemed the right thing to do,
As an aberrant act of rebellion
At having to be Fifty Two!
I cut it too. Short. By the simple expedient of grabbing great chunks and closing my eyes while the scissors created minimalistic havoc of my accustomed curls.
Of course, what the verses do not tell is that I was very down at the time. Things were a bit of a nightmare. My son had been discharged from hospital the previous Christmas and as he needed space in his then severely disabled state, my partner and I had been sleeping on the living room floor ever since and our relationship died. Finances were even tighter than usual, I’d been fighting the system on my son’s behalf, working with him to beat his injuries, balancing the needs of the rest of the family like a stack of jugglers plates and, just to round things off, dealing with health issues of my own.
It was time to do something or go under.
I recalled that once upon a time, to assert a change of outlook when I moved to Paris, I had bought a bright red outfit, top to toe. And loved it. So dyeing the hair was, perhaps, a more economical throwback to that.
I remember very well how visible I felt the next day under the stark lighting of the supermarket. I had never dyed my hair before. And it was exceedingly red. Part of me wanted to curl back up into anonymity, but somewhere inside I thought ‘stuff it’, straightened my back, held up my head and walked down the centre of the aisles. Suddenly I felt like ‘me’ again.
Though the length and colour of my hair are now subject to change without notice, though my circumstances have altered completely, though there have been as many ups and downs as a roller-coaster, I haven’t really looked back since.
And sometimes, I think, that’s all it takes. One small decision, one tiny, seemingly unimportant change, and everything shifts. Not only does it alter our perspective, but reality itself is inevitably changed and the repercussions can spread like a spot of ink in blotting paper.
Meantime, it only said 25 minutes on the bottle…… oops….!
Oddly enough, given my age, I’m not covering grey hair. I have a few, of course, but would wear them, like the laughter lines, as a badge of honour… sort of a campaign medal for living. But great granny’s genes run strong and her hair stayed dark into her tenth decade.
No. Red hair is a statement of intent.
It started a couple of years ago when my 52nd birthday came and went much the same way as all the others for the past couple of decades. Pretty much unremarked. I sort of thought, bugger it and decided to change the mousey brown to something a little more noticeable. I never fancied peroxide blonde… I recall my mother’s highlights that started with the grey hairs in her forties and gradually spread to incongruous yellow by her seventies. Pink was never my style, the family vetoed the bright purple I fancied… probably with good reason… so I went red. And justified it in verse. After all, there are few decent rhymes for ‘purple’…
I dyed my hair scarlet on Tuesday,
I admit that it doesn’t look great…
But a glance in the mirror convinced me
That a girl really should celebrate!
No letters save bills on the doorstep,
No candlelit dinner awaited,
(And even a day or two later,
No envelopes postmarked ‘belated’..)
There were flowers and chocs from the children,
And a couple of much wanted tomes,
A romantic card from the hubby
Who went out and left me at home.
He did say I could buy an outfit,
But as I have exquisite taste
The things that came close to my budget
Did not come so close to my waist!
A friend called to sing Happy Birthday!
(With words written ‘specially for me!)
Then the phone went suspiciously silent
So I made chocolate gateau for tea.
I’d thought of Great Granny that morning,
How she’d say as I braided her hair,
“I take twenty seven pills daily!’
Realising I’m half the way there!
I could dress in velvets and corsets,
Becoming an elderly Goth,
Or be a recycled teenager
In chintz with a vague hint of moth….
So, I dyed my hair scarlet on Tuesday,
It just seemed the right thing to do,
As an aberrant act of rebellion
At having to be Fifty Two!
I cut it too. Short. By the simple expedient of grabbing great chunks and closing my eyes while the scissors created minimalistic havoc of my accustomed curls.
Of course, what the verses do not tell is that I was very down at the time. Things were a bit of a nightmare. My son had been discharged from hospital the previous Christmas and as he needed space in his then severely disabled state, my partner and I had been sleeping on the living room floor ever since and our relationship died. Finances were even tighter than usual, I’d been fighting the system on my son’s behalf, working with him to beat his injuries, balancing the needs of the rest of the family like a stack of jugglers plates and, just to round things off, dealing with health issues of my own.
It was time to do something or go under.
I recalled that once upon a time, to assert a change of outlook when I moved to Paris, I had bought a bright red outfit, top to toe. And loved it. So dyeing the hair was, perhaps, a more economical throwback to that.
I remember very well how visible I felt the next day under the stark lighting of the supermarket. I had never dyed my hair before. And it was exceedingly red. Part of me wanted to curl back up into anonymity, but somewhere inside I thought ‘stuff it’, straightened my back, held up my head and walked down the centre of the aisles. Suddenly I felt like ‘me’ again.
Though the length and colour of my hair are now subject to change without notice, though my circumstances have altered completely, though there have been as many ups and downs as a roller-coaster, I haven’t really looked back since.
And sometimes, I think, that’s all it takes. One small decision, one tiny, seemingly unimportant change, and everything shifts. Not only does it alter our perspective, but reality itself is inevitably changed and the repercussions can spread like a spot of ink in blotting paper.
Meantime, it only said 25 minutes on the bottle…… oops….!
The Integrated Hobbit or Going the Whole Five Feet
There is a lot of discussion going round at present about the new era in spirituality, the new wave of esoteric thought and a coming age of enlightenment. Some of it deadly serious, some seemingly less so. Some may seem ludicrous to others… though not to those who believe it and that is a starting point for much heartache and worse. I’m a firm believer myself in the saying, ‘a thousand monks, a thousand religions’. Every one of us sees our own path a little differently, even when we nominally share a faith or set of beliefs.
The older I get and the more I learn, the more I see a very simple common thread running through most belief systems, regardless of the symbols and tenets of doctrine, beyond the stories, scriptures and legends. It goes deeper than what we are taught and told to a deep inner seeking that seems common to us all.
Whether we seek the answers in religion, faith, science or philosophy, there are deep seated questions and a desire for understanding and purpose and how to grow into ourselves. And because these are undoubtedly profound questions, we often take ourselves and life itself very seriously in light of them.
Now please, don’t misunderstand me. I am not advocating any abrogating of responsibility. On the contrary, being responsible for oneself and one’s own thoughts and actions is, perhaps, the single most important thing we can choose to do. It pulls together the threads of all other parts of life. To take responsibility in that way requires that we be conscious, aware of what we do, who we are and the consequences of our actions, their impact on lives other than our own. It means accepting responsibility for ourselves.
It doesn’t mean we won’t make mistakes. Just that we can see them, perhaps learn from them, be aware of the effects of our choices and make choices in that awareness. It means putting into practice that inner honesty and accepting all of ourselves, good and bad, light and dark.
Speaking of the most deeply spiritual woman I know, revered by many across the world, someone once said of her that she is an angel… but no saint. Looking around me at others I love and in whom I see the beacon of the soul glow brightly, that is another common thread, one of acceptance and joy.
It doesn’t seem to matter what religious or spiritual background they come from. They share a playfulness…even a naughtiness… that accepts themselves and others for who and what they are, and share a lightness of being that is a delight.
I see this as living in their own truth. They are fearless in this regard and either quietly, or publicly follow their own path in honesty, not hiding their human flaws and foibles, not pretending to perfection or sainthood. Just Being… and with joy.
It’s not a bad example to follow.
When we began to build the Silent Eye there was a moment when I thought, “Oh bugger, I’ll have to behave.” Anyone who knows me will tell you this is foreign to my nature. I like a certain amount of gentle lunacy in my life, enjoy daftness and laughter with friends online or in person… and if you’ve read previous blog entries, you may have picked up on this for yourself.
As Director of a School of Consciousness I worried for a moment that I ought to become staid and ‘respectable’. At least publicly. Then, I realised, that would be denying the reality of who I am. It would go against anything I wish to be, do or share. It would not be me. And after all, I am only of any use to the service of the school as myself…whole, flawed and occasionally slightly cracked.
Do you know, I have a feeling that this is what the new current is about. A conscious acceptance of who and what we are. On all levels… and we are all such a mix of contrasts and opposites within ourselves. I feel the new current is about integrating the inner contradictions, realising the human and the divine within, balancing the passive and dynamic, the tears and the laughter, the gifts and the flaws. Just Being who we Are…
Of course, being a small, nondescript Mum, nicknamed ‘the hobbit’ by my six foot sons and laughed down upon from their greater height, you may think I have neither knowledge nor authority to speak of the currents of the coming age. You may be right. I’m not telling anyone what to do here. But for myself I shall live within my own truth and give it the whole five feet
The older I get and the more I learn, the more I see a very simple common thread running through most belief systems, regardless of the symbols and tenets of doctrine, beyond the stories, scriptures and legends. It goes deeper than what we are taught and told to a deep inner seeking that seems common to us all.
Whether we seek the answers in religion, faith, science or philosophy, there are deep seated questions and a desire for understanding and purpose and how to grow into ourselves. And because these are undoubtedly profound questions, we often take ourselves and life itself very seriously in light of them.
Now please, don’t misunderstand me. I am not advocating any abrogating of responsibility. On the contrary, being responsible for oneself and one’s own thoughts and actions is, perhaps, the single most important thing we can choose to do. It pulls together the threads of all other parts of life. To take responsibility in that way requires that we be conscious, aware of what we do, who we are and the consequences of our actions, their impact on lives other than our own. It means accepting responsibility for ourselves.
It doesn’t mean we won’t make mistakes. Just that we can see them, perhaps learn from them, be aware of the effects of our choices and make choices in that awareness. It means putting into practice that inner honesty and accepting all of ourselves, good and bad, light and dark.
Speaking of the most deeply spiritual woman I know, revered by many across the world, someone once said of her that she is an angel… but no saint. Looking around me at others I love and in whom I see the beacon of the soul glow brightly, that is another common thread, one of acceptance and joy.
It doesn’t seem to matter what religious or spiritual background they come from. They share a playfulness…even a naughtiness… that accepts themselves and others for who and what they are, and share a lightness of being that is a delight.
I see this as living in their own truth. They are fearless in this regard and either quietly, or publicly follow their own path in honesty, not hiding their human flaws and foibles, not pretending to perfection or sainthood. Just Being… and with joy.
It’s not a bad example to follow.
When we began to build the Silent Eye there was a moment when I thought, “Oh bugger, I’ll have to behave.” Anyone who knows me will tell you this is foreign to my nature. I like a certain amount of gentle lunacy in my life, enjoy daftness and laughter with friends online or in person… and if you’ve read previous blog entries, you may have picked up on this for yourself.
As Director of a School of Consciousness I worried for a moment that I ought to become staid and ‘respectable’. At least publicly. Then, I realised, that would be denying the reality of who I am. It would go against anything I wish to be, do or share. It would not be me. And after all, I am only of any use to the service of the school as myself…whole, flawed and occasionally slightly cracked.
Do you know, I have a feeling that this is what the new current is about. A conscious acceptance of who and what we are. On all levels… and we are all such a mix of contrasts and opposites within ourselves. I feel the new current is about integrating the inner contradictions, realising the human and the divine within, balancing the passive and dynamic, the tears and the laughter, the gifts and the flaws. Just Being who we Are…
Of course, being a small, nondescript Mum, nicknamed ‘the hobbit’ by my six foot sons and laughed down upon from their greater height, you may think I have neither knowledge nor authority to speak of the currents of the coming age. You may be right. I’m not telling anyone what to do here. But for myself I shall live within my own truth and give it the whole five feet
January 2, 2013
Living with a passion
Life is a little odd at present. Just when I had come to terms with a future I had thought inevitable, it was turned on its head and a myriad possibilities opened before me. Or I could say instead that just when life was looking settled and predictable, I lost everything familiar and don’t know what is coming next.
Both are true. I guess it all depends on how you look at life. Is my glass half empty or half full? Do I see the emptiness as full of sparkling possibility, a space just waiting to be filled? Or as something forever gone and worthy of grief?
Most of us will lean towards one view or the other… but things are not, as they say, always set in stone. The most negative of pessimists will sometimes see the blaze of hope, while the most optimistic will have a down day.
I was up early this morning. Way too early considering it had been a late night again. Five o’clock saw me shivering in the sodden fields with the dog. I couldn’t sleep. While Ani chased shadows my thoughts were a little glum. Tiredness does that sometimes. It was still dark when we got home a couple of hours later, cold, damp, muddy and distinctly miserable. A review of my current situation, in that state of mind, produced little but further reasons to feel sorry for myself. Wonderful possibilities are being dangled tantalisingly just beyond my reach and the bite of sharp necessity has its teeth firmly in the cheeks of my nether regions. And if you think that’s a sorry picture, you should see the rabbit of negative euphoria gnawing at my heels…..
“Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.” ― Albert Schweitzer
The phone rang. It was a call from another unhappy bunny… rabbits, of course, being well known for their propensity for breeding. We discussed the relationship between fear and hope; how hope can seem like the Holy Grail perched on a mountain top and how, when you stand in the foothills, you have no idea if you will make it to the summit. We talked of how the fear of failure is exponential to that vision of hope. And of course, how it is so much better to see that hope, that brilliant shard of possibility, than to wallow, blind in the darkness.
Suddenly, the possibilities seemed a little brighter than the problems.
The phone rang again. Laughter ensued. Perspective was restored and the night shadows banished. Yes, the same problems exist and need to be faced and dealt with. But just look at the adventure that could be! Who knows what could be found on the way up the mountain? The possibilities of the journey are endless and exciting.
The inbox delivered an unexpected treat that had me smiling a few moments later and the lights, went on again inside. My thoughts turned to something I had read recently. The Sufi philosophy speaks, I think, deeply to most of us if we listen. The imagery of love speaks of the journey of the soul into awareness, of the journey of the heart and mind and body into living with passion. I was reminded that without the contrast we would not see the joy, without the shadows that haunt us there would be no fierce embracing of Light. When things are about to change and move forward, the old has to be left behind and that leaving can have us feeling as if we are being torn apart. But no birth is painless, no beginning comes without an ending of a phase of life. From a single point in time we can either look back at what might have been and grieve for the losses, or we can walk forward into adventure and live with passion.
“When a true lover appears calamities blaze up. I like a heart that can stir the seven seas fearlessly withstanding the waves. I like a lover with a fiery heart burning even hell to ashes. I like a heart that can wrap the universe around its hand, catching the eternal light hanging it like an icicle. I like a lover with a heart as large as the world who fights like a lion, not only with others but with himself, a lover who shatters the veils of all hearts with the blazing light of Truth.” – Rumi
Both are true. I guess it all depends on how you look at life. Is my glass half empty or half full? Do I see the emptiness as full of sparkling possibility, a space just waiting to be filled? Or as something forever gone and worthy of grief?
Most of us will lean towards one view or the other… but things are not, as they say, always set in stone. The most negative of pessimists will sometimes see the blaze of hope, while the most optimistic will have a down day.
I was up early this morning. Way too early considering it had been a late night again. Five o’clock saw me shivering in the sodden fields with the dog. I couldn’t sleep. While Ani chased shadows my thoughts were a little glum. Tiredness does that sometimes. It was still dark when we got home a couple of hours later, cold, damp, muddy and distinctly miserable. A review of my current situation, in that state of mind, produced little but further reasons to feel sorry for myself. Wonderful possibilities are being dangled tantalisingly just beyond my reach and the bite of sharp necessity has its teeth firmly in the cheeks of my nether regions. And if you think that’s a sorry picture, you should see the rabbit of negative euphoria gnawing at my heels…..
“Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.” ― Albert Schweitzer
The phone rang. It was a call from another unhappy bunny… rabbits, of course, being well known for their propensity for breeding. We discussed the relationship between fear and hope; how hope can seem like the Holy Grail perched on a mountain top and how, when you stand in the foothills, you have no idea if you will make it to the summit. We talked of how the fear of failure is exponential to that vision of hope. And of course, how it is so much better to see that hope, that brilliant shard of possibility, than to wallow, blind in the darkness.
Suddenly, the possibilities seemed a little brighter than the problems.
The phone rang again. Laughter ensued. Perspective was restored and the night shadows banished. Yes, the same problems exist and need to be faced and dealt with. But just look at the adventure that could be! Who knows what could be found on the way up the mountain? The possibilities of the journey are endless and exciting.
The inbox delivered an unexpected treat that had me smiling a few moments later and the lights, went on again inside. My thoughts turned to something I had read recently. The Sufi philosophy speaks, I think, deeply to most of us if we listen. The imagery of love speaks of the journey of the soul into awareness, of the journey of the heart and mind and body into living with passion. I was reminded that without the contrast we would not see the joy, without the shadows that haunt us there would be no fierce embracing of Light. When things are about to change and move forward, the old has to be left behind and that leaving can have us feeling as if we are being torn apart. But no birth is painless, no beginning comes without an ending of a phase of life. From a single point in time we can either look back at what might have been and grieve for the losses, or we can walk forward into adventure and live with passion.
“When a true lover appears calamities blaze up. I like a heart that can stir the seven seas fearlessly withstanding the waves. I like a lover with a fiery heart burning even hell to ashes. I like a heart that can wrap the universe around its hand, catching the eternal light hanging it like an icicle. I like a lover with a heart as large as the world who fights like a lion, not only with others but with himself, a lover who shatters the veils of all hearts with the blazing light of Truth.” – Rumi
January 1, 2013
Reality according to Facebook
The past day or so has been quite surreal. I have watched the new year as the world has turned coming to friends across the globe. Although I sat here alone, or went about the daily business of housework, writing and…most importantly… throwing the ball for the dog, I was able to watch the passage of time and was conscious of how our perceptions differ from reality. To be fair, even the nature of reality itself was thrown into question as I celebrated midnight live with friends across the globe… over the course of a whole day.
I generally have Facebook running in the background to stay in touch with people and work for the School. John of Celtic Ways kept up a running Happy New Year as midnight hit across the surface of the planet. It is, perhaps, the first time I have been made so acutely aware of the turning of the earth and the fluidity of the device we call time.
From Australia to Scotland, Asia to Sacramento, I shared that midnight moment as the year turned. Many midnights, but only one was mine, and the moment gone as soon as it came.
By telephone and email, messages and Facebook, modern communications built bridges across the world where friends met to share an instant within an illusory space and time made real only by the touching of hearts and minds. Through social media distance is banished, and though it can never replace the embrace of a friend or a smile shared eye to eye, I watched as isolation and loneliness were eased for many who would have otherwise faced the moment alone with their memories, yet who were, instead, able to transcend the normal limitations of time and space and share it with others. There was simple human comfort in it.
Joy and memory, laughter and good wishes. Many took time to speak of the wishes of their hearts for the coming year, some spoke of causes close to them and I was struck by what a powerful thing social media can be, for good or ill, in changing the attitudes of the world.
It struck me how adaptable we are as a species, how readily we can embrace the plasticity of reality as the rules are bent by our technological advances. Inventions made concrete reality through the power of imagination. There is magic in that.
Imagination can truly move mountains. Especially when it is backed by will and emotion. This I know for certain, from first-hand experience. Many on Facebook today are sharing the extraordinary story of a young man who was stabbed through the brain in 2009. They have followed his journey and supported him since the attack in a way that has been incredible and filled with love and hope. He was told it was ‘unrealistic’ that he should expect to ever walk again. On the front cover of the Bournemouth Echo today the headlines tell another story. One I know very well. Fuelled by determination and will, lit from the heart with love and his desire to walk his fiancée down the aisle, my son is learning to walk again. And took five steps. Twice. Unsupported.
Reality is ours to shape. Each one of us. Alone or together, in our private worlds or connected globally. Nothing is impossible.
I generally have Facebook running in the background to stay in touch with people and work for the School. John of Celtic Ways kept up a running Happy New Year as midnight hit across the surface of the planet. It is, perhaps, the first time I have been made so acutely aware of the turning of the earth and the fluidity of the device we call time.
From Australia to Scotland, Asia to Sacramento, I shared that midnight moment as the year turned. Many midnights, but only one was mine, and the moment gone as soon as it came.
By telephone and email, messages and Facebook, modern communications built bridges across the world where friends met to share an instant within an illusory space and time made real only by the touching of hearts and minds. Through social media distance is banished, and though it can never replace the embrace of a friend or a smile shared eye to eye, I watched as isolation and loneliness were eased for many who would have otherwise faced the moment alone with their memories, yet who were, instead, able to transcend the normal limitations of time and space and share it with others. There was simple human comfort in it.
Joy and memory, laughter and good wishes. Many took time to speak of the wishes of their hearts for the coming year, some spoke of causes close to them and I was struck by what a powerful thing social media can be, for good or ill, in changing the attitudes of the world.
It struck me how adaptable we are as a species, how readily we can embrace the plasticity of reality as the rules are bent by our technological advances. Inventions made concrete reality through the power of imagination. There is magic in that.
Imagination can truly move mountains. Especially when it is backed by will and emotion. This I know for certain, from first-hand experience. Many on Facebook today are sharing the extraordinary story of a young man who was stabbed through the brain in 2009. They have followed his journey and supported him since the attack in a way that has been incredible and filled with love and hope. He was told it was ‘unrealistic’ that he should expect to ever walk again. On the front cover of the Bournemouth Echo today the headlines tell another story. One I know very well. Fuelled by determination and will, lit from the heart with love and his desire to walk his fiancée down the aisle, my son is learning to walk again. And took five steps. Twice. Unsupported.
Reality is ours to shape. Each one of us. Alone or together, in our private worlds or connected globally. Nothing is impossible.
December 31, 2012
Living in Colour
It is New Year’s Eve. Everywhere are posts about the year in review or hopes for the coming one. It’s sort of obligatory. A mini rite of passage as the old year fades and the new comes to birth. So instead of jumping on that particular bandwagon today, I decided to write about painting. A voice from the past, words from the present and a hope for the future.
For myself, I have always scribbled and drawn. One of my earliest memories is of a very childish picture of Pearl Bailey in Carmen Jones… chalk on small blackboard in Grandad’s parlour. Of course, the film was in black and white on our TV back then, but the colours were vivid on the blackboard… I remember I drew the dress blue. It had felt blue.
I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.~ Vincent Van Gogh
I lack skill in painting, being self-taught and coming to it late. But that’s ok. It frustrates me when I cannot capture the vision in my dream with the accuracy I would like, but it really doesn’t matter…
If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
Van Gogh is a hero of mine in many ways. There is an absoluteness and honesty in his work that I never understood until these past few years. I always saw the energy. You don’t see it in reproductions of his paintings, not really, but stand a foot away and see how his hands and fingers have dragged the paint, see the brushwork and urgency in the strokes… and the vibrancy of the painting jumps out and grabs you by the heart. Look at many of his canvases and you can hear people saying ‘a child could have painted that.’ In some ways, I think, a child did.
Children have a clarity of vision, an uncompromising inner honesty in their view of the world. Life is vivid and multi-coloured to their eyes. There is nothing mediocre, everything holds the possibility of magic and adventure. Children have a passion for life we often lose as we move into adulthood. They know how to dream.
For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
Vincent never lost that childlike passion. Read his words and his paintings and you see that. More importantly, you feel it. For a moment outside of time you can touch the fire in his soul as he stood beneath the stars or the blazing sun. That fire is in and around us if we care to look. Too often we forget…
One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way. ~Vincent Van Gogh
Or perhaps we are afraid. Afraid to be different from the crowd, to draw attention to ourselves, to actually see with our whole Self and not through the grey lens of normality. But somewhere, buried beneath the layers of personality and social graces, I think we all share the same yearning:
I wish they would only take me as I am. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
We try hard to be what we feel we should be, often not daring to chase the dream of what we could be, or constrained by an accumulation of ‘circumstance’ we let go of the dreams. We stub our toes on the rocks of life and the visions of possibility fade into the background. Necessity and compromise drown the hopes we had and each crossroads can lead us further from the goal that may have glowed like a beacon in the soul… but by keeping that vision vividly in mind we can, by moving forward, find another road towards it.
Even the knowledge of my own fallibility cannot keep me from making mistakes. Only when I fall do I get up again. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
It doesn’t take a lot, sometimes to reignite the fire in the soul. I had always dreamed of painting like my grandfather. But then there was dance until that future was lost to injury. Then life, and children… and then a friend gave me some paints….and I had time on my hands… and emotion in bucketloads as my husband’s last illness coloured our lives. So I painted. And found that flame again.
Great things are done by a series of small things brought together. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
Sometimes there is a defining instant that can open up a whole world of possibility. It may be so small you barely notice it. But if you are awake to possibility and the fire of dreams you will see it, as someone said to me the other day, like ‘the one bit of reality’ a grey landscape. All we need, when we see these motes of reality is the courage to make them part of who we are.
One must work and dare if one really wants to live. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
So as a new year dawns, I wish for you the eyes of the child, filled with hope and magic, wonder and possibility. I wish you dreams to follow with your heart, and a heart open to experience and joy, to life and to Love.
Happy New Year
For myself, I have always scribbled and drawn. One of my earliest memories is of a very childish picture of Pearl Bailey in Carmen Jones… chalk on small blackboard in Grandad’s parlour. Of course, the film was in black and white on our TV back then, but the colours were vivid on the blackboard… I remember I drew the dress blue. It had felt blue.
I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.~ Vincent Van Gogh
I lack skill in painting, being self-taught and coming to it late. But that’s ok. It frustrates me when I cannot capture the vision in my dream with the accuracy I would like, but it really doesn’t matter…
If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
Van Gogh is a hero of mine in many ways. There is an absoluteness and honesty in his work that I never understood until these past few years. I always saw the energy. You don’t see it in reproductions of his paintings, not really, but stand a foot away and see how his hands and fingers have dragged the paint, see the brushwork and urgency in the strokes… and the vibrancy of the painting jumps out and grabs you by the heart. Look at many of his canvases and you can hear people saying ‘a child could have painted that.’ In some ways, I think, a child did.
Children have a clarity of vision, an uncompromising inner honesty in their view of the world. Life is vivid and multi-coloured to their eyes. There is nothing mediocre, everything holds the possibility of magic and adventure. Children have a passion for life we often lose as we move into adulthood. They know how to dream.
For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
Vincent never lost that childlike passion. Read his words and his paintings and you see that. More importantly, you feel it. For a moment outside of time you can touch the fire in his soul as he stood beneath the stars or the blazing sun. That fire is in and around us if we care to look. Too often we forget…
One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way. ~Vincent Van Gogh
Or perhaps we are afraid. Afraid to be different from the crowd, to draw attention to ourselves, to actually see with our whole Self and not through the grey lens of normality. But somewhere, buried beneath the layers of personality and social graces, I think we all share the same yearning:
I wish they would only take me as I am. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
We try hard to be what we feel we should be, often not daring to chase the dream of what we could be, or constrained by an accumulation of ‘circumstance’ we let go of the dreams. We stub our toes on the rocks of life and the visions of possibility fade into the background. Necessity and compromise drown the hopes we had and each crossroads can lead us further from the goal that may have glowed like a beacon in the soul… but by keeping that vision vividly in mind we can, by moving forward, find another road towards it.
Even the knowledge of my own fallibility cannot keep me from making mistakes. Only when I fall do I get up again. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
It doesn’t take a lot, sometimes to reignite the fire in the soul. I had always dreamed of painting like my grandfather. But then there was dance until that future was lost to injury. Then life, and children… and then a friend gave me some paints….and I had time on my hands… and emotion in bucketloads as my husband’s last illness coloured our lives. So I painted. And found that flame again.
Great things are done by a series of small things brought together. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
Sometimes there is a defining instant that can open up a whole world of possibility. It may be so small you barely notice it. But if you are awake to possibility and the fire of dreams you will see it, as someone said to me the other day, like ‘the one bit of reality’ a grey landscape. All we need, when we see these motes of reality is the courage to make them part of who we are.
One must work and dare if one really wants to live. ~ Vincent Van Gogh
So as a new year dawns, I wish for you the eyes of the child, filled with hope and magic, wonder and possibility. I wish you dreams to follow with your heart, and a heart open to experience and joy, to life and to Love.
Happy New Year
December 30, 2012
Handbag Philosophy
And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath — consume me quite,
One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
From The Rubayyat of Omar Khayyam
There is a book in my handbag. It had been there, regardless of changes of style, size and contents of said handbag for over forty years. It is small, dog-eared and disreputable looking. The cloth of the once blue binding is frayed and worn, the pages yellowed and spotted and coming unstitched from the spine.
It is a well-travelled book. Far more so than its current keeper. Inside the front cover, in faded ink in a hand I will never forget, is my grandfather’s name, dated and marked ‘Burma’. He was a radio operator with the Royal Engineers and the little book was the only one he carried with him through the campaign. In pencil there are a couple of Qabalistic references showing, even then, his understanding of the tree of life. Even in the midst of that dreadful arena of war his thoughts could turn to the Light.
In 1958 the book was passed to my mother and her name follows her father’s. Her copperplate handwriting, distinctive and beautiful, traces quatrains of her own. They are immature…she was very young in 1962 when she wrote them… but they reflect her own inner state of mind at that time and her heartache. Yet they still mirror an understanding that even the darkness has its place against which the Light shines ever brighter.
Finally, in the early 70’s, a childish hand added her name. Inside the much loved pages several verses are bracketed, marked because of their beauty or meaning. One or two are well known, others more obscure, but all have held a deep resonance for me ever since their first reading and some, particularly the section known as the Kuzu-Nama, have found true meaning in my heart only with the passage of time and the events that have unfolded. The Kuzu-Nama is set in a potter’s shop and the pots speak and speculate on the nature of God:
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
“They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?”
I could say I know the quatrains by heart, but that would not be quite true. Certainly I can quote them but each reading opens a new door, brings a new realisation and a deeper understanding as life itself teaches me to open my eyes and heart.
This too is a lesson, as we learn and think we know and understand, but every so often there is a moment where we have to take stock and re-evaluate what we think we know, often finding we had only a very incomplete understanding of something we have held close to our hearts for a lifetime.
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits – and then
Re-mold it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
It seems fitting that this little book has passed through these particular hands, for it was my grandfather who first taught me the magic of life and my mother who showed me to think and feel. Something of that is reflected in this scrap of history and the verses it holds.
The book may, if I am gentle, last my lifetime. It would be wonderful to pass it to someone who will love it both for its history and the wisdom it contains. Perhaps a grandchild one day will love it as I do and find meaning in its words, cherishing a link with a family unknown and long departed.
In the meantime I delight in its pages and the discovery of meaning.
And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One – turn down an empty Glass!
Kindle to Love, or Wrath — consume me quite,
One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
From The Rubayyat of Omar Khayyam
There is a book in my handbag. It had been there, regardless of changes of style, size and contents of said handbag for over forty years. It is small, dog-eared and disreputable looking. The cloth of the once blue binding is frayed and worn, the pages yellowed and spotted and coming unstitched from the spine.
It is a well-travelled book. Far more so than its current keeper. Inside the front cover, in faded ink in a hand I will never forget, is my grandfather’s name, dated and marked ‘Burma’. He was a radio operator with the Royal Engineers and the little book was the only one he carried with him through the campaign. In pencil there are a couple of Qabalistic references showing, even then, his understanding of the tree of life. Even in the midst of that dreadful arena of war his thoughts could turn to the Light.
In 1958 the book was passed to my mother and her name follows her father’s. Her copperplate handwriting, distinctive and beautiful, traces quatrains of her own. They are immature…she was very young in 1962 when she wrote them… but they reflect her own inner state of mind at that time and her heartache. Yet they still mirror an understanding that even the darkness has its place against which the Light shines ever brighter.
Finally, in the early 70’s, a childish hand added her name. Inside the much loved pages several verses are bracketed, marked because of their beauty or meaning. One or two are well known, others more obscure, but all have held a deep resonance for me ever since their first reading and some, particularly the section known as the Kuzu-Nama, have found true meaning in my heart only with the passage of time and the events that have unfolded. The Kuzu-Nama is set in a potter’s shop and the pots speak and speculate on the nature of God:
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
“They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?”
I could say I know the quatrains by heart, but that would not be quite true. Certainly I can quote them but each reading opens a new door, brings a new realisation and a deeper understanding as life itself teaches me to open my eyes and heart.
This too is a lesson, as we learn and think we know and understand, but every so often there is a moment where we have to take stock and re-evaluate what we think we know, often finding we had only a very incomplete understanding of something we have held close to our hearts for a lifetime.
Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits – and then
Re-mold it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
It seems fitting that this little book has passed through these particular hands, for it was my grandfather who first taught me the magic of life and my mother who showed me to think and feel. Something of that is reflected in this scrap of history and the verses it holds.
The book may, if I am gentle, last my lifetime. It would be wonderful to pass it to someone who will love it both for its history and the wisdom it contains. Perhaps a grandchild one day will love it as I do and find meaning in its words, cherishing a link with a family unknown and long departed.
In the meantime I delight in its pages and the discovery of meaning.
And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter’d on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One – turn down an empty Glass!
December 29, 2012
Slave to Convention or Dancer in the Streets?
Society is a funny thing. No matter how little we may think we care for it, public opinion rules much of our lives. We conform to what we believe our particular society requires of us in any specific set of circumstances. Even those of us who consider ourselves rebels, recycled hippies, Bohemians... most of us conform most of the time. It is just ‘the done thing’. Of course, there are circumstances when we do so out of a sense of common decency. Or simply good taste. Or manners... or concern for others… The basic ‘rules’ of human society are there, after all, to make it possible to live together in our homes, towns and cities.
We look askance as a society at those who break those rules. Either because they make us feel uncomfortable or perhaps because somewhere behind the façade we are a little jealous. And I’m not talking of the bigger things here… just the small things can affect us deeply, and we do not see what a mirror is held up before us.
I remember walking through York a good many years ago with my parents, my husband and his mother. My mother had always taken pride in her somewhat unconventional image. My mother-in-law had worked in a very conventional position with the European government for many years. Her wardrobe was wall to wall Chanel while my mother happily borrowed my clothes.
The streets of York are ancient and cobbled. The place is always full of tourists and visitors, and there is always music. On this particular day there was an accordionist. My husband, utterly careless of public opinion, saw it as too good an opportunity to miss and we waltzed in the street. Then he danced with his mother, eager to join us. My ‘unconventional’ mother had turned her back on these embarrassing proceedings and walked away.
Of course, my husband and his mother were French… you could almost hear the condescension…
A small thing, but I remember to this day what an eye-opener that was. How easily we learn to accept people by the surfaces they project. How easily we can fool ourselves into accepting our own social surface. How quickly we learn to bury our joy behind a mask of conformity so as not to stand out from the crowd.
There is so little sheer joy in the public face of society these days. Smile and say good morning to a stranger and half the time they will look at you as if you are slightly odd. Even odder if you choose to stand barefoot in a mountain stream or laugh at the rain alone on the high moors.
Yet do you remember how you laughed as a child in the street? How you walked on walls or ran for the sheer pleasure of movement, for exuberance? Did you roll down hills or kick through piles of leaves in autumn? Are you really that different from that child inside? I know I am not.
Perhaps the only time we see adults en masse remembering the child inside is when it snows. That first wakeful morning of deep glistening white when the roads are too bad to travel and we take time to don hats and scarves, dig out the sledge or build a snowman. Ostensibly for the children of course, but we all know why. There is something about that muffled silence that invites abandon and laughter. And snowball fights.
Is it so hard for us to step outside of the accepted mould and just Be in the moment?
Physically constrained so much of the time by the necessities of daily life we find it so hard to embrace simply living in our bodies with joy and enthusiasm… and they get old and tired soon enough without putting it off till tomorrow! Not that it should stop us. My beautiful and round grandmother wanted to learn to water ski in her 60’s. It was forbidden as it she would look ‘idiotic’ in a swimsuit. And that is so sad.
We tend to put areas of life into little boxes in the mind… compartmentalising things so that they can be dealt with according to their needs and ours. We even deal with them differently, bringing the professional face to the work related issues, the domestic one for home and family… and the public face and the private can be quite different. One aspect of ourselves deals with the mundane and another with that which we hold as personal or sacred and this creates an illusion of separation between them which becomes a stumbling block on many levels.
Why not, just for once, throw off the shackles of convention and be a child inside again... just for a moment? Come and dance with me in the streets….
We look askance as a society at those who break those rules. Either because they make us feel uncomfortable or perhaps because somewhere behind the façade we are a little jealous. And I’m not talking of the bigger things here… just the small things can affect us deeply, and we do not see what a mirror is held up before us.
I remember walking through York a good many years ago with my parents, my husband and his mother. My mother had always taken pride in her somewhat unconventional image. My mother-in-law had worked in a very conventional position with the European government for many years. Her wardrobe was wall to wall Chanel while my mother happily borrowed my clothes.
The streets of York are ancient and cobbled. The place is always full of tourists and visitors, and there is always music. On this particular day there was an accordionist. My husband, utterly careless of public opinion, saw it as too good an opportunity to miss and we waltzed in the street. Then he danced with his mother, eager to join us. My ‘unconventional’ mother had turned her back on these embarrassing proceedings and walked away.
Of course, my husband and his mother were French… you could almost hear the condescension…
A small thing, but I remember to this day what an eye-opener that was. How easily we learn to accept people by the surfaces they project. How easily we can fool ourselves into accepting our own social surface. How quickly we learn to bury our joy behind a mask of conformity so as not to stand out from the crowd.
There is so little sheer joy in the public face of society these days. Smile and say good morning to a stranger and half the time they will look at you as if you are slightly odd. Even odder if you choose to stand barefoot in a mountain stream or laugh at the rain alone on the high moors.
Yet do you remember how you laughed as a child in the street? How you walked on walls or ran for the sheer pleasure of movement, for exuberance? Did you roll down hills or kick through piles of leaves in autumn? Are you really that different from that child inside? I know I am not.
Perhaps the only time we see adults en masse remembering the child inside is when it snows. That first wakeful morning of deep glistening white when the roads are too bad to travel and we take time to don hats and scarves, dig out the sledge or build a snowman. Ostensibly for the children of course, but we all know why. There is something about that muffled silence that invites abandon and laughter. And snowball fights.
Is it so hard for us to step outside of the accepted mould and just Be in the moment?
Physically constrained so much of the time by the necessities of daily life we find it so hard to embrace simply living in our bodies with joy and enthusiasm… and they get old and tired soon enough without putting it off till tomorrow! Not that it should stop us. My beautiful and round grandmother wanted to learn to water ski in her 60’s. It was forbidden as it she would look ‘idiotic’ in a swimsuit. And that is so sad.
We tend to put areas of life into little boxes in the mind… compartmentalising things so that they can be dealt with according to their needs and ours. We even deal with them differently, bringing the professional face to the work related issues, the domestic one for home and family… and the public face and the private can be quite different. One aspect of ourselves deals with the mundane and another with that which we hold as personal or sacred and this creates an illusion of separation between them which becomes a stumbling block on many levels.
Why not, just for once, throw off the shackles of convention and be a child inside again... just for a moment? Come and dance with me in the streets….
