Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life, page 1063
December 28, 2012
A Window on the Eye
Since the first public announcement about the birth of the Silent Eye School much has been achieved. We now have a presence on the web that is growing daily. It is not easy to build and maintain that presence when it has to be done the old fashioned way. We cannot simply pay to get the School noticed, but have to put in the man hours at the computer. Every link, every ‘like’ and ‘share’, every tweet helps build that presence, but they only happen if there is something to like, share or tweet. I, personally, would like to say how grateful I am for all the support we have been shown in this area. After all, a school cannot exist without students, and the students need to know we exist.
Lines were drawn earlier this year and sleeves rolled up as we dived head first into making the original vision for the Silent Eye become a solid reality. The work hasn’t stopped. Much of it never gets as far as being put on paper formally, not until it is fully formed, though there are notebooks full of arcane phrases and scribbles and my desk is littered with incomprehensible scrawlings on envelopes and torn scraps... anything that comes to hand when something comes through. I gave up on the painting at one point as every new idea meant discarding what had been done before and starting again. Now, however, we have a clear vision, paints once more litter the table and the computer seldom gets chance to cool down.
And of course we have the deadline, the launch weekend in April. It all has to be ready, tried and tested by that date.
It has been an odd process really, as we have waited for the inspiration to filter through into concrete and practical teachings that can be shared mind to mind. It would have been easy to cling to the old methods, the tried and trusted, the traditional… but the School needs a new approach for a new era. We find ourselves creating rather than adapting, building something that, while firmly rooted in the foundations of the ancient transmitted wisdom, is yet new and fresh. And very modern in character.
We approach the work in different but wholly complementary ways. You could say that as one of us works from the intellect with emotion, the other works from the heart with knowledge. The results are sometimes astonishing. But it is in this melding of the different aspects of working that we find a balanced wholeness and a cohesive way of teaching is being brought to birth.
It is a little like walking a tightrope sometimes. You need the emotions to be engaged in order to make it real, to bring what is encountered to life. Yet too much and the school would end up ‘fluffy’… and that we certainly do not intend. We do not hold to a roseate vision of life and the voyage of the soul. We do not expect life or learning to be an easy thing and therefore the School must teach in a way that understands the difficulties encountered on the journey. Yet there is a simplicity in it that is starkly beautiful, like an unadorned sword perhaps…keen, fit for purpose and beautifully balanced. Colour, shape, stories and symbols, pathworkings and archetypes… all these evoke an emotional response that engage the imagination and lead the mind into new territory.
Yet the intellect cannot be ignored unless we are to follow blindly, and that would be folly. Without informing the intellect it has nothing upon which to base its choices in awareness. It needs a firm foundation, a frame of reference within which to place emotions lest it become a slave to them. It needs to be stretched and challenged in order to lift it from its preoccupation with the mundane necessities of survival and social pressures. Yet here also is a dichotomy, as we cling to the intellect, using it perhaps as a final shield against the loss of the ego, the familiar identity, the last defence against the fear of the Self being subsumed in the glory of the One… which is, ironically, also the ultimate goal. For it is in that Oneness that we truly find the Self.
Lines were drawn earlier this year and sleeves rolled up as we dived head first into making the original vision for the Silent Eye become a solid reality. The work hasn’t stopped. Much of it never gets as far as being put on paper formally, not until it is fully formed, though there are notebooks full of arcane phrases and scribbles and my desk is littered with incomprehensible scrawlings on envelopes and torn scraps... anything that comes to hand when something comes through. I gave up on the painting at one point as every new idea meant discarding what had been done before and starting again. Now, however, we have a clear vision, paints once more litter the table and the computer seldom gets chance to cool down.
And of course we have the deadline, the launch weekend in April. It all has to be ready, tried and tested by that date.
It has been an odd process really, as we have waited for the inspiration to filter through into concrete and practical teachings that can be shared mind to mind. It would have been easy to cling to the old methods, the tried and trusted, the traditional… but the School needs a new approach for a new era. We find ourselves creating rather than adapting, building something that, while firmly rooted in the foundations of the ancient transmitted wisdom, is yet new and fresh. And very modern in character.
We approach the work in different but wholly complementary ways. You could say that as one of us works from the intellect with emotion, the other works from the heart with knowledge. The results are sometimes astonishing. But it is in this melding of the different aspects of working that we find a balanced wholeness and a cohesive way of teaching is being brought to birth.
It is a little like walking a tightrope sometimes. You need the emotions to be engaged in order to make it real, to bring what is encountered to life. Yet too much and the school would end up ‘fluffy’… and that we certainly do not intend. We do not hold to a roseate vision of life and the voyage of the soul. We do not expect life or learning to be an easy thing and therefore the School must teach in a way that understands the difficulties encountered on the journey. Yet there is a simplicity in it that is starkly beautiful, like an unadorned sword perhaps…keen, fit for purpose and beautifully balanced. Colour, shape, stories and symbols, pathworkings and archetypes… all these evoke an emotional response that engage the imagination and lead the mind into new territory.
Yet the intellect cannot be ignored unless we are to follow blindly, and that would be folly. Without informing the intellect it has nothing upon which to base its choices in awareness. It needs a firm foundation, a frame of reference within which to place emotions lest it become a slave to them. It needs to be stretched and challenged in order to lift it from its preoccupation with the mundane necessities of survival and social pressures. Yet here also is a dichotomy, as we cling to the intellect, using it perhaps as a final shield against the loss of the ego, the familiar identity, the last defence against the fear of the Self being subsumed in the glory of the One… which is, ironically, also the ultimate goal. For it is in that Oneness that we truly find the Self.
December 27, 2012
Forsaken Fears
Since we began to build the Silent Eye School I have been on a journey. I suppose I always have. The life I have lived, the choices I have made in face of events, the books I have read and the Teachers I have been privileged to know, all have had a part to play in shaping the person who now serves the School. And she is a work in progress.
I’m no-one special. Just a very ordinary little woman, a middle-aged Mum. You would pass me in the supermarket without a second glance. Yet I have lived through some extraordinary events, been given unusual opportunities to experience life and love, laughter, grief and fear. I have made mistakes, large and small, all too frequently. I have ignored life lessons until they have come round and bitten me so hard that they could no longer be ignored. I have squirmed in my boots at what people might think of me, feared everything from soggy earthworms to freedom, conformed to the images others have expected of me and tied myself in knots to be what I thought they wanted me to be, agonising over their opinions without ever admitting that to myself. Much like most of us I suspect.
Then events took a hand and I had to call a halt to the way I had been and start living to some purpose. That or be a perpetual victim of my own moral cowardice.
Parts of my life, through no choice of my own, became public domain. The violent stabbing of my son spread our names across the papers and TV screens. Not all reports were accurate, some were devastatingly wrong. Details of our situation were reported on the internet as we fought for my son’s life and then for his recovery. Details that would have shamed a proud Yorkshire lass to have made public had anyone asked. Even this week I have had calls from the Press, though this time there was triumph at my son’s achievements.
In one fell swoop I was asked to deal with both the social fears common to most of us and the deepest rooted terrors of any parent. And in doing so, I found myself with little fear left. I cannot say that there are not things in my past I would prefer remain decently interred. We all have skeletons of some kind in our personal closets, even if some of them, as I read once, turn out to be only the skeleton of a mouse. But the events of the past brought me here, to who and what and where I am and are the foundation of my future. Mistakes that made me cringe in retrospective shame were part of the learning and the journey and many turned out to be positive in the end.
A friend and I were talking about this a little while ago. “Is there anything, in this world or the next that you are afraid of? Really?” She went on to suggest that we play at fear, because we are so used to it, because it adds a frisson… And the more I thought about it, the more I saw she had a point. Because once you accept that all things are part of the learning curve of the journey, they suddenly seem to have potential and purpose, often beyond that which we can see. And really, the only thing we need to fear is our own blind reaction, our own fear. If we live with awareness of what we do and take the responsibility for our choices, accepting ourselves for who we truly are, what is there to fear?
And you know, that is a really comfortable place to be.
That is not to say there are not the little fears of everyday, come at me with a rain-soaked worm or a piece of raw tripe and believe me, I’ll squeal with the best of them. Or the greater fears most of us harbour to deal with… but with the altered perspective they really don’t matter so much in the bigger picture. We will either be called upon to face them or not. If we do, then they are no longer a vague fear but a solid reality to be handled and then it is we ourselves who define how we act, not the fear, unless we let it. If not, then what were we worrying for?
Especially if we can move forward in the trust and knowledge that one way or another, everything can have a purpose if we care to find it and all experience can be seen as full of potential and opportunity.
http://www.thesilenteye.co.uk/Home.aspx
I’m no-one special. Just a very ordinary little woman, a middle-aged Mum. You would pass me in the supermarket without a second glance. Yet I have lived through some extraordinary events, been given unusual opportunities to experience life and love, laughter, grief and fear. I have made mistakes, large and small, all too frequently. I have ignored life lessons until they have come round and bitten me so hard that they could no longer be ignored. I have squirmed in my boots at what people might think of me, feared everything from soggy earthworms to freedom, conformed to the images others have expected of me and tied myself in knots to be what I thought they wanted me to be, agonising over their opinions without ever admitting that to myself. Much like most of us I suspect.
Then events took a hand and I had to call a halt to the way I had been and start living to some purpose. That or be a perpetual victim of my own moral cowardice.
Parts of my life, through no choice of my own, became public domain. The violent stabbing of my son spread our names across the papers and TV screens. Not all reports were accurate, some were devastatingly wrong. Details of our situation were reported on the internet as we fought for my son’s life and then for his recovery. Details that would have shamed a proud Yorkshire lass to have made public had anyone asked. Even this week I have had calls from the Press, though this time there was triumph at my son’s achievements.
In one fell swoop I was asked to deal with both the social fears common to most of us and the deepest rooted terrors of any parent. And in doing so, I found myself with little fear left. I cannot say that there are not things in my past I would prefer remain decently interred. We all have skeletons of some kind in our personal closets, even if some of them, as I read once, turn out to be only the skeleton of a mouse. But the events of the past brought me here, to who and what and where I am and are the foundation of my future. Mistakes that made me cringe in retrospective shame were part of the learning and the journey and many turned out to be positive in the end.
A friend and I were talking about this a little while ago. “Is there anything, in this world or the next that you are afraid of? Really?” She went on to suggest that we play at fear, because we are so used to it, because it adds a frisson… And the more I thought about it, the more I saw she had a point. Because once you accept that all things are part of the learning curve of the journey, they suddenly seem to have potential and purpose, often beyond that which we can see. And really, the only thing we need to fear is our own blind reaction, our own fear. If we live with awareness of what we do and take the responsibility for our choices, accepting ourselves for who we truly are, what is there to fear?
And you know, that is a really comfortable place to be.
That is not to say there are not the little fears of everyday, come at me with a rain-soaked worm or a piece of raw tripe and believe me, I’ll squeal with the best of them. Or the greater fears most of us harbour to deal with… but with the altered perspective they really don’t matter so much in the bigger picture. We will either be called upon to face them or not. If we do, then they are no longer a vague fear but a solid reality to be handled and then it is we ourselves who define how we act, not the fear, unless we let it. If not, then what were we worrying for?
Especially if we can move forward in the trust and knowledge that one way or another, everything can have a purpose if we care to find it and all experience can be seen as full of potential and opportunity.
http://www.thesilenteye.co.uk/Home.aspx
December 26, 2012
A Drink at Christmas?
There was a wall immediately to our left, parked cars to the right, nowhere to go as the headlights sped towards us. “He’s going to hit us.” My husband gripped the wheel of the Rapier, bracing himself in the split second he had before all hell broke loose.
I saw the horror on the face of the man at the wheel, very briefly in our headlights, as his car rammed head into ours and I was catapulted forward. It was odd, all in slow motion in memory, yet it happened with such speed. I saw the front of the car crumple, heard the scream and screech of metal twisting and snapping. Watched the windscreen craze and shatter as my face smashed down on the glove compartment.
There was no pain. Just impact. I have this odd memory of surveying the scene from above.. the two cars locked in a deathly embrace, my husband standing and gesticulating in the road, the other driver still at the wheel, frozen.. and I looked down through the metal of the car roof at the inanimate figure that was me. Just a husk, a limp doll with no life. I remember wondering, quite dispassionately, if I was dead and being glad I was still around to wonder. I suppose I must have been knocked unconscious.
Then I was back in the car, people screaming at me to move… the stench of petrol and something hot and wet soaking my favourite dress.
My face was still on the glove box. I didn’t want to move. I could taste blood and thought I must have cut my lip. I remember running my tongue around my teeth, terrified in case I’d chipped one, happy that it seemed not.
My husband was screaming at me to get out. The petrol was everywhere. A woman was screaming quite rhythmically. It annoyed me. I tried the door handle but it wouldn’t move.. no, that’s right. There was a wall there. I’d have to crawl over the seats to the driver’s side. It seemed a long way. There was glass everywhere, digging into hands and knees. I didn’t want to cut myself, and there was all the wet stuff. Slippery. Blood. I realised I was bleeding, my lip must be badly cut. I held out my hands and they filled quickly. I started to panic as they overflowed. It seemed important not to lose the blood but I couldn’t hold it all. It kept on coming. But they were still screaming at me. I wished someone would help. I tried to speak and found I couldn’t. The cut lip must have swollen…
I made it to the door. My husband turned away and his shoulders were heaving as if he was going to vomit. My sister-in-law and her husband had been in the car behind. She was the one who was screaming and her face was filled with horror.
In the dim light I saw my dress was soaked neck to hem with blood and it was still filling my hands. There was still no pain. I wanted to scream to shut my sister in law up. She wasn’t hurt!
My brother in law was banging on the door of the cottage a few yards away. Looking for a phone. The police I imagined.
A woman in a dressing gown came out and looked at the scene. She took charge and took me into her home. In the light I could see the mess I was making, I felt guilty about the blood on her carpet. She shushed and tutted and gave me a clean white towel to bleed on.. I couldn’t move without making a mess and everything seemed smeared in red. I was so ashamed.
She told me the ambulance wouldn’t be long.
When it came they couldn’t give me oxygen because they couldn’t get a mask on my face. They held it in front of me while we drove. They had the sirens blaring and I began to wonder why. I was very cold in spite of the blankets. Very cold.
They wheeled me through the doors… they wouldn’t let me stand. I was glad of that by then I was so tired. I didn’t have to wait.. there seemed to be so many faces looming over me, sticking needles in everywhere. I wished they would just let me sleep.
Here were x-rays and muttered conversations. Someone mentioned fractured skull. They dealt with that, as I drifted in and out. And sutures.
They started cleaning my face. I remember the pain then. I’ll never forget it. Ever.
They dug as much of the obvious glass out as they could. I hadn’t hit the windscreen but it had hit me. I was to get to know that windscreen intimately over the next two years as shards of it worked their way out of my flesh. Then they stitched. It took the doctor hours, leaned in very close above my face. He smelled of spices and it was turning my stomach. But I couldn’t speak. And he didn’t tell me anything.
I have to say that young doctor was impeccable in his skill and care. When I found out from the nurse what had been done I expected to spend the rest of my life seriously disfigured. It is a tribute to his dedication and attention that I have not. Though it took a very long while to heal and settle.
He re-attached the dangling ear. He dealt with the ‘smaller’ cuts and abrasions. He sewed, beautifully, the bottom lip, severed from the corner to two thirds of the way across, inside and out. He refashioned the space between my nose and upper lip where the lock on the glove box had punched the flesh clean away in a nice neat hole, leaving me with a mouth gone fuzzy round the edges, but which would eventually smile again. He was amazing. In retrospect.
It took two years to heal all told. Bits of glass continued to work their way out over tha time. Sensation gradually, though incompletely, came back to the right side of my face. I learned how to work the altered mouth and drink without spilling. Even learned how to whistle after a couple of years too. But my confidence was shattered, and I still have the pain from the neuroma that formed in the scars.
I was 19.
The driver of the other car was a nice enough chap. He’d had his little grandson in the car. Thankfully I was the only casualty. Had been out for the evening, just had wine with dinner. That’s all. But of course, that was too much.
Even worse, a couple of years later, my husband, by this time my ex, hit a woman on a zebra crossing. She went through the windscreen of his car and he ran, not phoning for help, trying to report the car stolen and avoid prosecution. He was picked up with traces of her on his clothes. He was prosecuted. She had died immediately.
This from a man who had seen first-hand what drinking and driving could do, a man who seldom drank at all and would never drive and have a drink when we went out together.
I write this post as a consequence of a discussion on Facebook yesterday and the private messages that followed. I write from personal experience and the account is true, though toned down for public consumption. I make no apologies for the graphic detail. I simply ask that you do not drink if you are driving. Figures show that over the Christmas period far more people take that risk, many who would not normally consider it.
I saw the horror on the face of the man at the wheel, very briefly in our headlights, as his car rammed head into ours and I was catapulted forward. It was odd, all in slow motion in memory, yet it happened with such speed. I saw the front of the car crumple, heard the scream and screech of metal twisting and snapping. Watched the windscreen craze and shatter as my face smashed down on the glove compartment.
There was no pain. Just impact. I have this odd memory of surveying the scene from above.. the two cars locked in a deathly embrace, my husband standing and gesticulating in the road, the other driver still at the wheel, frozen.. and I looked down through the metal of the car roof at the inanimate figure that was me. Just a husk, a limp doll with no life. I remember wondering, quite dispassionately, if I was dead and being glad I was still around to wonder. I suppose I must have been knocked unconscious.
Then I was back in the car, people screaming at me to move… the stench of petrol and something hot and wet soaking my favourite dress.
My face was still on the glove box. I didn’t want to move. I could taste blood and thought I must have cut my lip. I remember running my tongue around my teeth, terrified in case I’d chipped one, happy that it seemed not.
My husband was screaming at me to get out. The petrol was everywhere. A woman was screaming quite rhythmically. It annoyed me. I tried the door handle but it wouldn’t move.. no, that’s right. There was a wall there. I’d have to crawl over the seats to the driver’s side. It seemed a long way. There was glass everywhere, digging into hands and knees. I didn’t want to cut myself, and there was all the wet stuff. Slippery. Blood. I realised I was bleeding, my lip must be badly cut. I held out my hands and they filled quickly. I started to panic as they overflowed. It seemed important not to lose the blood but I couldn’t hold it all. It kept on coming. But they were still screaming at me. I wished someone would help. I tried to speak and found I couldn’t. The cut lip must have swollen…
I made it to the door. My husband turned away and his shoulders were heaving as if he was going to vomit. My sister-in-law and her husband had been in the car behind. She was the one who was screaming and her face was filled with horror.
In the dim light I saw my dress was soaked neck to hem with blood and it was still filling my hands. There was still no pain. I wanted to scream to shut my sister in law up. She wasn’t hurt!
My brother in law was banging on the door of the cottage a few yards away. Looking for a phone. The police I imagined.
A woman in a dressing gown came out and looked at the scene. She took charge and took me into her home. In the light I could see the mess I was making, I felt guilty about the blood on her carpet. She shushed and tutted and gave me a clean white towel to bleed on.. I couldn’t move without making a mess and everything seemed smeared in red. I was so ashamed.
She told me the ambulance wouldn’t be long.
When it came they couldn’t give me oxygen because they couldn’t get a mask on my face. They held it in front of me while we drove. They had the sirens blaring and I began to wonder why. I was very cold in spite of the blankets. Very cold.
They wheeled me through the doors… they wouldn’t let me stand. I was glad of that by then I was so tired. I didn’t have to wait.. there seemed to be so many faces looming over me, sticking needles in everywhere. I wished they would just let me sleep.
Here were x-rays and muttered conversations. Someone mentioned fractured skull. They dealt with that, as I drifted in and out. And sutures.
They started cleaning my face. I remember the pain then. I’ll never forget it. Ever.
They dug as much of the obvious glass out as they could. I hadn’t hit the windscreen but it had hit me. I was to get to know that windscreen intimately over the next two years as shards of it worked their way out of my flesh. Then they stitched. It took the doctor hours, leaned in very close above my face. He smelled of spices and it was turning my stomach. But I couldn’t speak. And he didn’t tell me anything.
I have to say that young doctor was impeccable in his skill and care. When I found out from the nurse what had been done I expected to spend the rest of my life seriously disfigured. It is a tribute to his dedication and attention that I have not. Though it took a very long while to heal and settle.
He re-attached the dangling ear. He dealt with the ‘smaller’ cuts and abrasions. He sewed, beautifully, the bottom lip, severed from the corner to two thirds of the way across, inside and out. He refashioned the space between my nose and upper lip where the lock on the glove box had punched the flesh clean away in a nice neat hole, leaving me with a mouth gone fuzzy round the edges, but which would eventually smile again. He was amazing. In retrospect.
It took two years to heal all told. Bits of glass continued to work their way out over tha time. Sensation gradually, though incompletely, came back to the right side of my face. I learned how to work the altered mouth and drink without spilling. Even learned how to whistle after a couple of years too. But my confidence was shattered, and I still have the pain from the neuroma that formed in the scars.
I was 19.
The driver of the other car was a nice enough chap. He’d had his little grandson in the car. Thankfully I was the only casualty. Had been out for the evening, just had wine with dinner. That’s all. But of course, that was too much.
Even worse, a couple of years later, my husband, by this time my ex, hit a woman on a zebra crossing. She went through the windscreen of his car and he ran, not phoning for help, trying to report the car stolen and avoid prosecution. He was picked up with traces of her on his clothes. He was prosecuted. She had died immediately.
This from a man who had seen first-hand what drinking and driving could do, a man who seldom drank at all and would never drive and have a drink when we went out together.
I write this post as a consequence of a discussion on Facebook yesterday and the private messages that followed. I write from personal experience and the account is true, though toned down for public consumption. I make no apologies for the graphic detail. I simply ask that you do not drink if you are driving. Figures show that over the Christmas period far more people take that risk, many who would not normally consider it.
December 23, 2012
You should write a book...
I’m sitting here in tears tonight, exhausted and a little fragile as I am rather unwell, but that is not why the tears. No, the tears fall because of a realisation that has taken a few decades too many to sink home. I can be terribly dense sometimes. An idiot, really.
I had a message in my inbox tonight that made me cry. It comes from a man in the US whom I will probably never meet and yet whose life and dreams have touched and intertwined with mine for a little while along the way and who has become a friend. It was sent with love, in a momentary respite from a very busy days cooking, shopping and cleaning in preparation for the evening’s festivities, telling me how he and his wife are hosting a family gathering tonight. “I know that while there may be 23 folks here physically tonight, there will be more than that for me in spirit and in my heart…. you will be in my thoughts and prayers as I enjoy tonight.”
Given that I have one friend upstairs asleep in my guestroom tonight, who was 400 miles away this time yesterday, it was enough to tip me over into tears.
The Parisian diaries were still out for an earlier post, and I have spent much of the day reading them once more while answering phone calls, messages and emails as they arrived. As I read that very young woman’s words it is almost as though she is a stranger, so long ago and distant is that time. She believed herself a timid mouse with nothing to recommend her, in spite of having survived having her young face remodelled by a drunk driver, walking away from a violent marriage and moving alone to another country. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.
Three decades on, I want to shake her and tell her to wake up… that took a certain amount of courage for someone her age.
I almost inevitably cringe at her youth, but she was a sociable and friendly girl, though behind the façade she was rather introverted. She had dreams and hopes and fears like anyone else her age, but she was rather lonely and shy, hiding behind a smile most of the time. Some things don’t change much.
Reading the diaries I see her confide to its pages a sense of aloneness. Not loneliness… there were always people…. Yet, reading her adventures, remembering them, this girl had friends! A circle of people with whom she shared laughter and tears, and a few whom she would have trusted with anything. She was so lucky to be living as she was! A beautiful city full of glorious things, wonderfully Bohemian adventures, a life she could not have imagined a year before! It may have seemed ordinary to her at the time, but she was living a fairly unusual life.
It is rather frustrating to read, so little did she seem to see, and I found myself wishing I could go back in time and shake the scales from her eyes. It was about this point when I had to put the diary down to answer yet another call from a dear friend and several emails and messages from others across the world, that it began to dawn. It leaves me feeling very foolish, of course.
Because I am still guilty of the same blindness.
I have lost track of the number of times I have replied to the suggestion that I should write my story, laughing it off with some quip, because after all, who would want to read the biography of such an ordinary woman. But my life has not been ‘ordinary’… it has been unique. My story.
And so is yours.
And that was the point.
We take it for granted that our lives are ordinary because we are living them, yet every moment of each of our stories is unique. No one else lives them for us, no one else can feel them as we do. Each of us leaves our mark on history, even if it passes unnoticed and fades unremarked.
We leave our mark on people too. And that, of course, was where the tears started. I look at the Christmas cards on the sideboard, small tangible thoughts, hugs from distant friends. It is the most important part of the festive season for me, that connection and caring. And I realised just exactly how blessed I am, how many people were in touch from across the world, showing a little care for a friend and writing their names on the pages of a hidden and insignificant part of what is nevertheless history.
Making their mark on my life with love.
I had a message in my inbox tonight that made me cry. It comes from a man in the US whom I will probably never meet and yet whose life and dreams have touched and intertwined with mine for a little while along the way and who has become a friend. It was sent with love, in a momentary respite from a very busy days cooking, shopping and cleaning in preparation for the evening’s festivities, telling me how he and his wife are hosting a family gathering tonight. “I know that while there may be 23 folks here physically tonight, there will be more than that for me in spirit and in my heart…. you will be in my thoughts and prayers as I enjoy tonight.”
Given that I have one friend upstairs asleep in my guestroom tonight, who was 400 miles away this time yesterday, it was enough to tip me over into tears.
The Parisian diaries were still out for an earlier post, and I have spent much of the day reading them once more while answering phone calls, messages and emails as they arrived. As I read that very young woman’s words it is almost as though she is a stranger, so long ago and distant is that time. She believed herself a timid mouse with nothing to recommend her, in spite of having survived having her young face remodelled by a drunk driver, walking away from a violent marriage and moving alone to another country. And that was only the tip of the iceberg.
Three decades on, I want to shake her and tell her to wake up… that took a certain amount of courage for someone her age.
I almost inevitably cringe at her youth, but she was a sociable and friendly girl, though behind the façade she was rather introverted. She had dreams and hopes and fears like anyone else her age, but she was rather lonely and shy, hiding behind a smile most of the time. Some things don’t change much.
Reading the diaries I see her confide to its pages a sense of aloneness. Not loneliness… there were always people…. Yet, reading her adventures, remembering them, this girl had friends! A circle of people with whom she shared laughter and tears, and a few whom she would have trusted with anything. She was so lucky to be living as she was! A beautiful city full of glorious things, wonderfully Bohemian adventures, a life she could not have imagined a year before! It may have seemed ordinary to her at the time, but she was living a fairly unusual life.
It is rather frustrating to read, so little did she seem to see, and I found myself wishing I could go back in time and shake the scales from her eyes. It was about this point when I had to put the diary down to answer yet another call from a dear friend and several emails and messages from others across the world, that it began to dawn. It leaves me feeling very foolish, of course.
Because I am still guilty of the same blindness.
I have lost track of the number of times I have replied to the suggestion that I should write my story, laughing it off with some quip, because after all, who would want to read the biography of such an ordinary woman. But my life has not been ‘ordinary’… it has been unique. My story.
And so is yours.
And that was the point.
We take it for granted that our lives are ordinary because we are living them, yet every moment of each of our stories is unique. No one else lives them for us, no one else can feel them as we do. Each of us leaves our mark on history, even if it passes unnoticed and fades unremarked.
We leave our mark on people too. And that, of course, was where the tears started. I look at the Christmas cards on the sideboard, small tangible thoughts, hugs from distant friends. It is the most important part of the festive season for me, that connection and caring. And I realised just exactly how blessed I am, how many people were in touch from across the world, showing a little care for a friend and writing their names on the pages of a hidden and insignificant part of what is nevertheless history.
Making their mark on my life with love.
December 22, 2012
Extreme, Absolute and Sacred
There were three conversations yesterday about essentially the same subject. Three viewpoints, three different perspectives. And a blog post that I just scrapped as over-complicated.
When we began working to build the Silent Eye, it quickly became obvious that there needed to be a melding, a synthesis, of approach to the Work. For those who haven’t come across the School yet, let me explain. We seek to create a School of Consciousness that has its feet firmly rooted in the soil of this life, is not fluffy and yet reaches for the Divine, by whatever Name you choose to call It. That which Is neither within nor without but which pervades All. We see a need to bring the intellect to bear so that knowledge and reason play a significant part, and for the emotions to be engaged so that what is discovered is both felt and experienced vividly, so that it is Lived in full awareness.
Most of all, we see a need to practice what we preach, and that means learning to Live and Be as fully as we can on all levels. It is a natural state and at the simplest level requires only that we accept ourselves as we truly and fully are. And that, of course, is never as simple as it sounds.
It is easy to get caught up in the emotions of the mystic, the blaze of Light blinding our eyes to the everyday realities of life and growth. There is a yearning for oneness with the One where the world can be forgotten. Or we can become so lost in study and the pursuit of knowledge that we lose sight of the reason for which we began the quest, stalling over questions and speculations to which we may never find an answer. There is a fine line, however, between the two where they blend and fuse into what one could call an alchemical marriage.
This blending and melding is also part of the key to the Work, where on yet another axis both human and divine can be fully realised in a life. This spiritual evolution happens whether we will or no, slowly and inexorably over time. It is when we enter into this quest consciously, however, that we become aware of its impact on our lives. By actively seeking that growth we engage with aspects of ourselves and the greater reality and find what one could call an accelerated evolution.
Preparing one of the presentations for the School’s launch weekend, the Song of the Troubadour in April 2013, a dear friend and I have been delving into the symbolism in medieval art. There is a particular painting where the Christ is portrayed standing in the river at the moment of baptism. The reflections in the water are not those of the world around Him, but are subtly different. We were discussing this yesterday, wondering if this were an attempt to portray the altered perspective and clarity of vision that comes when one learns to walk in the world fully in both the human and divine aspects of Self.
This threw up another train of thought and the third conversation. Most faiths and paths teach us to leave the ego behind and forget self, striving towards the ethereal goal of Divinity. This puts the Divine at a distance and leaves us stripping ourselves bare, flaying ourselves on the thorns of life in an attempt to reach for an intangible dream. Yet these same schools of thought also tell us that we are part of God, of His creation, or are his children. And they call it Love. Which means there is no distance and we are striving for something we can find within our innermost selves, in each other and in everything around us. And suddenly you are confronted with this glimpse of Glory and have to realise it is part of the greatest Ego there is… and It is part of you.
Just to make things even more complicated, some of us are driven to find a way to teach that without looking like members of the lunatic fringe.
It is a spiritual culture shock, glimpsing something so truly Awesome through the myopic eyes of life, wondering who on earth we are to be worthy of It, yet sensing also that we are OF It and a way must be found to reconcile the two and simply Be It.
Which, as I said to my friend, is a bit of a bugger to come to terms with.
When we began working to build the Silent Eye, it quickly became obvious that there needed to be a melding, a synthesis, of approach to the Work. For those who haven’t come across the School yet, let me explain. We seek to create a School of Consciousness that has its feet firmly rooted in the soil of this life, is not fluffy and yet reaches for the Divine, by whatever Name you choose to call It. That which Is neither within nor without but which pervades All. We see a need to bring the intellect to bear so that knowledge and reason play a significant part, and for the emotions to be engaged so that what is discovered is both felt and experienced vividly, so that it is Lived in full awareness.
Most of all, we see a need to practice what we preach, and that means learning to Live and Be as fully as we can on all levels. It is a natural state and at the simplest level requires only that we accept ourselves as we truly and fully are. And that, of course, is never as simple as it sounds.
It is easy to get caught up in the emotions of the mystic, the blaze of Light blinding our eyes to the everyday realities of life and growth. There is a yearning for oneness with the One where the world can be forgotten. Or we can become so lost in study and the pursuit of knowledge that we lose sight of the reason for which we began the quest, stalling over questions and speculations to which we may never find an answer. There is a fine line, however, between the two where they blend and fuse into what one could call an alchemical marriage.
This blending and melding is also part of the key to the Work, where on yet another axis both human and divine can be fully realised in a life. This spiritual evolution happens whether we will or no, slowly and inexorably over time. It is when we enter into this quest consciously, however, that we become aware of its impact on our lives. By actively seeking that growth we engage with aspects of ourselves and the greater reality and find what one could call an accelerated evolution.
Preparing one of the presentations for the School’s launch weekend, the Song of the Troubadour in April 2013, a dear friend and I have been delving into the symbolism in medieval art. There is a particular painting where the Christ is portrayed standing in the river at the moment of baptism. The reflections in the water are not those of the world around Him, but are subtly different. We were discussing this yesterday, wondering if this were an attempt to portray the altered perspective and clarity of vision that comes when one learns to walk in the world fully in both the human and divine aspects of Self.
This threw up another train of thought and the third conversation. Most faiths and paths teach us to leave the ego behind and forget self, striving towards the ethereal goal of Divinity. This puts the Divine at a distance and leaves us stripping ourselves bare, flaying ourselves on the thorns of life in an attempt to reach for an intangible dream. Yet these same schools of thought also tell us that we are part of God, of His creation, or are his children. And they call it Love. Which means there is no distance and we are striving for something we can find within our innermost selves, in each other and in everything around us. And suddenly you are confronted with this glimpse of Glory and have to realise it is part of the greatest Ego there is… and It is part of you.
Just to make things even more complicated, some of us are driven to find a way to teach that without looking like members of the lunatic fringe.
It is a spiritual culture shock, glimpsing something so truly Awesome through the myopic eyes of life, wondering who on earth we are to be worthy of It, yet sensing also that we are OF It and a way must be found to reconcile the two and simply Be It.
Which, as I said to my friend, is a bit of a bugger to come to terms with.
December 20, 2012
Notes from a Small Dog
She’s a bit under the weather at present, so I thought I’d give her a break and write today’s blog for her. She found the prospect of having to walk to the village shop at six o’clock this morning less than appealing. Pitch black, cold, driving rain… but the alternative was no coffee, and after the night she had, that was clearly not an option. And of course, I wanted to take her for a walk. There is something rather wonderful in that time of morning when most of the world is asleep, and the chill freshness beads on my fur and sweeps away the cobwebs of night. There is something immediate and very real in the presence of the world at that time of morning, a sense of quiet stirring and anticipation. You can almost feel it stretch and yawn as your clocks tick from wakeful night to busyness.
Her computer had been on for a while, of course, and her mind, as we walked, was flitting between applications, wishing she had a pencil in her pocket to make notes and capture the elusive thoughts.
Me, I’m as energetic and excited as if it were the first morning of the world, and dart from scent to scent, chasing every rustle and glistening movement in the leaf litter. As I watched her, she shook off the thoughts and moved into the moment with me, catching something of my joy in the adventure of the new day as her eyes shone and she smiled at me. In the darkness, that was almost all I could see of her, bundled as she was in coat and scarf. We dogs are better equipped than you humans for this weather.
Now I am flopped at her feet, exuding a vague aroma of wet fur and leaves, not the most pleasant fragrance for her I think, but a happy one. For me, life is all about where I am. And right now that is warm and cosy, with my head on her feet and the traces of the morning on mine. When I meet her eyes she smiles at me and I can feel her love. But you often seem to be so far away, your minds wander in speculation and imagination, I think. You forget about just living and enjoying the time that is now.
I look after her as best I can. I keep an eye on the time and make
sure she doesn’t forget my dinner. I take her for walks so she gets some fresh air and keep her supplied with toys and balls. I throw them for her to play fetch. When she has been sitting too long at the machine in the corner, I will dive around the room play fighting toys to make her laugh, or I put my head on her knee till she stops for a cuddle. And if that doesn’t work, I can always distract her by chewing gently on a sleeve. It took me a while to master that one. The first few months I managed to chew holes in them… but now I can just capture them and chew them soggy and keep her hands on my ears.
Meanwhile she sits at the square thing and communicates with friends who are far away or loses touch with me in the words she writes. She has explained it all to me, of course. I don’t know if she realises how much I understand, but I think she just misses having voices in the house sometimes now they have all gone and talks to me anyway. She sings too, when she’s happy. I wish she wouldn’t.
This technology stuff seems a wonderful thing. She tells me you
have such access to information, you make friends and keep in touch instantly. I watch her emotions change as she laughs and cries sometimes. Then I see her tapping away and wonder how much is being hidden behind what she writes. She can’t hide from me, of course. I see her. It doesn’t matter to me if she is wrapped in the fluffy dressing gown or wearing a suit, I can see beyond the surface to who she is. I can feel her emotions no matter what she says or which words she chooses. To me she just is.
We dogs do not hide. We are. We see you and feel you, we know your flaws. We know your hearts and we love you as you really are, not as you would like to be, or think you should be. We want little more than your hands in our fur and a smile in your eyes.
Maybe us dogs could give you paws for thought…?
Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear the postman ….
Love, Ani.
Her computer had been on for a while, of course, and her mind, as we walked, was flitting between applications, wishing she had a pencil in her pocket to make notes and capture the elusive thoughts.
Me, I’m as energetic and excited as if it were the first morning of the world, and dart from scent to scent, chasing every rustle and glistening movement in the leaf litter. As I watched her, she shook off the thoughts and moved into the moment with me, catching something of my joy in the adventure of the new day as her eyes shone and she smiled at me. In the darkness, that was almost all I could see of her, bundled as she was in coat and scarf. We dogs are better equipped than you humans for this weather.
Now I am flopped at her feet, exuding a vague aroma of wet fur and leaves, not the most pleasant fragrance for her I think, but a happy one. For me, life is all about where I am. And right now that is warm and cosy, with my head on her feet and the traces of the morning on mine. When I meet her eyes she smiles at me and I can feel her love. But you often seem to be so far away, your minds wander in speculation and imagination, I think. You forget about just living and enjoying the time that is now.
I look after her as best I can. I keep an eye on the time and make
sure she doesn’t forget my dinner. I take her for walks so she gets some fresh air and keep her supplied with toys and balls. I throw them for her to play fetch. When she has been sitting too long at the machine in the corner, I will dive around the room play fighting toys to make her laugh, or I put my head on her knee till she stops for a cuddle. And if that doesn’t work, I can always distract her by chewing gently on a sleeve. It took me a while to master that one. The first few months I managed to chew holes in them… but now I can just capture them and chew them soggy and keep her hands on my ears.
Meanwhile she sits at the square thing and communicates with friends who are far away or loses touch with me in the words she writes. She has explained it all to me, of course. I don’t know if she realises how much I understand, but I think she just misses having voices in the house sometimes now they have all gone and talks to me anyway. She sings too, when she’s happy. I wish she wouldn’t.
This technology stuff seems a wonderful thing. She tells me you
have such access to information, you make friends and keep in touch instantly. I watch her emotions change as she laughs and cries sometimes. Then I see her tapping away and wonder how much is being hidden behind what she writes. She can’t hide from me, of course. I see her. It doesn’t matter to me if she is wrapped in the fluffy dressing gown or wearing a suit, I can see beyond the surface to who she is. I can feel her emotions no matter what she says or which words she chooses. To me she just is.
We dogs do not hide. We are. We see you and feel you, we know your flaws. We know your hearts and we love you as you really are, not as you would like to be, or think you should be. We want little more than your hands in our fur and a smile in your eyes.
Maybe us dogs could give you paws for thought…?
Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear the postman ….
Love, Ani.
December 16, 2012
...And By Opposing End Them
I’ve been at the Shakespeare again this morning.
“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?”
That really is the question, isn’t it?
There is a huge amount of stuff out there purporting to tell us how to come to full consciousness. Some of it valuable, some less so. No school, however, can confer or guarantee the gift of Being. That is for the student to find within themselves and in this we are all students. All any school or system can ever do is open a door and show a way, arming the student with the tools of the quest we have found to be of use, a map lovingly crafted by those who have walked this way before and a perhaps a star to follow.
That little word, Being, encompasses so much and will be defined subjectively by each of us, filtered by our emotions and intellect and shaped by our beliefs. It is very hard to pin down in words and describe completely what one means by the term.
In practical terms at least, it is for me partly an inner honesty that can see and accept the personality that masks the inmost self, observing the actions and reactions and understanding the motives without judgement or pity or the need to excuse. The outer shell we wear changes so much depending on our companions and situation and there are so very many masks that most of us do not truly know who we are. We pick an image of ourselves that we feel can accept… it may be a happy one or not, but it is familiar and we cling to it fondly until we actually find the courage and honesty to look at ourselves more deeply.
Viewing oneself warts and all is never comfortable. Few of us want to own to ourselves, not really, that we are different from our accepted self-image. Far safer to see ourselves only as mirrored in the eyes of others, never stopping to look beyond or to question the accuracy of the reflection, forgetting, perhaps, that what they show is only the image we have projected into that moment.
Of course this, as with most things, is a double edged sword. It allows, for instance, the timid to face an interview with all the appearance of confidence, but it also allows us to hide within the illusion, failing to address our fears and frailties.
But there can be a ‘turning within’ where the puppet of the personality can be seen for what it is, malleable and fluid, amorphous and shaped by the reflections it casts back upon itself. With that realisation comes a serenity that can face the world unafraid and embrace a wider life.
Now, don’t think for a minute that means the fears disappear. We still feel them. But our perspective shifts and we see them differently. I never understood the quote from Rumi until I was obliged to face my own fears: “Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.” And I know that I for one held back from life and hid behind many masks, mainly from myself.
A few years ago, for example, in an attempt to escape prosecution for assault, I was threatened by my attacker with exposure of the adolescent abuse which is now public knowledge. A moral and emotional coward, still a victim in my own mind, I caved in and begged the police to drop the case. They declined and the prosecution went ahead. So I found the courage to tell my children myself and was thus able to do so with love.
What had undoubtedly been my greatest fear had been faced, and more to the point, let go. In exorcising this fear I found a freedom, by letting it go it could no longer cause hurt and the guilt and self-disgust that I, in my self-perpetuated victimhood, had harboured so long could heal and dissipate. As an additional gift, I found the inner freedom to uncover the good in the negative experience and let it be of use to others.
We worry about the past is in case it haunts our future, as I think it is only the future that breeds fear. When fear strikes it is of what might happen, what could…imagination runs riot into the future. Yet in the moment we stand with our fears and face them, or we run and hide. And if we can face them we face our Self and they hold no terror as they slide into the past.
I think we find this inner freedom and self-awareness go hand in hand with a certain serenity. Within it we understand that time does not really exist and so we can live in the moment. Think about it, Now is already the past before we have had chance to count it, and the future has become the present and slid into memory as I write. If only now exists, where else can one Be?
“'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd”
“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?”
That really is the question, isn’t it?
There is a huge amount of stuff out there purporting to tell us how to come to full consciousness. Some of it valuable, some less so. No school, however, can confer or guarantee the gift of Being. That is for the student to find within themselves and in this we are all students. All any school or system can ever do is open a door and show a way, arming the student with the tools of the quest we have found to be of use, a map lovingly crafted by those who have walked this way before and a perhaps a star to follow.
That little word, Being, encompasses so much and will be defined subjectively by each of us, filtered by our emotions and intellect and shaped by our beliefs. It is very hard to pin down in words and describe completely what one means by the term.
In practical terms at least, it is for me partly an inner honesty that can see and accept the personality that masks the inmost self, observing the actions and reactions and understanding the motives without judgement or pity or the need to excuse. The outer shell we wear changes so much depending on our companions and situation and there are so very many masks that most of us do not truly know who we are. We pick an image of ourselves that we feel can accept… it may be a happy one or not, but it is familiar and we cling to it fondly until we actually find the courage and honesty to look at ourselves more deeply.
Viewing oneself warts and all is never comfortable. Few of us want to own to ourselves, not really, that we are different from our accepted self-image. Far safer to see ourselves only as mirrored in the eyes of others, never stopping to look beyond or to question the accuracy of the reflection, forgetting, perhaps, that what they show is only the image we have projected into that moment.
Of course this, as with most things, is a double edged sword. It allows, for instance, the timid to face an interview with all the appearance of confidence, but it also allows us to hide within the illusion, failing to address our fears and frailties.
But there can be a ‘turning within’ where the puppet of the personality can be seen for what it is, malleable and fluid, amorphous and shaped by the reflections it casts back upon itself. With that realisation comes a serenity that can face the world unafraid and embrace a wider life.
Now, don’t think for a minute that means the fears disappear. We still feel them. But our perspective shifts and we see them differently. I never understood the quote from Rumi until I was obliged to face my own fears: “Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.” And I know that I for one held back from life and hid behind many masks, mainly from myself.
A few years ago, for example, in an attempt to escape prosecution for assault, I was threatened by my attacker with exposure of the adolescent abuse which is now public knowledge. A moral and emotional coward, still a victim in my own mind, I caved in and begged the police to drop the case. They declined and the prosecution went ahead. So I found the courage to tell my children myself and was thus able to do so with love.
What had undoubtedly been my greatest fear had been faced, and more to the point, let go. In exorcising this fear I found a freedom, by letting it go it could no longer cause hurt and the guilt and self-disgust that I, in my self-perpetuated victimhood, had harboured so long could heal and dissipate. As an additional gift, I found the inner freedom to uncover the good in the negative experience and let it be of use to others.
We worry about the past is in case it haunts our future, as I think it is only the future that breeds fear. When fear strikes it is of what might happen, what could…imagination runs riot into the future. Yet in the moment we stand with our fears and face them, or we run and hide. And if we can face them we face our Self and they hold no terror as they slide into the past.
I think we find this inner freedom and self-awareness go hand in hand with a certain serenity. Within it we understand that time does not really exist and so we can live in the moment. Think about it, Now is already the past before we have had chance to count it, and the future has become the present and slid into memory as I write. If only now exists, where else can one Be?
“'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd”
December 14, 2012
Through the Mists
We were out before daylight again this morning, the dog and I. The human half of this pre-dawn duo gratefully shrouded in a padded coat and borrowed flat cap, looking rather like Bibendum. The smaller, but more energetic half bounding along joyfully, breathing steam like a miniature dragon. A resilient creature, carrying frost on the wafting tail and whiskers, in, I realised, a resilient landscape.
We walked down the lane towards the hamlet of Wormstone, so tiny it gets a mere one liner in Wikipedia. Parish records indicate the name is derived from the Old English for Wærmund's farm, but I prefer to dream and wonder if there was an older, more interesting story of dragons and sacred stones behind the name. And why not? Man has always dreamed and wondered.
Still, even the name Wærmund takes the history back well over a thousand years, and I crossed the path of the old Roman road as I walked, catching a brief glimpse of the site of the iron age remains in the fields beyond. Prehistoric flint tools have been found here, and human occupation seems to have been a constant in the area. There is even archaeological evidence of a vineyard under the site of the school, which, on this cold, frosty morning, seems rather bizarre. Though gardeners till tend their allotments alongside the site.
Yet to the casual observer there is no evidence of this history. The changes wrought by man are overlooked unless they are obvious and then we simply accept them as part of the landscape. It does not take very long for nature to colonise and conceal the traces of human habitation, folding a green counterpane around our passing.
Ani, of course does not ruminate on her place in history. Her attention is immediate, especially when the jewel colours of a pheasant stands bright against the frosted vegetation or the red kite calls from the air. I huddle in the quilted coat and watch instinct take over as she freezes into the classic setter stance and smile at the simplicity of her joy in her futile pursuit of winged creatures.
We are, after all, such small creatures. Our individual lives insignificant when compared to the slow life of a stone or the majesty of a mighty oak. There are ancient trees in the landscape here, beneath whose boughs lovers have met for centuries. Streams whose waters have run through the chalk to the rivers and seas, rising to the heavens before falling again to give life to the ground.
Every life matters, every life has its place in the pattern of this rich tapestry. We matter to ourselves and to each other, to those we love and who care for us, to those affected by our actions or our work. We matter in the grand scheme, because without each and every life the design would be incomplete and different. Imperfect.
Insignificant as we seem, every single one of us changes the world every day by the choices we make and the actions we take. We can change it for the better or for the worse, but change it we do. No matter how small the arena in which we feel we live, the effect we have on those around us and our immediate environment is real.
As a race, a species, we have deliberately altered the face of the planet more visibly than any other species, adapting it to our needs. Our actions have wide ranging consequences for the lives of the other creatures with whom we share this world. Even the least of us can reach out across the globe with the technologies at our fingertips.
You and I are not responsible for the past. We are responsible for the mark each of us leaves as a footnote in history, even if our individual stories are neither written nor remembered but fade like the morning mist wraiths in the sun. The mark we leave, no matter how faint, on the greater landscape of life is indelible.
We walked down the lane towards the hamlet of Wormstone, so tiny it gets a mere one liner in Wikipedia. Parish records indicate the name is derived from the Old English for Wærmund's farm, but I prefer to dream and wonder if there was an older, more interesting story of dragons and sacred stones behind the name. And why not? Man has always dreamed and wondered.
Still, even the name Wærmund takes the history back well over a thousand years, and I crossed the path of the old Roman road as I walked, catching a brief glimpse of the site of the iron age remains in the fields beyond. Prehistoric flint tools have been found here, and human occupation seems to have been a constant in the area. There is even archaeological evidence of a vineyard under the site of the school, which, on this cold, frosty morning, seems rather bizarre. Though gardeners till tend their allotments alongside the site.
Yet to the casual observer there is no evidence of this history. The changes wrought by man are overlooked unless they are obvious and then we simply accept them as part of the landscape. It does not take very long for nature to colonise and conceal the traces of human habitation, folding a green counterpane around our passing.
Ani, of course does not ruminate on her place in history. Her attention is immediate, especially when the jewel colours of a pheasant stands bright against the frosted vegetation or the red kite calls from the air. I huddle in the quilted coat and watch instinct take over as she freezes into the classic setter stance and smile at the simplicity of her joy in her futile pursuit of winged creatures.
We are, after all, such small creatures. Our individual lives insignificant when compared to the slow life of a stone or the majesty of a mighty oak. There are ancient trees in the landscape here, beneath whose boughs lovers have met for centuries. Streams whose waters have run through the chalk to the rivers and seas, rising to the heavens before falling again to give life to the ground.
Every life matters, every life has its place in the pattern of this rich tapestry. We matter to ourselves and to each other, to those we love and who care for us, to those affected by our actions or our work. We matter in the grand scheme, because without each and every life the design would be incomplete and different. Imperfect.
Insignificant as we seem, every single one of us changes the world every day by the choices we make and the actions we take. We can change it for the better or for the worse, but change it we do. No matter how small the arena in which we feel we live, the effect we have on those around us and our immediate environment is real.
As a race, a species, we have deliberately altered the face of the planet more visibly than any other species, adapting it to our needs. Our actions have wide ranging consequences for the lives of the other creatures with whom we share this world. Even the least of us can reach out across the globe with the technologies at our fingertips.
You and I are not responsible for the past. We are responsible for the mark each of us leaves as a footnote in history, even if our individual stories are neither written nor remembered but fade like the morning mist wraiths in the sun. The mark we leave, no matter how faint, on the greater landscape of life is indelible.
Loss
It is always heart-breaking to lose someone we love. Death is inherent in life, loss something we all must bear. We know this. We may embrace it with love and sadness, rail against it or shy away from it. But it is inevitable. Yet the pain is indescribable.
How much more so when the person you lose is still alive? When the smile is still, and joy has gone from your day, replaced by a longing for the slightest sign of life? When the bright mind touch that sparkled is withdrawn? When the light of their eyes is misted and dim? When their hand in yours is cold and unmoving?
The heart still beats, the breath still flows, but their presence is gone. Their voice is silent, and voices are the first thing we ‘forget’.
With that silence, something dies inside, foundering in a morass of pain and confusion. And with every day, you die a little more.
The pain is physical. There is a tight ball in your chest, a tenseness in the throat as you hold back tears that you dare not shed, a twisting in the gut. But it is not just physical. That is the easiest part to bear. That you can ignore.
The twin ravens of thought and memory perch on your shoulders, contrasting the now with the then. Joy with pain, hope with despair, laughter with tears. You learn about extremes.
Death we expect to encounter. This death-in-life is not something one can prepare for.
Nor does it heal. Not completely. Not without painful scars tracing fear through the soul. And it is cumulative. The more one loses, the harder any loss becomes. One is always waiting for the next, and the pain clouds your emotions and responses.
One can seldom open oneself fully to joy or to love because the spectre of loss touches everything with fear. It is rare for you to come across a person who can transcend those self-imposed barriers, seeing beyond them to the heart of you, understanding that reserve is not coldness but a shield. Someone who can open your heart again to joy, to laughter and to beauty. And once the barriers are down it takes strength to hold fast in the flood. Even rarer are those who can, like Pandora, open that sealed casket, releasing its demons, yet still see Hope at the end.
Now imagine that this is your son, your child, lying in a coma, for weeks without end. No parent, no mother, should lose their child, it matters not how old they are, they are still the babe that grew and kicked in your belly, still the toddler with trusting eyes. You watch, helpless to help, unable to hold them, unable to reach them. Fearful of what the future may bring. Afraid they will not wake, afraid you will not be able to say all the things you wish to say, afraid they will wake and still be lost.
For perhaps the only thing worse than losing something you love with all your heart is to lose it and get it back broken.
Tonight is a bad night, haunted by the shadows of loss.
How much more so when the person you lose is still alive? When the smile is still, and joy has gone from your day, replaced by a longing for the slightest sign of life? When the bright mind touch that sparkled is withdrawn? When the light of their eyes is misted and dim? When their hand in yours is cold and unmoving?
The heart still beats, the breath still flows, but their presence is gone. Their voice is silent, and voices are the first thing we ‘forget’.
With that silence, something dies inside, foundering in a morass of pain and confusion. And with every day, you die a little more.
The pain is physical. There is a tight ball in your chest, a tenseness in the throat as you hold back tears that you dare not shed, a twisting in the gut. But it is not just physical. That is the easiest part to bear. That you can ignore.
The twin ravens of thought and memory perch on your shoulders, contrasting the now with the then. Joy with pain, hope with despair, laughter with tears. You learn about extremes.
Death we expect to encounter. This death-in-life is not something one can prepare for.
Nor does it heal. Not completely. Not without painful scars tracing fear through the soul. And it is cumulative. The more one loses, the harder any loss becomes. One is always waiting for the next, and the pain clouds your emotions and responses.
One can seldom open oneself fully to joy or to love because the spectre of loss touches everything with fear. It is rare for you to come across a person who can transcend those self-imposed barriers, seeing beyond them to the heart of you, understanding that reserve is not coldness but a shield. Someone who can open your heart again to joy, to laughter and to beauty. And once the barriers are down it takes strength to hold fast in the flood. Even rarer are those who can, like Pandora, open that sealed casket, releasing its demons, yet still see Hope at the end.
Now imagine that this is your son, your child, lying in a coma, for weeks without end. No parent, no mother, should lose their child, it matters not how old they are, they are still the babe that grew and kicked in your belly, still the toddler with trusting eyes. You watch, helpless to help, unable to hold them, unable to reach them. Fearful of what the future may bring. Afraid they will not wake, afraid you will not be able to say all the things you wish to say, afraid they will wake and still be lost.
For perhaps the only thing worse than losing something you love with all your heart is to lose it and get it back broken.
Tonight is a bad night, haunted by the shadows of loss.
Unicorn Eggs
One of the most wonderful women I know is a Teacher. I use the upper case ‘T’ quite deliberately as she teaches simply by Being who she is. On her own admission she prefers to work from the wings and stay out of the spotlight, yet her gentle and joyful Light touches all who know her.
We were chatting online this morning, as we tend to do, being several thousand miles too far apart for a proper cuppa and face to face conversation. We cover many subjects from the most mundane and daftly human to the spiritual and esoteric. At one point today she was speaking of what makes a Teacher, of how it requires that one keeps a foot in both worlds as it were, seeing the greater purpose behind the events of our lives. We spoke too of the decades each of us spend learning to use the gifts we are born with, of the transforming journey through life towards understanding. Of the courage that is needed to be one’s whole Self.
There was talk of the human flaws we all share and of those who inspire us and how they can be seen as “special - to others.” Yet to themselves “it must remain no big thing.” My friend says of such people that they “fart and burp and pee when they cough like any other daft creature of our ilk. But they have Work to do.”
It tickles me, with the mental picture I have of her elegant and stately self that she chooses such words, yet she is without doubt the most down to earth person I know, as well as being one of the most genuinely spiritual. And she is right. It is a common misconception that a spiritual teacher must have found some kind of perfection, although it is true, of course, in terms of their awareness of the Divine in life. Yet those true Teachers I have been privileged to meet seem to share this earthiness, this serene acceptance of all the levels of their being.
There is, it seems, always laughter in them, often at themselves, and sometimes tears. Emotion and experience are equally embraced, as are their characters, seen as the raw material of humanity within themselves. They acknowledge their strengths as well as their weaknesses, but seldom see themselves as Teachers unless that role is thrust upon them. They are simply sharing the journey with fellow travellers.
There is another side to this, for the commitment to the Light is real and demands a lifetime. It is not something one can dip in and out of. It can bring to these people both the gift of being truly with those around them with a warm immediacy, but also a certain separateness, an aloneness and sense of isolation as they see life from a different perspective that they can share only with others who have walked their particular path. And at the level of which I speak, they are as rare as unicorn eggs.
Yet there is a wholeness about them, a completeness that accepts themselves and us for who we are, seeing, perhaps beyond the outer face we wear to something profound within and recognising the kindred fire of the Divine we each of us carry. And because of this deeper vision there is a strength in them and a depth that manifests itself as Love.
We were chatting online this morning, as we tend to do, being several thousand miles too far apart for a proper cuppa and face to face conversation. We cover many subjects from the most mundane and daftly human to the spiritual and esoteric. At one point today she was speaking of what makes a Teacher, of how it requires that one keeps a foot in both worlds as it were, seeing the greater purpose behind the events of our lives. We spoke too of the decades each of us spend learning to use the gifts we are born with, of the transforming journey through life towards understanding. Of the courage that is needed to be one’s whole Self.
There was talk of the human flaws we all share and of those who inspire us and how they can be seen as “special - to others.” Yet to themselves “it must remain no big thing.” My friend says of such people that they “fart and burp and pee when they cough like any other daft creature of our ilk. But they have Work to do.”
It tickles me, with the mental picture I have of her elegant and stately self that she chooses such words, yet she is without doubt the most down to earth person I know, as well as being one of the most genuinely spiritual. And she is right. It is a common misconception that a spiritual teacher must have found some kind of perfection, although it is true, of course, in terms of their awareness of the Divine in life. Yet those true Teachers I have been privileged to meet seem to share this earthiness, this serene acceptance of all the levels of their being.
There is, it seems, always laughter in them, often at themselves, and sometimes tears. Emotion and experience are equally embraced, as are their characters, seen as the raw material of humanity within themselves. They acknowledge their strengths as well as their weaknesses, but seldom see themselves as Teachers unless that role is thrust upon them. They are simply sharing the journey with fellow travellers.
There is another side to this, for the commitment to the Light is real and demands a lifetime. It is not something one can dip in and out of. It can bring to these people both the gift of being truly with those around them with a warm immediacy, but also a certain separateness, an aloneness and sense of isolation as they see life from a different perspective that they can share only with others who have walked their particular path. And at the level of which I speak, they are as rare as unicorn eggs.
Yet there is a wholeness about them, a completeness that accepts themselves and us for who we are, seeing, perhaps beyond the outer face we wear to something profound within and recognising the kindred fire of the Divine we each of us carry. And because of this deeper vision there is a strength in them and a depth that manifests itself as Love.
