We are surely all seekers, all explorers looking for the discoveries that will change our lives for the better. Sometimes we set ourselves difficult tasks, hoping it will be the way. The road is long and not without doubts and fears. Sometimes a friendly guide who has been that way before, can save us a lot of disappointment.
The image below offers you a link to such a place, such a person. If you are prepared to climb mountains for happiness then a few moments looking here are insignificant. But will they be?
The image below offers you a link to such a place, such a person. If you are prepared to climb mountains for happiness then a few moments looking here are insignificant. But will they be?
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Because philosophical stories are not only important to our growth and soul, we usually find them interesting. I have added a few images with captions for you to consider. Feel free to share them or use for your own purpose.
Clicking on an image should enlarge it.
This is true, both technically and spiritually
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For the philosophers among you.
Why do we do such things as in the story 'beyond the mirror', are you prepared to try it out, and risk the possible? Or will you find the impossible?
Does the philosopher take risks?
Beyond the mirror.
A short tale of the intriguingly spiritual.
He had the habit of calling it a shed, but others might better describe it as a comfortable garden chalet, complete with fitted carpet and latticed windows overlooking a wild garden.
He won’t write this himself, he says it is pointless to share what is ostensibly a personal journey of no great importance to others, so I’m doing it for him.
He’d practised mirror meditation before and sometimes even the forbidden candle in front of mirror version. Supposedly dangerous as it opens a portal for visiting spirits to pass from the other side. At the time, he felt secure in his own sense of protection, so it didn’t bother him. That was then, new experiences have made him question what does lie beyond the mirror.
Mirrors are not without their deeper illusions nor their superstitions either. Ever heard of people covering mirrors during a thunderstorm? Or, on leaving the house empty for a while?
But I digress, back to his story.
Two nights ago, after some mindful exercises, he decided to kneel in front of the long mirror and observe the third eye region. In layman’s terms, ‘stare intently at his forehead’, for as long as he could.
Very quickly the mirror image changed, even though he himself did not, colours vanished, replaced by shiny gold outlines, then as he continued, he noted face changing. He’d seen and done this before, and, though it will mean little to the reader, it was sheer joy to see his uncle again. Uncle Fred was a good man, simple life but a kindly caring man, he’s been dead some twenty years now. Some other faces flitted in and out, not staying long enough to be recognised. While he knelt there in timeless fashion, and while he stared unflinchingly, he thought. He thought about the mirror, and that what he was viewing, did not exist inside his shed. No, the image is as far behind the mirror as the subject is in front. Therefore, his third eye was in the light of the shed but it’s partner as image was outside the walls, in the dark and cold of night. They were not the same thing nor in the same place. What if, on the far side of the mirror, spirits had access to this isolated image, away from the protection of his true self? At this point he decided that he would finish for the evening . . . but return the next day to see if he could learn more.
Next night, after a few mindful exercises which connect mind, spirit and body as one, he knelt again in front of the mirror. Soon the blurring and changing colours to gold outlines were revealed and not long after, face changing began again. This time he called upon secretive protections in the form of incantation and symbolism, anyone practising Reiki will know similar. This time he tried hard to connect with the third eye image which was in darkness beyond the shed walls. The results were pleasing, and his uncle returned, then, was it possible he saw his grandfather? Some faces stayed longer so he could examine them with thought, but the one he really wanted to see for longer, was fleeting at best. However, this was exciting to say the least, his grandfather had died when my friend was young, and he had few memories of him. To see him again would be magical . . . even an illusion would fulfil the long-held desire to know his grandfather more. It was then that a warning came by way way of a thought story, sort of like daydreaming. The dream prophecy showed his image standing and walking away, leaving the body of our friend still kneeling but without spirit and waiting for its return... if ever it would, but now it had come from the far side and was free.
He decided to call it a night and put the kettle on.
As would I and perhaps you too.
**
Why do we do such things as in the story 'beyond the mirror', are you prepared to try it out, and risk the possible? Or will you find the impossible?
Does the philosopher take risks?
Beyond the mirror.
A short tale of the intriguingly spiritual.
He had the habit of calling it a shed, but others might better describe it as a comfortable garden chalet, complete with fitted carpet and latticed windows overlooking a wild garden.
He won’t write this himself, he says it is pointless to share what is ostensibly a personal journey of no great importance to others, so I’m doing it for him.
He’d practised mirror meditation before and sometimes even the forbidden candle in front of mirror version. Supposedly dangerous as it opens a portal for visiting spirits to pass from the other side. At the time, he felt secure in his own sense of protection, so it didn’t bother him. That was then, new experiences have made him question what does lie beyond the mirror.
Mirrors are not without their deeper illusions nor their superstitions either. Ever heard of people covering mirrors during a thunderstorm? Or, on leaving the house empty for a while?
But I digress, back to his story.
Two nights ago, after some mindful exercises, he decided to kneel in front of the long mirror and observe the third eye region. In layman’s terms, ‘stare intently at his forehead’, for as long as he could.
Very quickly the mirror image changed, even though he himself did not, colours vanished, replaced by shiny gold outlines, then as he continued, he noted face changing. He’d seen and done this before, and, though it will mean little to the reader, it was sheer joy to see his uncle again. Uncle Fred was a good man, simple life but a kindly caring man, he’s been dead some twenty years now. Some other faces flitted in and out, not staying long enough to be recognised. While he knelt there in timeless fashion, and while he stared unflinchingly, he thought. He thought about the mirror, and that what he was viewing, did not exist inside his shed. No, the image is as far behind the mirror as the subject is in front. Therefore, his third eye was in the light of the shed but it’s partner as image was outside the walls, in the dark and cold of night. They were not the same thing nor in the same place. What if, on the far side of the mirror, spirits had access to this isolated image, away from the protection of his true self? At this point he decided that he would finish for the evening . . . but return the next day to see if he could learn more.
Next night, after a few mindful exercises which connect mind, spirit and body as one, he knelt again in front of the mirror. Soon the blurring and changing colours to gold outlines were revealed and not long after, face changing began again. This time he called upon secretive protections in the form of incantation and symbolism, anyone practising Reiki will know similar. This time he tried hard to connect with the third eye image which was in darkness beyond the shed walls. The results were pleasing, and his uncle returned, then, was it possible he saw his grandfather? Some faces stayed longer so he could examine them with thought, but the one he really wanted to see for longer, was fleeting at best. However, this was exciting to say the least, his grandfather had died when my friend was young, and he had few memories of him. To see him again would be magical . . . even an illusion would fulfil the long-held desire to know his grandfather more. It was then that a warning came by way way of a thought story, sort of like daydreaming. The dream prophecy showed his image standing and walking away, leaving the body of our friend still kneeling but without spirit and waiting for its return... if ever it would, but now it had come from the far side and was free.
He decided to call it a night and put the kettle on.
As would I and perhaps you too.
**
A very important person. . . . . what do you think?
We are all blessed with one truly significant person in our lives, perhaps more, but all too often they remain invisible to our far too busy minds. They guide our decisions in life, or at least try, but again, ego knows best, and the good advice is abandoned. Our dearest friend though, never gives up, was with us at the beginning and stays our companion to the end and perhaps, for we cannot know yet, beyond that end, and into a new beginning. They are the ones who whisper in our ear as we watch wild animals, that look back at us in unspoken connection. They alone stand with us in solitude looking out across the bay, whether at a beautiful sunset or an impending storm. To them it is all the same. Knowing all our secrets they never judge nor share with others of a baser nature. There are a few mere mortals that make it their life’s work to locate and commune with such entities, perhaps even deities would not be over exaggerating their worth. Once they have connected to this important person they are at peace, all the important answers to life are shared and the unnecessary collections of mankind’s rubbish are seen for what they are, decoration for a prison of their own making. We all know that important person, in fact we all share the same one, for it can be no other way. Who is it? Why? It is the inner you, the inner us, our own soul, consciousness, intuition, call it what you will. It is always there for you, a constant companion with universal power and willing to share it without asking return. It is nature itself, it is the great truth, it is the person within you that was there from the beginning of time. So often in life, we don’t see clearly enough what is important and what is not. Mankind acts the fool while all the while he could have been the divine.
When you have read this, something in you will surely nod quietly, and know, it is indeed the truth.
We are all blessed with one truly significant person in our lives, perhaps more, but all too often they remain invisible to our far too busy minds. They guide our decisions in life, or at least try, but again, ego knows best, and the good advice is abandoned. Our dearest friend though, never gives up, was with us at the beginning and stays our companion to the end and perhaps, for we cannot know yet, beyond that end, and into a new beginning. They are the ones who whisper in our ear as we watch wild animals, that look back at us in unspoken connection. They alone stand with us in solitude looking out across the bay, whether at a beautiful sunset or an impending storm. To them it is all the same. Knowing all our secrets they never judge nor share with others of a baser nature. There are a few mere mortals that make it their life’s work to locate and commune with such entities, perhaps even deities would not be over exaggerating their worth. Once they have connected to this important person they are at peace, all the important answers to life are shared and the unnecessary collections of mankind’s rubbish are seen for what they are, decoration for a prison of their own making. We all know that important person, in fact we all share the same one, for it can be no other way. Who is it? Why? It is the inner you, the inner us, our own soul, consciousness, intuition, call it what you will. It is always there for you, a constant companion with universal power and willing to share it without asking return. It is nature itself, it is the great truth, it is the person within you that was there from the beginning of time. So often in life, we don’t see clearly enough what is important and what is not. Mankind acts the fool while all the while he could have been the divine.
When you have read this, something in you will surely nod quietly, and know, it is indeed the truth.
A special entry for the Covid 19 emergency in the UK.
Considering our differences and our own philosophy on life and how we chose to live or die by it.
“Virus – what virus?”
Retired road sweeper, Fred Bloggs, had won the lottery big time and it gave him the chance to buy a beautiful Georgian mansion with its own grounds, lake, stables and servants. It also found him a wife - or rather she found him. She didn’t much care for the name Bloggs though as it seemed overly common for a lady of her station – a new station that is, her old one being Euston – so she called herself Lady Marjoram Phorbes. Yes, you did read that right. Mabel, her real name, wasn’t that bright. However, she was quite attractive for someone approximately forty and Fred was an easy-going type. He liked his beer and telly, and my goodness what a telly he had bought himself, more like a cinema screen. He had hoped to start his own beer brewing kit too until his wife put a stop to it, saying that it would make the house smell funny.
Fred was watching a report on the rising death tolls with the new Covid 19 virus on the TV, when his wife stood in front of him and said, ‘what a load of rubbish you watch, I’m off out, the roads are clear at the moment and I’m taking the Jag into town. There’s a nice dress in M&S and they’re open because they sell food. I won’t be long, unless I find a wine bar open afterwards. And do stop dropping crisps down the back of my new sofa!’
‘You shouldn’t be going out on non-essential journeys, the government wan ….’
‘Stuff the government, what do they know about anything. If you were less dopey, you’d realise that.’ She shoved Fred’s credit card into her purse and left for the car in one of her moods.
Fred turned the TV off and wandered towards the kitchen to see what cook was preparing for tea. Through the window he heard the double crump of a nearby shotgun and a shout from his gamekeeper of ‘got you, you beauty.’
‘Could be pheasant next week for dinner with luck,’ thought Fred, ‘or perhaps we’ll have some trout from the lake.’ He reminded himself to check with the head gardener on how the walled vegetable garden was progressing with fresh produce. They were quite self-sufficient at the mansion, they even had their own spring water and a backup electricity generator, the staff all lived on site. It was an oasis of security against the killer virus and yet his wife was out there putting all their lives at risk …. For a dress! She’d have nowhere to hang it anyway as all her wardrobes were packed to the gunnels.
Fred never noticed that his wife hadn’t returned home that night. They'd had separate rooms once married as she’d told him that’s what posh people do. She had only slept with him while she persuaded him to tie the knot, but after that, she somehow seemed to lose interest. He’d tried the interconnecting door a few times, but it seemed stuck. ‘One day,’ he thought, ‘I’ll have the handyman take the door off and fix it.’ Breakfast came and went, as did lunch and dinner and still no sign of the Jag and its belligerent driver. Fred was watching a replay of Chelsea against some foreign team when the maid came in and said, ‘telephone for you sir, it’s the police. Will you take it here or in the library?’
Pressing pause on the TV remote, Fred smiled and said, ‘I’ll take it here dear, thank you.’
‘Fred Bloggs speaking, can I help you?’
There was a momentary pause at the other end, then a questioning voice answered. ‘I’m so sorry sir I was trying to contact Mr Phorbes, it’s important sir, city police matter.’
‘Phorbes is my wife’s chosen name officer, I am her husband god help me, has she been speeding again?’
‘I’m afraid it is much worse than that sir, can I ask you to sit down. We would normally call around and speak perso….’
‘Yes, yes, officer I understand, we are all self-isolating here, it was only that my wife felt there was something essential she had to fetch from town, please carry on officer.’
‘Ah yes, she managed to buy the item sir, a rather fetching red dress which she was wearing when we stopped her for the third time today for taking unnecessary journeys. She was a little unlucky with the last officer, he was one of those who had been happily retired and was drafted back in. They said if he didn’t, he would lose some of his pension … then they stuck him on a 12-hour shift in a busy part of town. Trouble is she looked down on him, blew cigarette smoke in his face, called him a pleb and a servant of the people and didn’t he know who she was etc. Well as he’d only got a few minutes of shift left before he could go back for his first meal of the day at the temporary police hostel tent, he arrested her and called for armed backup and the van. Your car is safe sir, it’s in the police pound, it’ll be fifty quid to release it but as it’s not an essential journey sir I’d leave it there. They’re doing a discounted storage rate of a tenner a day while the emergency is on, can’t say fairer than that eh sir?
Fred fiddled impatiently with the remote, the screen was freeze-framed just before it looked hopeful his team might score, ‘so what about my wife then officer, what have you done with her now?’
‘Ah, I was coming to that sir, it’s why I called. The desk sergeant was not best pleased when she turned up in front of him, all red faced, and coughing like a good ‘un, she was. She is now in the local hospital … you can’t visit her sir it’s all quarantined. Because of her, we’ve now lost three officers from custody, the custody sergeant, the custody suite, a police dog and two vehicles, for isolation and deep clean. The superintendent is hopping mad, because he’d been on duty all day and wanted to go home to be with his new wife, now he’ll be sorting this all night instead. He was going to throw the book at her … could have got her two to three years I reckon but the doctor said not to waste time as the prognosis was not favourable.’
Fred was a simple man of few words and none of them as long as those just used by the officer. ‘In plain English officer, what does that mean please?’
‘Afraid that’s the bad news I ‘m calling about sir, I’m afraid she may not make the morning. The hospital will keep you informed. Don’t worry about prosecution sir, we’ve dropped all charges, you won’t hear from us again. Have a good evening sir.’
The phone clicked dead. Fred handed it back to the maid, who always enjoyed listening in, ‘thanks dear, can you let cook know we will be permanently one less for meals … oh and ask her nicely if she’d knock up a few chips for me … oh and a bottle of beer … that corona one will do. No need for a glass.’ Fred flicked the play button and in a few moments the household knew that Chelsea had scored. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yahoo!’
Lady Marjoram Phorbes nee Mabel Smith, formally of flat 2a Calcutta Square Euston passed away in the early hours and was despatched according to new government rules on mass cremations. Like all the others too, she wore a fetching black numbered body bag in place of the essential red dress.
Fred Bloggs survived the entire emergency by staying in isolation with all the happy well-fed staff. He eventually married the cook, who said she like sleeping with him and he could have beer and chips anytime he liked.
Other stories in order of appearance
Success is a word, not a way of life.
The Journey of Hisato Khalid.
Narnia – Through the Old Inn Door.
Past, present, future, all one in a dream.
I am. . .
A Mountain to Climb.
A tale for the soul.
Silence. I’m speaking!
Faces in the tiles.
Nobody, Anybody and Somebody.
Fagin and the Banker. - A tale of social justice.
Order in the Capricorn Trinity
Of Aikido and of leaves in Kefalonia. (An analogy with Aikido. . . )
Keith's sheep and the fence
Value added. . . ? (Why we pay VAT)
The Tai Chi Class and Path to the Temple.
Success is a word, not a way of life.
The Journey of Hisato Khalid.
Narnia – Through the Old Inn Door.
Past, present, future, all one in a dream.
I am. . .
A Mountain to Climb.
A tale for the soul.
Silence. I’m speaking!
Faces in the tiles.
Nobody, Anybody and Somebody.
Fagin and the Banker. - A tale of social justice.
Order in the Capricorn Trinity
Of Aikido and of leaves in Kefalonia. (An analogy with Aikido. . . )
Keith's sheep and the fence
Value added. . . ? (Why we pay VAT)
The Tai Chi Class and Path to the Temple.
Of course the message is a metaphorical one but well illustrated in reality by this photo of a bridge over a swollen stream at night.
Did I cross it?
Not likely!
There were planks missing and those left were slippery, the handrails had disappeared and the bridge supports were leaning into space. This torrent joined another a few yards down stream and the only thing likely to stop you reaching the sea three miles away would be submerged tree roots or the odd bit of barbed wire strung across a boundary.
This night, the only dreams stayed this side of the bridge.
It's easy giving advice, isn't it?
Your path is your destination, do not be fooled by anything else.
Success is a word, not a way of life.
As a cold grey dawn broke outside the warm doorway of Cayman Executive Finances, Big John, a burly homeless man, gathered his cardboard and meagre belongings. He knew a good thing when he found it and didn’t want staff turning up and making a complaint. The night had passed with one interesting incident, a false alarm call to the fire brigade from the nearby hotel. John had a good relationship with the hotel staff, who would find him suitable leftovers from the evening meals. He’d shared a friendly chat and a cup of tea with the fire-fighters that night. Big John was a likeable, non-drinking man and previously owning a smallholding business, gave him an air of respectability. He couldn’t cope anymore with four walls, it was his freedom that kept him sane. Regardless of weather he took life in his stride and a smile on his face. As he wandered with his few but useful possessions in the direction of the local park, he nodded a friendly hello to the early morning postman and received a cheery wave in reply. They had much in common, out in rain or shine while most were still tucked up under their duvets.
An hour or so after John had left ‘home’ at the prestigious Cayman Executive Finances building, the silence was broken by the arrival of chief executive Clive ’wonder boy’ Rothenchild. Roaring into his reserved parking space in his red Ferrari, he was ready to start work and kickass in the world of banking, a euphemism for shifting poor people’s money into rich people’s offshore bank accounts. Even with the windows closed, his new age ‘rock a bully’, music almost ruptured the eardrums of a passing stray dog. Clive made his way to the grand entrance, where he had to wait briefly for the caretaker to open up. ‘Good day sir, lovely morning now,’ he welcomed with a smile. Clive stared in fury at the cretin someone had obviously mistaken as suitably employable and ignored him. Clive took the lift, one floor up, and hoped his dim witted secretary would be in early just as he’d texted, late last evening.
Clive entered his office, turned up the heating and took off his coat, briefly stopping to admire himself in one of several office mirrors. He sat at his desk, turned on his computer and drummed his fingers impatiently while it warmed up. It requested his personal password to continue.
He tapped them in slowly with one clumsy finger, S H E E P, a £ sign and a smiley face. His soulless and greedy eyes led his equally soulless and greedy mind to look out of the window and survey the land of peasants, all ready for fleecing. He snarled a few words at his secretary as she hurried in, looking flustered. ‘Get your act together deary, I’ve got important friends visiting today. No mistakes, right? Smarten yourself up too, you look a mess, like you’ve been up all night.’
She forced a smile, looking after two small children and a sick husband was taking its toll on her and she’d had to pay through the nose to find a last minute childminder so she could arrive early for work. She desperately needed to keep this job. ‘Yes sir, of course sir. It’s the mayor and head of chamber of commerce isn’t it? I have everything organised for them, just as you asked.’
As she bustled off to prepare for his guests, he sneered under his breath, ‘Dopey woman, no idea why I keep her.’
**********************
Let us consider the successes of both men.
One of them can find his way anywhere in peace and calm regardless of the weather, he is given food freely by those who care for him. He has no need of modern technology to get him though the day. He uses his mind creatively and is always willing to help others – he knows the meaning of gratitude and of empathy. He is rich in spirit and at peace with the world despite his various hardships. He lives in tune with the seasons. He is content with his cardboard box in the warm doorway of Cayman Buildings.
The other one, has no friends except on social media, where pretence takes the place of honesty. He cannot find his way home without sat nav and is afraid to go out at night. No one makes him a dinner unless he pays for it. He must have holidays abroad in warm countries but no place he considers dirty. He has burglar alarms and cameras at his house. When not bragging on facebook he watches TV. His success, if that is what you call it, comes from robbing old ladies of their pensions. (Perfectly legal, the small print explains the risks.) He is despised by all who meet him. He has no soul. But his Ferrari tells the world he is successful.
What is your choice?
You’ll hear your inner voice, but will you listen?
The Journey of Hisato Khalid.
Born in London to a Japanese mother
and Egyptian father.
Still honouring their own cultures, his loving parents brought Hisato up to embrace western society and adopt English as his first language. As a happy young child he would often peacefully drift to sleep listening to his mother’s story telling, which without fail ended, ‘and they all lived happy ever after.’
The abiding memory that came with those childhood stories was to remain with Hisato for the rest of his life. He was a bright child, studied well and achieved excellent results at a prestigious university, where he studied philosophy and ancient history. To the joy of his aging parents, Hisato married a pretty young woman whose parents were wealthy entrepreneurs. She had an eye for material gains and made the most of her position in life to accumulate substantial wealth. Hisato was more spiritually inclined, believing that we can never truly own anything; we merely borrow it while we live. His views made no difference to what he perceived as his wife’s obsessive behaviour with financial gain. A big house, social standing and an interesting and clever husband led to ever more success and no room for children. For Hisato this was not the dream life he’d desired from childhood. After his parents died, he knew it was time to move on.
He imagined they would live forever. After all, didn’t the fairy stories promise this? He took little with him but a few necessities and a change of clothing. With a reasonable bank balance of his own and passport in hand, he set out for the lands of his ancestors. There he hoped to find the answers to immortality that abounded in eastern mythology. First stop, Cairo, then on to Luxor, where his Egyptian parentage, smattering of Arabic and extensive knowledge of ancient history made him a most welcome guest among the local people. He bonded well with boatman Mustafa Mohamed and spent several weeks staying at the family home. They were good days, good company, fine weather, simple healthy food and a chance to meet genuine minded seers of ancient mythology. But even the guides working the valley of Kings only had superficial knowledge and it soon became apparent that what Hisato was discovering, as interesting as it might be, was not taking him towards the edge of immortality. Mustapha and his family begged Hisato to stay. Why not? He could settle there, marry a fine and devoted wife and enjoy a long and happy life in Egypt. But such a life was not long enough to fulfil Hisato’s dream. Many a tear was shed at the airport for his parting, as the aircraft took off for an interconnecting flight to Japan. Perhaps the spiritual city of Kyoto would bring him the answers he sought.
Once more, Hisato soon made friends by his humble ways, his knowledge of the ancients and the Japanese language which his mother had taught him. Hisato seemed frustrated at every turn; Kyoto had become superficially spiritual in order to attract tourist dollars. Hisato already knew as much as any of the priests, monks and scholars of their day and the only gain, was meeting with relatives of his mother. They felt blessed by his arrival; they could not have been more attentive and kind to him. Old Uncle Morihiro, as Hisato knew him, made him welcome in his own home and soon secretly dreamed of marrying Hisato off to a beautiful Japanese woman and there, in the village, they would all live happily ever after, all family and friends together.
One night, as Hisato sat with Uncle Morihiro, he told him of his dreams to realise immortality, just as the ancient Gods had done. Uncle was deeply saddened by the conversation. Being a deep thinking philosopher himself, he had found no reason to believe in the possibilities of immortality.
‘Hisato, my dear boy,’ he said with great affection, ‘only the Gods are immortal and they, only so, while they live in the mind’s of our children and in their children. It is the destiny of man to die. Don’t waste a good life by trying to avoid that which is inevitable, for indeed it is.’
But Hisato was not sure death was inevitable, there must be a way, if only he could find it. He was irritated that the very root of his beliefs, in the lands of his ancestors, failed to provide the answers he sought. He was by now short of money, having spent it on gurus, monks and mystics, but had enough for one more flight. Hisato had already trawled the finest libraries and private collections for manuscripts that might help his quest. He had once read a quite plausible report of an Hermitage of Immortality near an obscure Tibetan/Mongolian border. Here would lay the answer, of this he was sure. Yes, this would be the place.
Once more a happy family was to be saddened by his parting. With much begging and wringing of hands they watched him leave. Part of them died, for he’d taken a piece of their life away with him.
The journey to the Hermitage was long, much longer and harder than he ever imagined it could be. With his money soon gone, he fell on charity, begging lifts from drovers and other travelling folk. Much of it, though, he walked. As the weeks wore on, his clothes were rags, his feet blistered through worn shoes and his joints ached with the sorrowful hunger for rest. In truth, this was a lonely, painful road and its only saving grace was his belief that, at the end, the secret of immortality awaited.
Eventually, Hisato came within grasp of his destination, a villager pointed towards the distant greenery of a small valley amidst an otherwise barren and stony landscape. It took Hisato a whole day to arrive. By then the Sun had dropped behind a mountain peak and he felt the cold bite his bones. In front of him was a humble stone hovel showing thin wisps of smoke from a dwindling fire. The hermit welcomed him in. It was hard to tell who looked the more ancient, as both had suffered much, in search of their respective desires. Hisato was surprised to see how frail the Hermit appeared and was obviously not a candidate for immortality. Weakened by the dust of his road and demoralised by this final disappointment, Hisato collapsed exhausted on the cold earthen floor. With the last remnant of his own life the Hermit eased Hisato’s body on to the cot and sheltered him with sack cloth. Now all alone and in the dark, Hisato was just conscious when the death came for him and tapped on the doorway of his soul.
Hisato’s search was over.
Post Script:
Hisato means - ‘long lived’, Khalid, - ‘immortal’;
His name and his upbringing, like a moth to a flame, enticed him towards an enchanting light that would never be seen.
Born in London to a Japanese mother
and Egyptian father.
Still honouring their own cultures, his loving parents brought Hisato up to embrace western society and adopt English as his first language. As a happy young child he would often peacefully drift to sleep listening to his mother’s story telling, which without fail ended, ‘and they all lived happy ever after.’
The abiding memory that came with those childhood stories was to remain with Hisato for the rest of his life. He was a bright child, studied well and achieved excellent results at a prestigious university, where he studied philosophy and ancient history. To the joy of his aging parents, Hisato married a pretty young woman whose parents were wealthy entrepreneurs. She had an eye for material gains and made the most of her position in life to accumulate substantial wealth. Hisato was more spiritually inclined, believing that we can never truly own anything; we merely borrow it while we live. His views made no difference to what he perceived as his wife’s obsessive behaviour with financial gain. A big house, social standing and an interesting and clever husband led to ever more success and no room for children. For Hisato this was not the dream life he’d desired from childhood. After his parents died, he knew it was time to move on.
He imagined they would live forever. After all, didn’t the fairy stories promise this? He took little with him but a few necessities and a change of clothing. With a reasonable bank balance of his own and passport in hand, he set out for the lands of his ancestors. There he hoped to find the answers to immortality that abounded in eastern mythology. First stop, Cairo, then on to Luxor, where his Egyptian parentage, smattering of Arabic and extensive knowledge of ancient history made him a most welcome guest among the local people. He bonded well with boatman Mustafa Mohamed and spent several weeks staying at the family home. They were good days, good company, fine weather, simple healthy food and a chance to meet genuine minded seers of ancient mythology. But even the guides working the valley of Kings only had superficial knowledge and it soon became apparent that what Hisato was discovering, as interesting as it might be, was not taking him towards the edge of immortality. Mustapha and his family begged Hisato to stay. Why not? He could settle there, marry a fine and devoted wife and enjoy a long and happy life in Egypt. But such a life was not long enough to fulfil Hisato’s dream. Many a tear was shed at the airport for his parting, as the aircraft took off for an interconnecting flight to Japan. Perhaps the spiritual city of Kyoto would bring him the answers he sought.
Once more, Hisato soon made friends by his humble ways, his knowledge of the ancients and the Japanese language which his mother had taught him. Hisato seemed frustrated at every turn; Kyoto had become superficially spiritual in order to attract tourist dollars. Hisato already knew as much as any of the priests, monks and scholars of their day and the only gain, was meeting with relatives of his mother. They felt blessed by his arrival; they could not have been more attentive and kind to him. Old Uncle Morihiro, as Hisato knew him, made him welcome in his own home and soon secretly dreamed of marrying Hisato off to a beautiful Japanese woman and there, in the village, they would all live happily ever after, all family and friends together.
One night, as Hisato sat with Uncle Morihiro, he told him of his dreams to realise immortality, just as the ancient Gods had done. Uncle was deeply saddened by the conversation. Being a deep thinking philosopher himself, he had found no reason to believe in the possibilities of immortality.
‘Hisato, my dear boy,’ he said with great affection, ‘only the Gods are immortal and they, only so, while they live in the mind’s of our children and in their children. It is the destiny of man to die. Don’t waste a good life by trying to avoid that which is inevitable, for indeed it is.’
But Hisato was not sure death was inevitable, there must be a way, if only he could find it. He was irritated that the very root of his beliefs, in the lands of his ancestors, failed to provide the answers he sought. He was by now short of money, having spent it on gurus, monks and mystics, but had enough for one more flight. Hisato had already trawled the finest libraries and private collections for manuscripts that might help his quest. He had once read a quite plausible report of an Hermitage of Immortality near an obscure Tibetan/Mongolian border. Here would lay the answer, of this he was sure. Yes, this would be the place.
Once more a happy family was to be saddened by his parting. With much begging and wringing of hands they watched him leave. Part of them died, for he’d taken a piece of their life away with him.
The journey to the Hermitage was long, much longer and harder than he ever imagined it could be. With his money soon gone, he fell on charity, begging lifts from drovers and other travelling folk. Much of it, though, he walked. As the weeks wore on, his clothes were rags, his feet blistered through worn shoes and his joints ached with the sorrowful hunger for rest. In truth, this was a lonely, painful road and its only saving grace was his belief that, at the end, the secret of immortality awaited.
Eventually, Hisato came within grasp of his destination, a villager pointed towards the distant greenery of a small valley amidst an otherwise barren and stony landscape. It took Hisato a whole day to arrive. By then the Sun had dropped behind a mountain peak and he felt the cold bite his bones. In front of him was a humble stone hovel showing thin wisps of smoke from a dwindling fire. The hermit welcomed him in. It was hard to tell who looked the more ancient, as both had suffered much, in search of their respective desires. Hisato was surprised to see how frail the Hermit appeared and was obviously not a candidate for immortality. Weakened by the dust of his road and demoralised by this final disappointment, Hisato collapsed exhausted on the cold earthen floor. With the last remnant of his own life the Hermit eased Hisato’s body on to the cot and sheltered him with sack cloth. Now all alone and in the dark, Hisato was just conscious when the death came for him and tapped on the doorway of his soul.
Hisato’s search was over.
Post Script:
Hisato means - ‘long lived’, Khalid, - ‘immortal’;
His name and his upbringing, like a moth to a flame, enticed him towards an enchanting light that would never be seen.
Narnia – Through the Old Inn Door.
Under a low, beamed ceiling, the lights were lantern dim. Low, small paned windows looked out across the quayside to a river that once carried sailing ships to sea in search of adventure, inscriptions in the Churchyard, poignant testament to their loss. Just as in centuries before and against a grey July sky, the ghostly silhouettes of boats drift by on the high tide.
It was music night in the old inn; Ian’s tuneful voice was powerful, clear and inspiring, far beyond mere sound – more an enchanting guide that could carry listening souls to the dream time far from their mundane, everyday world. The doorway to Narnia was opened.
And so, on a time worn, inglenook chair, I sat alone, I watched, listened and wondered, wondered why it was. I felt the way I did.
The Inn was crowded, talking, laughing, eating and drinking, all unaware of my inner feelings. Power – not just in the physical present but the blinding power of hindsight. Longing - for what might have been had I but the courage. Love – destined in parts to be unspent, those I would gladly have died for, never knowing, the secret locked in my soul till death. Spirit – some entity uniting mind and body to a higher destiny. These were the feelings that surged like great ocean waves around my body.
The jingle jangle of guitars and voices carried my soul deeper into Narnia. Were they singing for others or for their own lives and dreams?
‘Ah, but I might as well try and catch the wind.’
My senses became occupied with dreams still to be fulfilled, of those I knew and those I loved, yet knowing they were but only dreams, they were never mine nor will be, my heart ‘walks along the sand and takes her hand,’ but I never will, for the ‘rain has hung the leaves with tears,’ ‘I want her near,’ ‘to kill my fears,’ and ‘everywhere I look her eyes I’d see,’ - ‘Ah but I might as well try and catch the wind.’
One Guinness followed cheerfully in the footsteps of another to join me and my tapping feet and hands, but my heart drifted back in time, some thirty years or more.
I was lost in this dream world of a different time and place. Lost in this world we can be brave, noble, wise, fulfilled – all we wish for. In this world earthly mistakes are impossible to make. I felt my youth, my strength, my spirit, I knew my old motorcycle was parked outside, and my leather jacket hung heavy on the back of my chair - and then the song was over.
Entranced in this dream we recognise that we could be someone else, anyone, a sailor, a miner, or labourer enjoying the fatigue of honest toil, simple but also simply heroic, and they from any time that man has walked this Earth.
Feelings are immortal, eternally the same. Had Scots Fusilier Thomas Baker been here before he sailed from Devon to die of cholera two thousand miles from home he may well have felt just as me as he listened to songs of the sea. Here then, is the immortal link between our children, us and our ancestors.
Sitting alone but self assured, not afraid, filled with the optimistic power of youth, it’s as though a spirit enters and takes you by the hand to a special place which words fail to describe – you have to see for yourself. A sense of power flows through us that could easily tempt us to crazy and impossible things that in that moment we’ll, believe are possible.
The blood of our ancestors flowing through our veins listens to the music along with us, whether it be the joy of song lifting the hearts of miners in the dark or the beat of drums on the cold Crimean winter ‘heights of Sebastopol,’ If I were with them, I would feel the same as them, just as they with us, for feelings live forever.
Now I understand.
Under a low, beamed ceiling, the lights were lantern dim. Low, small paned windows looked out across the quayside to a river that once carried sailing ships to sea in search of adventure, inscriptions in the Churchyard, poignant testament to their loss. Just as in centuries before and against a grey July sky, the ghostly silhouettes of boats drift by on the high tide.
It was music night in the old inn; Ian’s tuneful voice was powerful, clear and inspiring, far beyond mere sound – more an enchanting guide that could carry listening souls to the dream time far from their mundane, everyday world. The doorway to Narnia was opened.
And so, on a time worn, inglenook chair, I sat alone, I watched, listened and wondered, wondered why it was. I felt the way I did.
The Inn was crowded, talking, laughing, eating and drinking, all unaware of my inner feelings. Power – not just in the physical present but the blinding power of hindsight. Longing - for what might have been had I but the courage. Love – destined in parts to be unspent, those I would gladly have died for, never knowing, the secret locked in my soul till death. Spirit – some entity uniting mind and body to a higher destiny. These were the feelings that surged like great ocean waves around my body.
The jingle jangle of guitars and voices carried my soul deeper into Narnia. Were they singing for others or for their own lives and dreams?
‘Ah, but I might as well try and catch the wind.’
My senses became occupied with dreams still to be fulfilled, of those I knew and those I loved, yet knowing they were but only dreams, they were never mine nor will be, my heart ‘walks along the sand and takes her hand,’ but I never will, for the ‘rain has hung the leaves with tears,’ ‘I want her near,’ ‘to kill my fears,’ and ‘everywhere I look her eyes I’d see,’ - ‘Ah but I might as well try and catch the wind.’
One Guinness followed cheerfully in the footsteps of another to join me and my tapping feet and hands, but my heart drifted back in time, some thirty years or more.
I was lost in this dream world of a different time and place. Lost in this world we can be brave, noble, wise, fulfilled – all we wish for. In this world earthly mistakes are impossible to make. I felt my youth, my strength, my spirit, I knew my old motorcycle was parked outside, and my leather jacket hung heavy on the back of my chair - and then the song was over.
Entranced in this dream we recognise that we could be someone else, anyone, a sailor, a miner, or labourer enjoying the fatigue of honest toil, simple but also simply heroic, and they from any time that man has walked this Earth.
Feelings are immortal, eternally the same. Had Scots Fusilier Thomas Baker been here before he sailed from Devon to die of cholera two thousand miles from home he may well have felt just as me as he listened to songs of the sea. Here then, is the immortal link between our children, us and our ancestors.
Sitting alone but self assured, not afraid, filled with the optimistic power of youth, it’s as though a spirit enters and takes you by the hand to a special place which words fail to describe – you have to see for yourself. A sense of power flows through us that could easily tempt us to crazy and impossible things that in that moment we’ll, believe are possible.
The blood of our ancestors flowing through our veins listens to the music along with us, whether it be the joy of song lifting the hearts of miners in the dark or the beat of drums on the cold Crimean winter ‘heights of Sebastopol,’ If I were with them, I would feel the same as them, just as they with us, for feelings live forever.
Now I understand.
Of the place we go in dreams.
The one place where past present and future exist as one seamless entity is in the dream state. Dreams allow you to be present in a past that seems more real than your waking day. The dreamer exists in the present only but the dream they have can take them to a reality beyond time and place. If you never woke up you would be a time traveler!
Past, present, future, all one in a dream.
My mind is filled
with time gone by,
a place I never knew.
And visions open in my mind
of then, and me and you.
Of times gone by,
we may have known,
a truth within us wakes
and when we dream, how we were there,
to there, our souls it takes.
In harbours thronged,
our masted ships
were readied for the sea.
Those left behind wrung hands with hope,
alone upon the quay.
As heroes sailed,
to far off lands,
many tears were shed
for noble hearts they loved so much,
now, numbered in the dead.
Why should I care,
my mind to fill,
with heartfelt loss at sea.
Perhaps it is, that we’ve come back
from then, yes, you and me.
May peace and kindness accompany you on your path
I am. . .
I am the hallowed entrance to the other side. Beyond my threshold beckons another life, another world, for all those who would seek it out.
I am the guardian of the peace and my bars and locks keep the unwanted from stealing and murder.
I am the lych gate through which the dead must pass to find a nobler end.
I am the centuries old sanctuary door through which lovers enter to promise their promises for life. At least till they meet another.
I am the lid with the little lock which stops tiny hands taking all the biscuits.
I am that which is bolted after the horse had left in a hurry some time before.
I am the field gate which encourages the sheep to find another way out of their field.
I am the grubby and wet public door which none want to touch but are ever grateful to pass through.
I am that which keeps the cold at bay from the pensioner’s humble abode.
One side of me greets the visiting reveller and the weather as one, while the other side is warmed by the inglenook and the barmaid’s smiles.
Through me, honest men enter government to become liars and rogues in the mother of parliaments.
I am that which is held open to the bitingly winter cold or rain, while cat and dog consider their options.
I am the connection to friendship which the wary ever reject.
Sometimes I am easy, sometimes I am difficult but I am always there.
Some never find me and yet others wear away my hinges with a frequency of indecision.
Whoever passes through is changed forever.
Whoever returns finds the place they left behind no longer there.
All doorways are thus and in listening to my words you have already crossed to the other side.
Should you think of turning back you may find the old door locked forever.
Therefore I beseech you, move onwards and find another.
I am the doorway.
I am the hallowed entrance to the other side. Beyond my threshold beckons another life, another world, for all those who would seek it out.
I am the guardian of the peace and my bars and locks keep the unwanted from stealing and murder.
I am the lych gate through which the dead must pass to find a nobler end.
I am the centuries old sanctuary door through which lovers enter to promise their promises for life. At least till they meet another.
I am the lid with the little lock which stops tiny hands taking all the biscuits.
I am that which is bolted after the horse had left in a hurry some time before.
I am the field gate which encourages the sheep to find another way out of their field.
I am the grubby and wet public door which none want to touch but are ever grateful to pass through.
I am that which keeps the cold at bay from the pensioner’s humble abode.
One side of me greets the visiting reveller and the weather as one, while the other side is warmed by the inglenook and the barmaid’s smiles.
Through me, honest men enter government to become liars and rogues in the mother of parliaments.
I am that which is held open to the bitingly winter cold or rain, while cat and dog consider their options.
I am the connection to friendship which the wary ever reject.
Sometimes I am easy, sometimes I am difficult but I am always there.
Some never find me and yet others wear away my hinges with a frequency of indecision.
Whoever passes through is changed forever.
Whoever returns finds the place they left behind no longer there.
All doorways are thus and in listening to my words you have already crossed to the other side.
Should you think of turning back you may find the old door locked forever.
Therefore I beseech you, move onwards and find another.
I am the doorway.
How easy it is to think we know something, only to find out that it wasn't quite as it seemed at the time. 'He who stops to think, stands to reason'.
A Mountain to Climb.
Compelled by worsening elements, he rested a while on his climb. He reached out with a trembling hand to a wall of stone to check his balance, his ankles twisting as they adjusted to the slope. Quietly, almost impossibly, he gasped for breath. It was as though the air he breathed had thinned, his muscles ached and his joints pained him like never before. But he must climb on, he cannot stop here, he must continue. Easing the pressure on his old shoulders from the thin straps of a worn canvas rucksack he began once more up the slope, the deep snow under his thin leather boots now crisp with frost. A bitingly cold wind blew over the ridge from the east. It would have seemed a blessing if his hands were numb with cold but all he knew was a relentlessly fierce pain through his woefully inadequate woollen gloves.
The unseasonably bad weather had taken him somewhat by surprise, as too had his own age and ability to make a climb so easily done in his youth. He’d been a good climber once, a keen sportsman, always striving to succeed and lift the trophy, even if it was only for a photo at the finish. Now this was becoming a struggle of epic proportions, the trophy at the end of this climb was life itself, to fail was death. He was alone - this was not the place for thrill seekers for even they were safe at home. Every agonising step was an enormous struggle, each one was short and laboured, the wind tugged at his clothes trying to confound him but he was solemnly resolute, it was only he that could save himself.
He stopped again, gathered his remaining strength and then plodded on inexorably, miserably, almost tearfully, his stooped body leaning into the hill before him. This was no glorious race with the eyes of the world watching with bated breath, this was a lonely private struggle for which he only had himself to blame, the only eyes that watched were those of Angels, wringing their helpless hands in pity and sorrow.
He was no stranger to this place, he was just a stranger to the circumstances, in a self reflective moment he remembered how strong he was in his youth. Recalling those youthful days had helped him a little, bolstered his spirits and squinting past his frosted eyelashes he could just make out the summit. It wasn’t so far now. Not in distance perhaps but in time it seemed like a million miles. Darkness would soon be on him and drag him down like a pack of black Hyenas, if he falls he may not be able to rise again, he must not fail, it is not yet his time. His tired muscles, weak with age and cramped with burned out effort hardly responded to his desperate call.
Finally, only moments to spare with the shadow of the grim reaper close behind him on the slope, he arrived. He kicked off the snow from his boots, shut the door behind him and shuffled through to a warm kitchen and the kettle. He placed his rucksack on the table and picked something out for tea.
Pensioner and widower, 87 year old Edmund Scott, was home from the shops.
Story inspired by watching an elderly gentleman in the street expending all his effort merely to make his way home. You too must have seen these warriors of age in their daily battles. Give them a thought. April 2016 Devon
Compelled by worsening elements, he rested a while on his climb. He reached out with a trembling hand to a wall of stone to check his balance, his ankles twisting as they adjusted to the slope. Quietly, almost impossibly, he gasped for breath. It was as though the air he breathed had thinned, his muscles ached and his joints pained him like never before. But he must climb on, he cannot stop here, he must continue. Easing the pressure on his old shoulders from the thin straps of a worn canvas rucksack he began once more up the slope, the deep snow under his thin leather boots now crisp with frost. A bitingly cold wind blew over the ridge from the east. It would have seemed a blessing if his hands were numb with cold but all he knew was a relentlessly fierce pain through his woefully inadequate woollen gloves.
The unseasonably bad weather had taken him somewhat by surprise, as too had his own age and ability to make a climb so easily done in his youth. He’d been a good climber once, a keen sportsman, always striving to succeed and lift the trophy, even if it was only for a photo at the finish. Now this was becoming a struggle of epic proportions, the trophy at the end of this climb was life itself, to fail was death. He was alone - this was not the place for thrill seekers for even they were safe at home. Every agonising step was an enormous struggle, each one was short and laboured, the wind tugged at his clothes trying to confound him but he was solemnly resolute, it was only he that could save himself.
He stopped again, gathered his remaining strength and then plodded on inexorably, miserably, almost tearfully, his stooped body leaning into the hill before him. This was no glorious race with the eyes of the world watching with bated breath, this was a lonely private struggle for which he only had himself to blame, the only eyes that watched were those of Angels, wringing their helpless hands in pity and sorrow.
He was no stranger to this place, he was just a stranger to the circumstances, in a self reflective moment he remembered how strong he was in his youth. Recalling those youthful days had helped him a little, bolstered his spirits and squinting past his frosted eyelashes he could just make out the summit. It wasn’t so far now. Not in distance perhaps but in time it seemed like a million miles. Darkness would soon be on him and drag him down like a pack of black Hyenas, if he falls he may not be able to rise again, he must not fail, it is not yet his time. His tired muscles, weak with age and cramped with burned out effort hardly responded to his desperate call.
Finally, only moments to spare with the shadow of the grim reaper close behind him on the slope, he arrived. He kicked off the snow from his boots, shut the door behind him and shuffled through to a warm kitchen and the kettle. He placed his rucksack on the table and picked something out for tea.
Pensioner and widower, 87 year old Edmund Scott, was home from the shops.
Story inspired by watching an elderly gentleman in the street expending all his effort merely to make his way home. You too must have seen these warriors of age in their daily battles. Give them a thought. April 2016 Devon
Weighing the heart (or conscience) in order to pass the test for the afterlife.
Will we pass this test?
A tale for the soul.
'May your soul walk the path to the gate, feeling every step, feeling every breath.'
".... But what is it that I may have said that's wrong Mike?" he questioned, concerned by the reaction to his own simple revelations on the path to enlightenment.
"Best not to say any more - not over the phone -. In fact best not to any living soul - at least until we can talk face to face about this. And don't mention people by name, not a word. You have been warned. Meet me at the old church hall, I have a key and no one goes any where near at night; the back room is not overlooked either. twenty minutes" and the steady tone of an open phone line buzzed in his ear.
In the September misted darkness, the old church hall door creaked open and from within the dimly lit hall Mick's whispering voice said, "come in quickly and follow the passageway to your right ... there's a light on and I've asked Persephone to join us ... come on in, ... quickly."
The three of them sat on the hall's Spartan wooden chairs near a wall that could do with a coat of paint. They sat so as able to see both the doors and windows. "What is all the fuss?" he asked.
"It's for your own good", cautioned Mike, "remember what Persephone told you at the advanced class the other week? Your discovery is only yours .... and in your own mind; you can only tell those who are already at the gate. Look, there are plenty out there who don't believe there is even a path, never mind a gateway ... and that which actually awaits beyond the gate exceeds their wildest dreams or even the surreal fantasies of the big screen. That's the way they like it, and with such distractions in life as they can find they happily paint the walls of a prison they made for themselves ...... they don't want to be free!" Persephone was about to speak but Mike had not finished ...... "you can easily make enemies of some still very powerful and prejudiced groups, virtually all the fringe and mainstream therapists and spiritualistic groups, the Churches of all denominations and the establishment ... the state itself...... and they still have powers to lock you up and tell no one they have you, under some old mental health Act, ..... interesting that governments have chosen to keep these Victorian powers eh? Remember the old saying, 'one man with pen and paper can risk an entire state'. ....... people fear that which they see as different."
At last Persephone had a chance to speak, she smiled gently and spoke softly, "So, tell me what you have been saying to those outside our knowing circle ... any order will do ... just as it comes to you ..... Mike, there's a kitchen across the hall, go and make us all a nice cup of tea, ... take your time ... now, where were we, ah yes, please speak of your revelations."
He began, "there is so much that those, who yet know not, need to hear. It is all there for every one ... if only they could see it. We may struggle years for knowledge but an understanding is always possible and can arrive in no time at all; in an instant that of which you seemingly knew nothing is suddenly part of your own wisdom ... the power of the mind to do such is evident in the near death experiences where at the moment before death one's whole life flashes before one ... a life time of events, years of feelings, places, people and emotions all in the blink of an eye, ..... When the knowing comes it is as if it was always so .... and indeed it was so, there is nothing that can be told that you did not know already. It is all there in a darkened room in your mind ... all you have to do is find the light switch and everything, yes everything, is revealed in a life changing instant. But the sad thing is you cannot switch the light on for someone else.... because the vision was yours alone, given to you alone and not to share, something beyond our ability to articulate to others. Enlightenment is a solitary event"
Persephone leant forward a little, "a truth indeed, but realise there will ever be more, enlightenment has not a finite existence ... please continue."
"Well, take that prison thing that Mike was saying earlier, it's true that we can make prisons for ourselves ... in our minds and by our actions ... going in circles is a form of prison ... but I'll come to that later .... but I remember a school-day poem that included the line, 'stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage', yet most people are so conditioned that they think they are. However, the imprisoned poet shows us that we can escape from that which others consider a prison; the same mind can place a free man in a worse prison and one of his own making. The key point is the power of the mind.
However, here is another misnomer ... another prison if you like ... what most consider to be the power of the mind comes from their view of the thinking mind, but true power comes from a relaxed state of mind in which the stillness finds communion with the universal consciousness of the great void".
He paused and looked round at the door as Mike pushed it open with his foot and carried in a tray of teas with a packet of biscuits .... "I'll pop back in the morning and replace them ... they won't mind ... they're open minded people ........ up to a point, .... and about biscuits anyway," Mike smiled, as he enjoyed his own joke and sensed the harmony that Persephone's presence had created in the room.
Passing a cup of tea to him, Persephone asked him to speak more, "what about the circles, ... you were saying ......?"
"Ah, yes, circles; In what we call normal life we will so often repeat a negative or harmful trait over and over, it is as though this action is inescapable; many will know the words, 'do what you always do and you'll get what you always got', but it is hard for them to see the deeper meaning and how they can actually make the change. Sometimes you need the help of one who has the greater mind powers we spoke of and can access your own mind and influence it. Come to think of it Persephone, you have this gift yourself, ..... I've just realised how much you have changed the mood of this meeting, not just by your physical presence, but by your mind presence, amazing. ......... where was I, er ...... ah yes, circles. The innate being that is us at the core and was us from the very beginning can influence the outer, conditioned shell we have become, to recognise when we are about to re-enter a circle; take something frivolous for example, over indulging in chocolates, when we recognise the circle we become the observer, when we are the observer we are in the 'now' moment and an all pervading sense of calm comes over us as we can now choose to break the circle or not. From the elevated and impersonal vantage of the observer, if we do not make the right choice for our inner being then we feel the pain and guilt in our, what we call, conscience; our inner being has been hurt by the outer conditioned shell and that interfering thing that most humans sadly see as their greatest attribute ... their brain and thinking mind. Oh dear, what a mistake."
They all stopped to reflect, sense the meaning behind the words and try a couple of church biscuits.
Mike had relaxed considerably by now and assured him of his support for his belief, "This is all good stuff and the truth of the matter is evident, but I worry for you as there are many out there who will deny the existence of all manner of things, and will do so with a blindness that hides more than the light, they and so many others who will have a different blindness, one that only sees their own belief .... part of what you call the conditioned state ... some are fanatics and even to the point of wishing to see you humiliated, or worse, dead; consider your own safety."
Persephone spoke, "Mike has a point, you know, we may explore the discoveries, of what we always were, with new eyes, and we can do it quietly in the peace of our own space and hardly be noticed .... I mean, look how few people ever go to such places where the path to the gateways is taught, like a tai chi class for example .... rarely anybody goes; at present we are too few to make the changes in the great circle to which mankind has sadly so far erroneously committed. We perceive that we have arrived at some place in consciousness but we must beware judging others. Being non-judgemental is one of the 'golden' keys that the ancients sought in order to open one of the great gates".
Finishing his biscuit and with a sip of nurturing tea, he continued, "OK, OK, I see now that my own excitement led me to try and 'convert' others that did not want to know, perhaps they just thought they were being shown someone else's prison .... a prison full of nutters!
However there is one circle we all cannot escape .... but we can change how we see that circle, and in changing the way we see it, it too will change .... to a reality that would not exist were we not to have applied our mind. Remind me later please I must talk to you of the word 'mind'. The circle of which I speak is of course the return to the great source following our life long travels .... when we discover that we and the source are one ... and that did we but know it earlier, always were. As someone once said 'you are not born into this world you are born of it, you are not a stranger here'. Those that will discover as they return to the source will know for the first time where they once started, and that if it wasn't for the thinking mind they would have known it all their life time. It is also said that he who dies before he dies will not die when he dies ..... I suspect a letting go as opposed to perishing, but I am still working on this. Where was I ......., ah ... yes .... Perhaps during their waking life they did have glimpses but the thinking mind would suppress these feelings, just as parents so often snuff out small enlightenments in their children, 'oh, don't be silly ... there's nothing there .. now go back to sleep' , now how did they know there was nothing there ... their own eyes were blinded by the belief system the thinking mind had created. They created a reality for themselves in which they blinded themselves to true reality - reality not illusion."
Persephone leant back in her chair, and smiled again, "Mmm, some would say that the intuitive mind is the only state that is free from illusion, we only have to look at magicians and see the gullibility of our thinking mind, but something tells us, that no matter how it appears to be, that it is illusion; please go on."
"Ah yes, intuition, one of the last but failing animal traits that humans still possess. We think we are so clever, placed on the Earth so that we can lord it over other beings, some of which will never walk the Earth again thanks to our 'cleverness', but the truth is that all animals have survival skills, power and intuition or 6th sense completely superior to our own; their body use is total, ours is only partial, their courage is natural ours is tempered by thinking .... oh, and it goes on and on ... but we overpopulate the planet with smug self interest, blinded by our own minds as to what we are doing. All is not yet quite lost though, we retain small elements of our animal intuition and can access them providing we don't obscure them with intellectual fog from the so called wonderful human brain and the 'thinking' mind.
Ask someone .... I don't know why I am telling you this as you know it already ....to walk to somewhere to which they are drawn ... and in which they feel comfortable .... and they will; something within them is receptive to the energy of a place that tells them, 'this is it, this is a good place for you to be'. We have a sensitivity still that will tell us when something is not quite right ... people who don't get on a plane or a lifeboat, or walk down a dark alley, or look over their shoulder sensing being watched, all because without rational explanation they sense something is wrong. Often the thinking mind overrides this sense, but we cannot ask them about this as they are usually dead. We can only ask those who followed their intuition, sixth sense, third eye, call it what you will. Why bother to call it anything, why define it .... why not just accept it."
Mike swallowed a tea dunked biscuit and confided, "I'd like to hear more, but please remember that there are those who wish to hear nothing, for they are happy in their own world. Do remember that the teacher is only there to show a way and that the student must be set free to find it for themselves. Gibran once wrote, 'he is indeed wise that leads them not to the house of his own knowledge but to the threshold of their own learning'. As a 'teacher', 'guide', beware that you give too much, for in giving much you rob them of what they had before. Only those at the gate will see with real seeing. You may become disillusioned and judgemental and if that happens your being cannot stay in the correct spiritual state that will allow direct transmission of thought to those who are ready. How often have you yourself been infected by the sincerity and enthusiasm of a speaker ? ...... you are so, because they, not you, believe."
Persephone, glanced at her watch, though she knew what it would tell her already, time, clock time, had flown by, but like time travellers they themselves felt that they had only just begun, "you forget, sometimes the long journey you took to arrive at your knowing, when something comes to us too easily we rarely value it; others must expect to work for their 'enlightenment' .... but never in the way they think so. The Buddha had to live much of his life before he'd lived long enough to look back and make sense of it all"
"Namaste, Persephone, Namaste", he said, but now it was much more than a word or thinking of a concept ... it was entering a place where it could be felt was true, "yes, perhaps enlightenment is more an act of 'doing' than simply 'not doing'; It's like, let's do calm rather than not do busy, otherwise you might as well be asleep and not conscious .... you cease to be in your mind and enter your own being, this is the key to calm and calm is the key to that." The tea was long cold, but he still picked up the cup and held it a while; Mick took the hint and ghostlike disappeared to the kitchen. He continued, almost as though it wouldn't matter if there were no one there to listen, "Korel had said that calm is the key to power, and Tolle that presence itself was the key to freedom. The state of calmness ... feeling ...can only exist in the present, and I see freedom and power as mutually inclusive."
"Look, I know I go on a bit but everything I have ever heard or seen before now makes a sense as never before. Being present in the 'now' can create a better future, for all futures are merely potential outcomes until they arrive. A Reiki master I once trained under said that he would often use symbols to light his way home after work, to make his journey trouble free .... I thought this was barmy at the time, now I see it may not be so. The future emanates from a given point which is always 'now'. The mechanism he may have used enabled him to access feeling and the feeling is connected to the great universal, similar to many mechanisms that are also transferable skills and access portals to understanding." He hardly stopped to draw breath, "it's all so clear to me now, about so much; age 60 I carried a big log over a mile, it wasn't easy .... but, as I did so, I recalled the younger me, age 30, carrying similar if not heavier logs, and would you believe it, the 30 year old still lived within the 60 year old body ... and it was him that carried the wood, not I. Some ideas, some concepts, some words, like some music evoke the soul to rise to a place seemingly beyond self, or previous knowing of self, to a feeling that makes us giants. Sometimes it is how you 'see' that makes the difference .... take ... reaching out to a distant object, a tree or something, to feel it ....... now change how you think and consider the tree is reaching out to you .... you become the receiver ..... a knowing will arrive about the difference. I could go on ...... it is so exciting ... to walk through the gate at last ....".
Mick engaged him with his eyes, intent yet friendly, "like sculptors we must remove what is not of the essence, and in many ways your words are not of the essence; we think in words, we do not feel in words ... to reach the primordial consciousness it is simple, we must take ourselves to the state of being of early man .... ask yourself what it was he had, what it was he felt, what it was he believed ... or more importantly did not believe. Returning to the source while still living, somewhat like the shamanic journeys is all we need to do ..... first be the sculptor ... don't think ... feel .. remove what is necessary for the next feeling to manifest, ... eventually you will arrive .... and words will mean nothing at all."
Dawn was just breaking and an early foraging pigeon flapped by the window, Persephone spoke quietly again, "we are so pleased for your discoveries, we all want to share our joy of enlightenment, but please remember that being enlightened means you also realise that others must find their own ... you cannot give it to them, you cannot make them listen and if you are not careful who you speak to you cannot stop them treating you like a lunatic. In our history the west had as much mystic wisdom as the east, the difference is that we hunted down and killed off the people who did practice healing and seeing arts, and obscured the knowledge from the common people. Some of the 'hunters' are still out there. We can only hint at the possibilities that others may find a freedom of their own making, just as they made their own prison. If you wish to help others simply stand by your gate and wait for them to walk the path and knock ..... one day many will come. How often does one open a budgie's cage door but the bird not come out; the budgie is afraid of its freedom ... people too love to stay in their own self built mental prisons. For now, it is time to rest from teaching and to wander the gardens beyond the gate for your own pleasure ...... namaste old friend, now home for us all I think."
The church door quietly clicked closed and the three friends soft padded their way into the narrow streets of the still sleeping town and were soon gone. As he reached his home and closed the gate behind him he realised that now, by doing nothing, everything would be done ...... and he wasn't talking about cutting the lawn or washing up either, "ah, a cup of tea and watch the morning visitors to the bird table I think" he felt silently without words.
'In case I have found the way, I'm leaving the gate open for you'
A tale for the soul.
'May your soul walk the path to the gate, feeling every step, feeling every breath.'
".... But what is it that I may have said that's wrong Mike?" he questioned, concerned by the reaction to his own simple revelations on the path to enlightenment.
"Best not to say any more - not over the phone -. In fact best not to any living soul - at least until we can talk face to face about this. And don't mention people by name, not a word. You have been warned. Meet me at the old church hall, I have a key and no one goes any where near at night; the back room is not overlooked either. twenty minutes" and the steady tone of an open phone line buzzed in his ear.
In the September misted darkness, the old church hall door creaked open and from within the dimly lit hall Mick's whispering voice said, "come in quickly and follow the passageway to your right ... there's a light on and I've asked Persephone to join us ... come on in, ... quickly."
The three of them sat on the hall's Spartan wooden chairs near a wall that could do with a coat of paint. They sat so as able to see both the doors and windows. "What is all the fuss?" he asked.
"It's for your own good", cautioned Mike, "remember what Persephone told you at the advanced class the other week? Your discovery is only yours .... and in your own mind; you can only tell those who are already at the gate. Look, there are plenty out there who don't believe there is even a path, never mind a gateway ... and that which actually awaits beyond the gate exceeds their wildest dreams or even the surreal fantasies of the big screen. That's the way they like it, and with such distractions in life as they can find they happily paint the walls of a prison they made for themselves ...... they don't want to be free!" Persephone was about to speak but Mike had not finished ...... "you can easily make enemies of some still very powerful and prejudiced groups, virtually all the fringe and mainstream therapists and spiritualistic groups, the Churches of all denominations and the establishment ... the state itself...... and they still have powers to lock you up and tell no one they have you, under some old mental health Act, ..... interesting that governments have chosen to keep these Victorian powers eh? Remember the old saying, 'one man with pen and paper can risk an entire state'. ....... people fear that which they see as different."
At last Persephone had a chance to speak, she smiled gently and spoke softly, "So, tell me what you have been saying to those outside our knowing circle ... any order will do ... just as it comes to you ..... Mike, there's a kitchen across the hall, go and make us all a nice cup of tea, ... take your time ... now, where were we, ah yes, please speak of your revelations."
He began, "there is so much that those, who yet know not, need to hear. It is all there for every one ... if only they could see it. We may struggle years for knowledge but an understanding is always possible and can arrive in no time at all; in an instant that of which you seemingly knew nothing is suddenly part of your own wisdom ... the power of the mind to do such is evident in the near death experiences where at the moment before death one's whole life flashes before one ... a life time of events, years of feelings, places, people and emotions all in the blink of an eye, ..... When the knowing comes it is as if it was always so .... and indeed it was so, there is nothing that can be told that you did not know already. It is all there in a darkened room in your mind ... all you have to do is find the light switch and everything, yes everything, is revealed in a life changing instant. But the sad thing is you cannot switch the light on for someone else.... because the vision was yours alone, given to you alone and not to share, something beyond our ability to articulate to others. Enlightenment is a solitary event"
Persephone leant forward a little, "a truth indeed, but realise there will ever be more, enlightenment has not a finite existence ... please continue."
"Well, take that prison thing that Mike was saying earlier, it's true that we can make prisons for ourselves ... in our minds and by our actions ... going in circles is a form of prison ... but I'll come to that later .... but I remember a school-day poem that included the line, 'stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage', yet most people are so conditioned that they think they are. However, the imprisoned poet shows us that we can escape from that which others consider a prison; the same mind can place a free man in a worse prison and one of his own making. The key point is the power of the mind.
However, here is another misnomer ... another prison if you like ... what most consider to be the power of the mind comes from their view of the thinking mind, but true power comes from a relaxed state of mind in which the stillness finds communion with the universal consciousness of the great void".
He paused and looked round at the door as Mike pushed it open with his foot and carried in a tray of teas with a packet of biscuits .... "I'll pop back in the morning and replace them ... they won't mind ... they're open minded people ........ up to a point, .... and about biscuits anyway," Mike smiled, as he enjoyed his own joke and sensed the harmony that Persephone's presence had created in the room.
Passing a cup of tea to him, Persephone asked him to speak more, "what about the circles, ... you were saying ......?"
"Ah, yes, circles; In what we call normal life we will so often repeat a negative or harmful trait over and over, it is as though this action is inescapable; many will know the words, 'do what you always do and you'll get what you always got', but it is hard for them to see the deeper meaning and how they can actually make the change. Sometimes you need the help of one who has the greater mind powers we spoke of and can access your own mind and influence it. Come to think of it Persephone, you have this gift yourself, ..... I've just realised how much you have changed the mood of this meeting, not just by your physical presence, but by your mind presence, amazing. ......... where was I, er ...... ah yes, circles. The innate being that is us at the core and was us from the very beginning can influence the outer, conditioned shell we have become, to recognise when we are about to re-enter a circle; take something frivolous for example, over indulging in chocolates, when we recognise the circle we become the observer, when we are the observer we are in the 'now' moment and an all pervading sense of calm comes over us as we can now choose to break the circle or not. From the elevated and impersonal vantage of the observer, if we do not make the right choice for our inner being then we feel the pain and guilt in our, what we call, conscience; our inner being has been hurt by the outer conditioned shell and that interfering thing that most humans sadly see as their greatest attribute ... their brain and thinking mind. Oh dear, what a mistake."
They all stopped to reflect, sense the meaning behind the words and try a couple of church biscuits.
Mike had relaxed considerably by now and assured him of his support for his belief, "This is all good stuff and the truth of the matter is evident, but I worry for you as there are many out there who will deny the existence of all manner of things, and will do so with a blindness that hides more than the light, they and so many others who will have a different blindness, one that only sees their own belief .... part of what you call the conditioned state ... some are fanatics and even to the point of wishing to see you humiliated, or worse, dead; consider your own safety."
Persephone spoke, "Mike has a point, you know, we may explore the discoveries, of what we always were, with new eyes, and we can do it quietly in the peace of our own space and hardly be noticed .... I mean, look how few people ever go to such places where the path to the gateways is taught, like a tai chi class for example .... rarely anybody goes; at present we are too few to make the changes in the great circle to which mankind has sadly so far erroneously committed. We perceive that we have arrived at some place in consciousness but we must beware judging others. Being non-judgemental is one of the 'golden' keys that the ancients sought in order to open one of the great gates".
Finishing his biscuit and with a sip of nurturing tea, he continued, "OK, OK, I see now that my own excitement led me to try and 'convert' others that did not want to know, perhaps they just thought they were being shown someone else's prison .... a prison full of nutters!
However there is one circle we all cannot escape .... but we can change how we see that circle, and in changing the way we see it, it too will change .... to a reality that would not exist were we not to have applied our mind. Remind me later please I must talk to you of the word 'mind'. The circle of which I speak is of course the return to the great source following our life long travels .... when we discover that we and the source are one ... and that did we but know it earlier, always were. As someone once said 'you are not born into this world you are born of it, you are not a stranger here'. Those that will discover as they return to the source will know for the first time where they once started, and that if it wasn't for the thinking mind they would have known it all their life time. It is also said that he who dies before he dies will not die when he dies ..... I suspect a letting go as opposed to perishing, but I am still working on this. Where was I ......., ah ... yes .... Perhaps during their waking life they did have glimpses but the thinking mind would suppress these feelings, just as parents so often snuff out small enlightenments in their children, 'oh, don't be silly ... there's nothing there .. now go back to sleep' , now how did they know there was nothing there ... their own eyes were blinded by the belief system the thinking mind had created. They created a reality for themselves in which they blinded themselves to true reality - reality not illusion."
Persephone leant back in her chair, and smiled again, "Mmm, some would say that the intuitive mind is the only state that is free from illusion, we only have to look at magicians and see the gullibility of our thinking mind, but something tells us, that no matter how it appears to be, that it is illusion; please go on."
"Ah yes, intuition, one of the last but failing animal traits that humans still possess. We think we are so clever, placed on the Earth so that we can lord it over other beings, some of which will never walk the Earth again thanks to our 'cleverness', but the truth is that all animals have survival skills, power and intuition or 6th sense completely superior to our own; their body use is total, ours is only partial, their courage is natural ours is tempered by thinking .... oh, and it goes on and on ... but we overpopulate the planet with smug self interest, blinded by our own minds as to what we are doing. All is not yet quite lost though, we retain small elements of our animal intuition and can access them providing we don't obscure them with intellectual fog from the so called wonderful human brain and the 'thinking' mind.
Ask someone .... I don't know why I am telling you this as you know it already ....to walk to somewhere to which they are drawn ... and in which they feel comfortable .... and they will; something within them is receptive to the energy of a place that tells them, 'this is it, this is a good place for you to be'. We have a sensitivity still that will tell us when something is not quite right ... people who don't get on a plane or a lifeboat, or walk down a dark alley, or look over their shoulder sensing being watched, all because without rational explanation they sense something is wrong. Often the thinking mind overrides this sense, but we cannot ask them about this as they are usually dead. We can only ask those who followed their intuition, sixth sense, third eye, call it what you will. Why bother to call it anything, why define it .... why not just accept it."
Mike swallowed a tea dunked biscuit and confided, "I'd like to hear more, but please remember that there are those who wish to hear nothing, for they are happy in their own world. Do remember that the teacher is only there to show a way and that the student must be set free to find it for themselves. Gibran once wrote, 'he is indeed wise that leads them not to the house of his own knowledge but to the threshold of their own learning'. As a 'teacher', 'guide', beware that you give too much, for in giving much you rob them of what they had before. Only those at the gate will see with real seeing. You may become disillusioned and judgemental and if that happens your being cannot stay in the correct spiritual state that will allow direct transmission of thought to those who are ready. How often have you yourself been infected by the sincerity and enthusiasm of a speaker ? ...... you are so, because they, not you, believe."
Persephone, glanced at her watch, though she knew what it would tell her already, time, clock time, had flown by, but like time travellers they themselves felt that they had only just begun, "you forget, sometimes the long journey you took to arrive at your knowing, when something comes to us too easily we rarely value it; others must expect to work for their 'enlightenment' .... but never in the way they think so. The Buddha had to live much of his life before he'd lived long enough to look back and make sense of it all"
"Namaste, Persephone, Namaste", he said, but now it was much more than a word or thinking of a concept ... it was entering a place where it could be felt was true, "yes, perhaps enlightenment is more an act of 'doing' than simply 'not doing'; It's like, let's do calm rather than not do busy, otherwise you might as well be asleep and not conscious .... you cease to be in your mind and enter your own being, this is the key to calm and calm is the key to that." The tea was long cold, but he still picked up the cup and held it a while; Mick took the hint and ghostlike disappeared to the kitchen. He continued, almost as though it wouldn't matter if there were no one there to listen, "Korel had said that calm is the key to power, and Tolle that presence itself was the key to freedom. The state of calmness ... feeling ...can only exist in the present, and I see freedom and power as mutually inclusive."
"Look, I know I go on a bit but everything I have ever heard or seen before now makes a sense as never before. Being present in the 'now' can create a better future, for all futures are merely potential outcomes until they arrive. A Reiki master I once trained under said that he would often use symbols to light his way home after work, to make his journey trouble free .... I thought this was barmy at the time, now I see it may not be so. The future emanates from a given point which is always 'now'. The mechanism he may have used enabled him to access feeling and the feeling is connected to the great universal, similar to many mechanisms that are also transferable skills and access portals to understanding." He hardly stopped to draw breath, "it's all so clear to me now, about so much; age 60 I carried a big log over a mile, it wasn't easy .... but, as I did so, I recalled the younger me, age 30, carrying similar if not heavier logs, and would you believe it, the 30 year old still lived within the 60 year old body ... and it was him that carried the wood, not I. Some ideas, some concepts, some words, like some music evoke the soul to rise to a place seemingly beyond self, or previous knowing of self, to a feeling that makes us giants. Sometimes it is how you 'see' that makes the difference .... take ... reaching out to a distant object, a tree or something, to feel it ....... now change how you think and consider the tree is reaching out to you .... you become the receiver ..... a knowing will arrive about the difference. I could go on ...... it is so exciting ... to walk through the gate at last ....".
Mick engaged him with his eyes, intent yet friendly, "like sculptors we must remove what is not of the essence, and in many ways your words are not of the essence; we think in words, we do not feel in words ... to reach the primordial consciousness it is simple, we must take ourselves to the state of being of early man .... ask yourself what it was he had, what it was he felt, what it was he believed ... or more importantly did not believe. Returning to the source while still living, somewhat like the shamanic journeys is all we need to do ..... first be the sculptor ... don't think ... feel .. remove what is necessary for the next feeling to manifest, ... eventually you will arrive .... and words will mean nothing at all."
Dawn was just breaking and an early foraging pigeon flapped by the window, Persephone spoke quietly again, "we are so pleased for your discoveries, we all want to share our joy of enlightenment, but please remember that being enlightened means you also realise that others must find their own ... you cannot give it to them, you cannot make them listen and if you are not careful who you speak to you cannot stop them treating you like a lunatic. In our history the west had as much mystic wisdom as the east, the difference is that we hunted down and killed off the people who did practice healing and seeing arts, and obscured the knowledge from the common people. Some of the 'hunters' are still out there. We can only hint at the possibilities that others may find a freedom of their own making, just as they made their own prison. If you wish to help others simply stand by your gate and wait for them to walk the path and knock ..... one day many will come. How often does one open a budgie's cage door but the bird not come out; the budgie is afraid of its freedom ... people too love to stay in their own self built mental prisons. For now, it is time to rest from teaching and to wander the gardens beyond the gate for your own pleasure ...... namaste old friend, now home for us all I think."
The church door quietly clicked closed and the three friends soft padded their way into the narrow streets of the still sleeping town and were soon gone. As he reached his home and closed the gate behind him he realised that now, by doing nothing, everything would be done ...... and he wasn't talking about cutting the lawn or washing up either, "ah, a cup of tea and watch the morning visitors to the bird table I think" he felt silently without words.
'In case I have found the way, I'm leaving the gate open for you'
Silence. I’m speaking!
I journey deep into my mind and shuffle through the junk heap made by life. I’m looking for an illusive silence, just like seeking a polar bear in the Gobi it is.
The more I call out to silence to show itself the deeper it hides in places I cannot go. The way that silence knows is not mine to share; my way is fettered and barred by the monkey mind that misdirects me constantly. It lies to me so that it can have life, not my life but its own, parasitically living off me like a spoilt child. Few there are that can banish the monkey mind.
Eventually I find a rusty old cabinet in the cerebral recesses and open a drawer, covered in dust is a folder marked ’silence’ and for a brief moment in that grand discovery, nothing exists. Even amidst the monkey mind’s rabid screaming, I hear nothing. In that moment I realise ‘silence is a state of mind’. My conscious thought immediately destroys the silence and the spell is broken.
But now I know the way to find true silence in the midst of all the noise of heaven and hell. It’s a silence I cannot keep, it lasts but a second in its first quartile of fleeting existence. . . but now at least I know it exists.
I open the file, it contains some pictures, a little video and quite a few words. My ears hear nothing but my mind hears both the words and the silent sound track of the video.
**
There’s a retreat centre in a grand mansion somewhere in rural Oxfordshire, I remember being there – it’s all written down in neuron script in the file – one morning our task was silent meditation until midday. The video plays and I see myself walking in he grounds, down to the boat house on the Thames, though I utter no words my mind is talking away to itself nineteen to the dozen. I see others walking too but avoid them to prevent the overwhelming temptation to talk. The silence is killing me. Slowly, painfully the unheard time ticks by until it is nearly lunchtime.
I watch as my feet crunch noiselessly on the gravel path towards the great hall, I see myself, still too early, standing in the beautifully decorated Georgian room next to the kitchen. There’s a lady in there too, all dressed in white as customary for those who worked there. She spoke to me, “You can go through to lunch now,” she said in the usual nurturing kindly way of the retreat centre staff.
My voice is silent but my mind is screaming loud, “No, no I can't! There's ten minutes to go before lunch – I can't speak – how can I order my dinner never mind preserve the deadline I've suffered so much to keep”. I looked at my watch and said nothing. The lady all in white came over to me, took me by the arm and led me screaming in silence towards the kitchen door. I could neither resist nor break the silence, both were contradictory to the entire ethos of my weekend stay. For those few minutes I knew what it felt like to be trapped in an asylum where no one will ever hear your voice – the silence of the damned not the enlightened.
I pushed the dusty folder back into the drawer, closed it and joined the monkey mind on its way back to the chaos of assumed 'normality'.
I haven't been quiet since !
I journey deep into my mind and shuffle through the junk heap made by life. I’m looking for an illusive silence, just like seeking a polar bear in the Gobi it is.
The more I call out to silence to show itself the deeper it hides in places I cannot go. The way that silence knows is not mine to share; my way is fettered and barred by the monkey mind that misdirects me constantly. It lies to me so that it can have life, not my life but its own, parasitically living off me like a spoilt child. Few there are that can banish the monkey mind.
Eventually I find a rusty old cabinet in the cerebral recesses and open a drawer, covered in dust is a folder marked ’silence’ and for a brief moment in that grand discovery, nothing exists. Even amidst the monkey mind’s rabid screaming, I hear nothing. In that moment I realise ‘silence is a state of mind’. My conscious thought immediately destroys the silence and the spell is broken.
But now I know the way to find true silence in the midst of all the noise of heaven and hell. It’s a silence I cannot keep, it lasts but a second in its first quartile of fleeting existence. . . but now at least I know it exists.
I open the file, it contains some pictures, a little video and quite a few words. My ears hear nothing but my mind hears both the words and the silent sound track of the video.
**
There’s a retreat centre in a grand mansion somewhere in rural Oxfordshire, I remember being there – it’s all written down in neuron script in the file – one morning our task was silent meditation until midday. The video plays and I see myself walking in he grounds, down to the boat house on the Thames, though I utter no words my mind is talking away to itself nineteen to the dozen. I see others walking too but avoid them to prevent the overwhelming temptation to talk. The silence is killing me. Slowly, painfully the unheard time ticks by until it is nearly lunchtime.
I watch as my feet crunch noiselessly on the gravel path towards the great hall, I see myself, still too early, standing in the beautifully decorated Georgian room next to the kitchen. There’s a lady in there too, all dressed in white as customary for those who worked there. She spoke to me, “You can go through to lunch now,” she said in the usual nurturing kindly way of the retreat centre staff.
My voice is silent but my mind is screaming loud, “No, no I can't! There's ten minutes to go before lunch – I can't speak – how can I order my dinner never mind preserve the deadline I've suffered so much to keep”. I looked at my watch and said nothing. The lady all in white came over to me, took me by the arm and led me screaming in silence towards the kitchen door. I could neither resist nor break the silence, both were contradictory to the entire ethos of my weekend stay. For those few minutes I knew what it felt like to be trapped in an asylum where no one will ever hear your voice – the silence of the damned not the enlightened.
I pushed the dusty folder back into the drawer, closed it and joined the monkey mind on its way back to the chaos of assumed 'normality'.
I haven't been quiet since !
Faces in the tiles.
Ceramic tiles partially surrounded that warm and pleasant bathtub, but the tile of real interest was the one down by the tap end and partially lit by a solitary lavender candle. The tiles were outwardly all made identical at first glance but when you looked deep into them none would seem to be the same, each could look ever different depending on how he looked at them. (‘Change the way you look at the world and the way the world looks will change’).
They weren’t patterned tiles; perhaps best described as a sort of very, very light grey-gold, crazed with lighter lines – a bit like peering into mist at frosted twigs.
It was late in the evening and, though not winter, the heating was comfortingly on and the only light, the lone candle. Beautiful music flowed soothingly throughout the house from the living room; melodic and wonderfully harmonising voices; a song of nightingales – a haunting and alluring song, the girl’s voice a particular joy, inspiring an invitation to hear it again and again, so pleasant as to never tire the listener.
Relaxing in the warm water he fixed a consciously intent but relaxed, ‘non-committal’ stare at some single point on the tile; he waited, then gradually it happened – a glimpse – a glimpse of a face – a glimpse only, and it was gone. Then another appeared and faded, its place taken by another, in a slightly different part of the tile. Such images were always so fulfilling to behold, sometimes truly beautiful, and created by the most minimal lines that shaped a ‘living’ treasure, that no great artist could ever emulate.
He knew that others also saw these faces, in tiles, in bark, wood grain or clouds; who were they, where did they come from, the mind, or outside the mind sent by some ‘other’ world?
Pretty faces, mesmerisingly beautiful, yet simple, faces to fall in love with, to bring a tear to the eye; normality would dictate that to stare so deeply at such a face would be unseemly, but in the tiles the image only stayed if the watcher focussed intently upon them; a blessing of the world of the inner mind.
Once he saw a particularly special pretty eyed girl with long hair partly covering her cheek; the image faded and despite many a search she was gone forever; forever lost, no matter how he delved. ‘Where do they come from, where do they go?’ he asked himself.
‘Himself’ had no more idea than he.
Rarely would a malevolent looking face appear, though on occasions bearded men with broad hats could be seen, almost Cavalier in appearance.
Why did he want to tell you this, surely you too must have seen them for yourselves?
Like music, their variety knew no bounds, flowing in an endless magical creation; a world of wonder.
The candle flickered and the trance was broken, the faces gone and only simple tile left to see; time to leave the bath and hope his ‘visitors’ would not desert him next time he joined them in their world in the tiles.
He looked forward to another day; how could he fail to do so?
Ceramic tiles partially surrounded that warm and pleasant bathtub, but the tile of real interest was the one down by the tap end and partially lit by a solitary lavender candle. The tiles were outwardly all made identical at first glance but when you looked deep into them none would seem to be the same, each could look ever different depending on how he looked at them. (‘Change the way you look at the world and the way the world looks will change’).
They weren’t patterned tiles; perhaps best described as a sort of very, very light grey-gold, crazed with lighter lines – a bit like peering into mist at frosted twigs.
It was late in the evening and, though not winter, the heating was comfortingly on and the only light, the lone candle. Beautiful music flowed soothingly throughout the house from the living room; melodic and wonderfully harmonising voices; a song of nightingales – a haunting and alluring song, the girl’s voice a particular joy, inspiring an invitation to hear it again and again, so pleasant as to never tire the listener.
Relaxing in the warm water he fixed a consciously intent but relaxed, ‘non-committal’ stare at some single point on the tile; he waited, then gradually it happened – a glimpse – a glimpse of a face – a glimpse only, and it was gone. Then another appeared and faded, its place taken by another, in a slightly different part of the tile. Such images were always so fulfilling to behold, sometimes truly beautiful, and created by the most minimal lines that shaped a ‘living’ treasure, that no great artist could ever emulate.
He knew that others also saw these faces, in tiles, in bark, wood grain or clouds; who were they, where did they come from, the mind, or outside the mind sent by some ‘other’ world?
Pretty faces, mesmerisingly beautiful, yet simple, faces to fall in love with, to bring a tear to the eye; normality would dictate that to stare so deeply at such a face would be unseemly, but in the tiles the image only stayed if the watcher focussed intently upon them; a blessing of the world of the inner mind.
Once he saw a particularly special pretty eyed girl with long hair partly covering her cheek; the image faded and despite many a search she was gone forever; forever lost, no matter how he delved. ‘Where do they come from, where do they go?’ he asked himself.
‘Himself’ had no more idea than he.
Rarely would a malevolent looking face appear, though on occasions bearded men with broad hats could be seen, almost Cavalier in appearance.
Why did he want to tell you this, surely you too must have seen them for yourselves?
Like music, their variety knew no bounds, flowing in an endless magical creation; a world of wonder.
The candle flickered and the trance was broken, the faces gone and only simple tile left to see; time to leave the bath and hope his ‘visitors’ would not desert him next time he joined them in their world in the tiles.
He looked forward to another day; how could he fail to do so?
Nobody, Anybody and Somebody.
I sat alone, apart from my own doppelganger that we all carry in our heads; alone in the corner and able to observe all before me in the breakfast room of my old hotel, ‘Baron’s Court’. Oak floorboards, wall panels and down the hallway by the entrance a splendid suit of armour complete with sword; then, opposite the great fireplace, leaded windows looked out under mature forest trees that edged to the roadway.
I had risen early and was the first to enter and take breakfast, hence my possession of the prime viewing seat. I had the cereal and waited for what was to come next.
Other guests came in, sometimes alone and sometimes not, some of them knew each other, and some did not. I tried to make friendly eye contact so I could initiate a smile that might start a, ‘good morning to you’ or a, ‘hallo’. Mostly their eyes would avoid mine while they sorted out where they were going to sit and where they could find the milk, sugar and cereals etc, having done that they had no reason to say ‘good morning’ because to say it then would have been out of place, the meeting having already occurred some minutes earlier. So, no gestures or smiles of acknowledgement let alone a spoken word. ‘Miserable lot’, I thought to myself, I would have enjoyed some small interaction that signified acceptance or at least recognition of my being, and that I too was a welcome guest at the breakfast table in our hotel. Then on reflection I realised how judgemental I was and perhaps their circumstances prevented them speaking …. perhaps one of them was a kidnapper holding the others to a terrifying ransom deal … or perhaps they were all foreign and had no English, nor knew the customs …… or they were deeply religious and must eat before talking (I could relate to that!) …. or they just didn’t like the look of me (that too) …. perhaps they were all going to a funeral …… perhaps the concierge had told them I’d escaped from somewhere and shouldn’t be approached, ‘don’t look in his eyes for pity’s sake … they’re coming to take him away soon ha ha he he… just eat up and pretend you haven’t seen him’. Perhaps they were part of a monastic order that forbade conversation, perhaps they meditated at this time of the day, or perhaps they were into computer games, train numbers or anoraks ….. who knows, but, for whatever reason, they didn’t talk to me.
So I talked to myself, privately in the mind that is, not out loud you understand. The waiter brought my full English breakfast, including black pudding. I think it was my father, I’m not sure, probably for a jest … but it has stayed with me ….. said that black pudding was Ox blood and sawdust. Now, sometime in the past, perhaps it was; the Russians in the siege of Leningrad used sawdust in the bread. Anyway I ate it, along with the bacon (two rashers) mushrooms, tomatoes, sausage and egg.
I considered that perhaps I did not appear an interesting enough person to warrant attention, just someone unworthy of a, ‘good morning.’
I began to consider deeper what might transpire if they did speak. What if they asked, ‘Who are you? What do you do? Where do you come from?’ What would I say?
Then it came to me, not what would I say but what could I say.
Now I’m approaching sixty years of age and so have done a few things and been a few places, I could pick anything from my past and without ever a lie create a partial story of truth that their imagination would then complete – and I would seem so interesting then.
Now, as I sipped away at another cup of coffee and finished the toast and marmalade, my own imagination was fired. By this ethereal cerebral portal a nobody can become anybody and, if they choose, a real somebody.
……….”Who, me?” I muse, in my private corner and world, pretending one has asked me a question, “why, I have journeyed here on a spiritual path of destiny; I have travelled far, from a place where the setting Sun meets the horizon of a great ocean, and which is many, long tortuous days by foot, (I don’t tell them I came by car), I come to meet a teacher, a Sifu, all the way from China who is to lead me on the next steps of my path to enlightenment. He has the great knowledge and wisdom of the ages which he received from his father and him from his father before him. They have the knowledge I seek; on seeing without seeing, the power of the true mind, the watching mind … and more … but I’ve said enough. There is a price to pay for everything we do.” (If they know the answers to these then they would become my teachers)
As the coffee level in the stainless steel pot went down so my mind drifted on.
Then it came to me. Why not? I’d soon thought of other diverse activities that I’d done and in fact was qualified for in the past, though some years past at that.
“Well, the truth is I’m an international martial arts instructor….. (Russia, China, France, Switzerland, Greece and the UK, how does that grab you? Pick a place and I’ll have a story for it. Plus 30 years studying Aikido and ten in Tai Chi give me lots of experience even if not much skill!)
You, like I, could explore our pasts for exaggerated and intimated glories to fire their imaginations, what fun that could be.
Finally one to frighten them, “Oh, me? Ah, very interesting and clandestine work, I am a people watcher then I write about them …. Oh don’t worry, you’ll come out fine, you eat in a most amusing way …..”
“Where do I live? … well my current home is often known as The Asylum (by me as a joke usually) I moved there after psychiatric help got me out of a dangerous situation, (retired on ill health from Fire Service) My job meant I was in and out of Fulbourn Mental Hospital near Cambridge like a yo yo. (true, we went there sometimes twice a week on mostly false alarm calls, though I have plenty of truly gruesome details if they want).
So, next time you’re at breakfast in a hotel or chatting at a bar, you could give it a try … or perhaps they are.
How do you know any of what you have just read was true, and does it matter anyway?
Thank you for listening, it has made up for that lonely breakfast in Wolverhampton.
July and still raining 2007.
I sat alone, apart from my own doppelganger that we all carry in our heads; alone in the corner and able to observe all before me in the breakfast room of my old hotel, ‘Baron’s Court’. Oak floorboards, wall panels and down the hallway by the entrance a splendid suit of armour complete with sword; then, opposite the great fireplace, leaded windows looked out under mature forest trees that edged to the roadway.
I had risen early and was the first to enter and take breakfast, hence my possession of the prime viewing seat. I had the cereal and waited for what was to come next.
Other guests came in, sometimes alone and sometimes not, some of them knew each other, and some did not. I tried to make friendly eye contact so I could initiate a smile that might start a, ‘good morning to you’ or a, ‘hallo’. Mostly their eyes would avoid mine while they sorted out where they were going to sit and where they could find the milk, sugar and cereals etc, having done that they had no reason to say ‘good morning’ because to say it then would have been out of place, the meeting having already occurred some minutes earlier. So, no gestures or smiles of acknowledgement let alone a spoken word. ‘Miserable lot’, I thought to myself, I would have enjoyed some small interaction that signified acceptance or at least recognition of my being, and that I too was a welcome guest at the breakfast table in our hotel. Then on reflection I realised how judgemental I was and perhaps their circumstances prevented them speaking …. perhaps one of them was a kidnapper holding the others to a terrifying ransom deal … or perhaps they were all foreign and had no English, nor knew the customs …… or they were deeply religious and must eat before talking (I could relate to that!) …. or they just didn’t like the look of me (that too) …. perhaps they were all going to a funeral …… perhaps the concierge had told them I’d escaped from somewhere and shouldn’t be approached, ‘don’t look in his eyes for pity’s sake … they’re coming to take him away soon ha ha he he… just eat up and pretend you haven’t seen him’. Perhaps they were part of a monastic order that forbade conversation, perhaps they meditated at this time of the day, or perhaps they were into computer games, train numbers or anoraks ….. who knows, but, for whatever reason, they didn’t talk to me.
So I talked to myself, privately in the mind that is, not out loud you understand. The waiter brought my full English breakfast, including black pudding. I think it was my father, I’m not sure, probably for a jest … but it has stayed with me ….. said that black pudding was Ox blood and sawdust. Now, sometime in the past, perhaps it was; the Russians in the siege of Leningrad used sawdust in the bread. Anyway I ate it, along with the bacon (two rashers) mushrooms, tomatoes, sausage and egg.
I considered that perhaps I did not appear an interesting enough person to warrant attention, just someone unworthy of a, ‘good morning.’
I began to consider deeper what might transpire if they did speak. What if they asked, ‘Who are you? What do you do? Where do you come from?’ What would I say?
Then it came to me, not what would I say but what could I say.
Now I’m approaching sixty years of age and so have done a few things and been a few places, I could pick anything from my past and without ever a lie create a partial story of truth that their imagination would then complete – and I would seem so interesting then.
Now, as I sipped away at another cup of coffee and finished the toast and marmalade, my own imagination was fired. By this ethereal cerebral portal a nobody can become anybody and, if they choose, a real somebody.
……….”Who, me?” I muse, in my private corner and world, pretending one has asked me a question, “why, I have journeyed here on a spiritual path of destiny; I have travelled far, from a place where the setting Sun meets the horizon of a great ocean, and which is many, long tortuous days by foot, (I don’t tell them I came by car), I come to meet a teacher, a Sifu, all the way from China who is to lead me on the next steps of my path to enlightenment. He has the great knowledge and wisdom of the ages which he received from his father and him from his father before him. They have the knowledge I seek; on seeing without seeing, the power of the true mind, the watching mind … and more … but I’ve said enough. There is a price to pay for everything we do.” (If they know the answers to these then they would become my teachers)
As the coffee level in the stainless steel pot went down so my mind drifted on.
Then it came to me. Why not? I’d soon thought of other diverse activities that I’d done and in fact was qualified for in the past, though some years past at that.
“Well, the truth is I’m an international martial arts instructor….. (Russia, China, France, Switzerland, Greece and the UK, how does that grab you? Pick a place and I’ll have a story for it. Plus 30 years studying Aikido and ten in Tai Chi give me lots of experience even if not much skill!)
You, like I, could explore our pasts for exaggerated and intimated glories to fire their imaginations, what fun that could be.
Finally one to frighten them, “Oh, me? Ah, very interesting and clandestine work, I am a people watcher then I write about them …. Oh don’t worry, you’ll come out fine, you eat in a most amusing way …..”
“Where do I live? … well my current home is often known as The Asylum (by me as a joke usually) I moved there after psychiatric help got me out of a dangerous situation, (retired on ill health from Fire Service) My job meant I was in and out of Fulbourn Mental Hospital near Cambridge like a yo yo. (true, we went there sometimes twice a week on mostly false alarm calls, though I have plenty of truly gruesome details if they want).
So, next time you’re at breakfast in a hotel or chatting at a bar, you could give it a try … or perhaps they are.
How do you know any of what you have just read was true, and does it matter anyway?
Thank you for listening, it has made up for that lonely breakfast in Wolverhampton.
July and still raining 2007.
Fagin and the Banker. - A tale of social justice.
Amongst the throng of Victorian peasants in a narrow London street, the Toff was a seething frenzy of pompous anger, in fact he was twice angry; he’d had his pockets picked whilst brow beating a poor and needy shopkeeper over a particular item he envied and of which he alone knew the true value; now what was about to be his for a pittance, yes, all his, was not to be, all because of some despicable thief who had spirited away his wallet. It never occurred to him he may have misplaced it, nor that the poor shopkeeper desperate to feed his family was out of a sale, no matter how poor the price he might have accepted.
The Toff knew a bargain all right and how to squeeze the last drop of blood from a desperate seller. It was his business after all. He wasn’t short of a few bob, why, he had plenty more back at his mansion behind the grand iron gates and high stone wall. His estate sported all that money could buy – mostly other people’s that is, for he was a Banker, and immensely proud of this achievement.
He’d done so well for a man with no qualifications, he’d made good by using a brutal disregard for justice and the common people. Why? Don’t they have the workhouse for those sorts and had he not always been so generous at Christmas time; on Boxing Day he’d always sent the workhouse big heaps of his Christmas day’s leftovers for them to sort through.
The Toff was angry ….. He called for the police, who on arrival would faun and suck up to him like their lives depended on it – and their livelihood probably did!
“We’ll do our best M’lud, we’ll try and catch the culprit’, said one nervously.
“Well let me tell you, you’ll do more than that; how is an honest man like myself supposed to walk the street in safety while you sit on your lazy backsides and let criminals own the streets,” he fumed, in a la-di-dah voice that drew a crowd, “your chief Constable is coming to dine with me on Sunday and you can be sure he’ll be hearing all about this sorry episode ….. What’s your name?”
**
Not so far away down a side street in a garret hovel a small scruffy man endured a somewhat more frugal existence, his name was, Fagin.
Fagin – now there’s a man the Police would not think to treat so kindly; not only was he the enemy of the rich but he was relatively powerless himself and could never command rich lawyers to protect him – and incidentally it was most unlikely they would meet the Chief Constable having lunch there!
Just what was Fagin’s crime? Apart from living simply and frugally – no mansion for him, no fine clothes; let’s see, - well, though he used young children, often orphans, he provided them with a home full of companionship and camaraderie - he provided food for them better than the workhouse ever could, they were relatively safe, they were off the streets and had a roof over their heads. Not only this, but Fagin would invest time in entertaining and educating his young charges, in effect providing an apprenticeship for young people at a time when there was little but the slavery of servitude for those outside. He helped and mentored them to grow strong and be able to fend for themselves; he provided clothing for them from his own little ‘co-operative’ business.
He was also in his own way the equal of the great socialist reformers – he was engaged in the redistribution of wealth. On a small scale perhaps, but on a larger scale he would have been the envy of many a true socialist Prime Minister.
Fagin’s little empire thrived, providing employment, security and housing for the poor ; his own fortune increased but so did his worries, the more he had the more he feared its loss. He kept his savings hidden under a loose floorboard, but fearing its discovery by some common thief decided to invest it in a bank.
“Yes”, Fagin thought with glee, that he’d found a solution to his worries, “That’s what I’ll do, I’ll stick it all in the bank – it’ll be safe and snug in there!”
(Written at the time of bank collapses but big bonuses; a prelude to recession which in 2014 we may be leaving behind . . . but the Bankers are still there !)
**
“What we deeply cling to, imprisons us.”
***
Order in the Capricorn Trinity
Long, long ago, before man roamed the earth, it was ruled by three goats.
One was always looking forward to something and one was always looking back on something else; the third just did as he pleased as the day naturally unfolded. Each goat thought of themselves as being the most important in skills, knowledge and wisdom. They would often argue when they met as to who was definably the better. “Why don’t we all meet up at my place one day, thrash it out and settle the issue once and for all,” said present day goat.
“Agreed”, blurted out past goat, remembering past victories. This was followed by future goat’s aloof nod of approval as he smirked the smirk of an assured future ascendancy. Each was ebulliently confident of a crushing and lasting victory. . . and what a victory it would be. Now, the word gloat may not have been invented then but its inception was imminent.
Soon the day of the great argument, I mean reasoned debate, arrived, as did Past Goat and Future Goat at the entrance to the comfy cave that Present Goat at times called home.
“Please come on in, make yourselves comfortable,” invited Present Goat, to be rudely interrupted by Future Goat who’d got self important plans for later that day, “cut the rabbit out and let’s get down to it, I can’t hang about all day, there’s always something more to do out there.”
“Tut tut tut,” admonished Past Goat, seeing himself now as the Goat of reason in this matter, “Don’t you learn anything from history, from the mistakes of your past, can’t you see the value of the past in moulding your life for the better?” . . . Past Goat was cut short sharply, “How dare you lecture me, Past Goat, you knackered old hoighty toighty stick in the mud has been, you'll never aspire to anything because you can't see further than the beard on your face, in fact, you’re so stuck in the past your eyes should be in your backside”, countered Future Goat, “at least I'm going somewhere in life, my vision of the future allows me to dream of success, of heroic deeds, of ventures, of inventions and discovery. . . if only you two too could see the future like I”.
“Tutu? Did I here Tutu mentioned? “Asked Present Goat who had until then been staring out of his cave entrance, bemused by the trees swaying in the wind across the valley, almost as if they were dancing together. He'd not really been listening much to the argument, after all what has argument to offer one that lives mostly in the present? ‘Nothing is the answer’, said Present Goat. (Assisting the author.)
They both glared at Present Goat who shrugged it off and said, “Time for our lunch I feel.” He continued, “I expect you have both brought packed lunches with you, you both knowing so much and all.”
Past Goat took out his lunch box and opened it. It was a disaster, everything was old and rotten, even a goat wouldn't want that stuff. “Ha Ha Ha”, snorted Future Goat with great sarcasm and glee. However, when he opened his own lunch box, it was empty, nothing to be seen at all, calamity. The future was yet to provide the apples and snacks he hoped for, they were indeed still yet to be planted and grown in a time perhaps yet to be. “Har Har Har, smarty pants, that'll teach you,” scoffed the now annoyingly hungry Past Goat.
Meanwhile, Present Goat salivated over some fresh fruit he'd just picked and savoured every juicy morsel as he neither thought of past or future; he simply lived in the only time he had, the present. “The present is a present indeed,” he thought, staring across the valley at the wind playing in the trees and the clouds reflecting off the lake as the Sun made its way homeward for another glorious day in the life of Present Goat; a very content Present Goat.
With great pomp and gusto, Past and Future Goats stomped out of the cave for the valley path and before they went separate ways they could clearly be heard bickering in the distance; they’d again learned nothing about how contented life really could be.
Present goat did not over dwell on his uncontested victory, for part of him felt some empathy with his fellows; he too could so easily be one of them if not careful. He smiled, chewed some stuff and watched the trees in the wind and the shadows of clouds playing on the lake; he sighed the sigh of oneness with time and nature alike; the present.
The end. . . or is it an end that really is possible?... Oh dear. . . what do you think?
Long, long ago, before man roamed the earth, it was ruled by three goats.
One was always looking forward to something and one was always looking back on something else; the third just did as he pleased as the day naturally unfolded. Each goat thought of themselves as being the most important in skills, knowledge and wisdom. They would often argue when they met as to who was definably the better. “Why don’t we all meet up at my place one day, thrash it out and settle the issue once and for all,” said present day goat.
“Agreed”, blurted out past goat, remembering past victories. This was followed by future goat’s aloof nod of approval as he smirked the smirk of an assured future ascendancy. Each was ebulliently confident of a crushing and lasting victory. . . and what a victory it would be. Now, the word gloat may not have been invented then but its inception was imminent.
Soon the day of the great argument, I mean reasoned debate, arrived, as did Past Goat and Future Goat at the entrance to the comfy cave that Present Goat at times called home.
“Please come on in, make yourselves comfortable,” invited Present Goat, to be rudely interrupted by Future Goat who’d got self important plans for later that day, “cut the rabbit out and let’s get down to it, I can’t hang about all day, there’s always something more to do out there.”
“Tut tut tut,” admonished Past Goat, seeing himself now as the Goat of reason in this matter, “Don’t you learn anything from history, from the mistakes of your past, can’t you see the value of the past in moulding your life for the better?” . . . Past Goat was cut short sharply, “How dare you lecture me, Past Goat, you knackered old hoighty toighty stick in the mud has been, you'll never aspire to anything because you can't see further than the beard on your face, in fact, you’re so stuck in the past your eyes should be in your backside”, countered Future Goat, “at least I'm going somewhere in life, my vision of the future allows me to dream of success, of heroic deeds, of ventures, of inventions and discovery. . . if only you two too could see the future like I”.
“Tutu? Did I here Tutu mentioned? “Asked Present Goat who had until then been staring out of his cave entrance, bemused by the trees swaying in the wind across the valley, almost as if they were dancing together. He'd not really been listening much to the argument, after all what has argument to offer one that lives mostly in the present? ‘Nothing is the answer’, said Present Goat. (Assisting the author.)
They both glared at Present Goat who shrugged it off and said, “Time for our lunch I feel.” He continued, “I expect you have both brought packed lunches with you, you both knowing so much and all.”
Past Goat took out his lunch box and opened it. It was a disaster, everything was old and rotten, even a goat wouldn't want that stuff. “Ha Ha Ha”, snorted Future Goat with great sarcasm and glee. However, when he opened his own lunch box, it was empty, nothing to be seen at all, calamity. The future was yet to provide the apples and snacks he hoped for, they were indeed still yet to be planted and grown in a time perhaps yet to be. “Har Har Har, smarty pants, that'll teach you,” scoffed the now annoyingly hungry Past Goat.
Meanwhile, Present Goat salivated over some fresh fruit he'd just picked and savoured every juicy morsel as he neither thought of past or future; he simply lived in the only time he had, the present. “The present is a present indeed,” he thought, staring across the valley at the wind playing in the trees and the clouds reflecting off the lake as the Sun made its way homeward for another glorious day in the life of Present Goat; a very content Present Goat.
With great pomp and gusto, Past and Future Goats stomped out of the cave for the valley path and before they went separate ways they could clearly be heard bickering in the distance; they’d again learned nothing about how contented life really could be.
Present goat did not over dwell on his uncontested victory, for part of him felt some empathy with his fellows; he too could so easily be one of them if not careful. He smiled, chewed some stuff and watched the trees in the wind and the shadows of clouds playing on the lake; he sighed the sigh of oneness with time and nature alike; the present.
The end. . . or is it an end that really is possible?... Oh dear. . . what do you think?
"Belief creates your version of reality and you'll believe whatever you wish . . . regardless of the truth. "
Of Aikido and of leaves in Kefalonia.
(An analogy with Aikido. . . )
Early one fine summer’s morning, when an Ionian Sun had just risen above the skyline of Mount Aenos and yet already bathed the garden in a fiery light, the student selected one of the brooms by the back door and headed left to a nearby leaf strewn path. Lesson one, be careful what you choose; that means both broom and path!
He knew there were lessons to be had in sweeping the path; lessons often more profound than we can imagine; perhaps one would show itself this day.
There are, of course, many paths, each with its own teachings; the one shown above left is not the one he chose; why might you think that it was? Seeing is not seeing. The answer will always be an opposite of that which you at first thought. Think on this, for it is a valuable principle to use in life.
The uneven surface of the grey, crazy paved stones seemed to trap the fallen eucalyptus leaves that strewed the path. The brush he had inadvertently and unquestioningly chosen was a stiff bristled synthetic affair and he at first blamed it for its failings, indeed he blamed it for all failings, thinking that a wider, softer one would be much more effective. Was this the lesson? No, it seemed not, there surely must be more. Keeping the brush he had chosen but changing the direction of sweep soon had the reticent leaves shifted from their erstwhile homes. Could this be the lesson. . . changing direction? It was certainly one of sorts but surely he must look further, deeper. Perhaps using the brush was just practice for the Jo. Could it be that simple?
He began to move leaves from right to left so that he could more easily sweep a whole line of them over the edge into the wild oblivion that lay beyond the formalised garden. This wasn’t a punishment for the leaves; they were going to be happier where he sent them. Most went willingly. His plan functioned reasonably well and the great majority were easily brushed away and dismissed from the perceived ‘battlefield’. It however left a few tenacious, conflict hardened beasts that denied his every move. Even on flat stones the elongated Eucalyptus leaves clung like limpets. The harder he brushed the more they resisted, looking up mockingly at his efforts, laughing, as if they knew the secrets and they could see that he did not. The more strength he added to the brush the closer it came to failing in itself, and he with it. He paused, relaxed a little and instead tried the lightest touch with the brush and there in the capitulating tumbling leaves lay the answer. Use correct technique and never add power; concern yourself only with disrupting the leaves’ stability, only engaging a direction which will prove useful. Then the leaves will cease to become opponents but become partners on the path. No energy was added to the weight of the leaf by pressing, instead the energy ran parallel to the ground and once the leaf was ungrounded it was at the brush’s mercy . . . and none was given !
**
Another day arrived; another brush was chosen yet the same Sun and before them all the same path fresh strewn with wind blown debris from the generous great Eucalyptus that ever shared its leaves with the earth. The brush, new to him yet perhaps old to others, was softer. “This is much better,” the student thought satisfyingly, “much better. . . no need for great pressure, this soft brush is working well.” Each piece of stone was swept, each piece of stone was new, and each sweep of the brush was new. Perfection was sought with every action as if it was unique and all that existed; smooth, flowing, efficient and successful; then, on to the next stone and the process repeated in a manner as if it were the first time.
Suddenly a gift appeared before his eyes, there in the stones so carelessly swept before, he saw the signs of ancient life. . . fossilised plants and perhaps a promise of more to find. Now each stone was brushed more carefully, the student’s awareness raised to what the moving leaves might present. What joy, what discovery might be behind every leaf on the path. . . the destination became the path itself. The routine of sweeping a path became a series of profound lessons. Brush, leaves, stones, the path and the student himself all took on new meaning.
When someone asks you to sweep their path accept it as a gift and think on what I have written, for nothing will ever be as you think it is. Much if not all of your world is illusion, as may be this, too.
And now here is a space for your own discoveries . . . .
(An analogy with Aikido. . . )
Early one fine summer’s morning, when an Ionian Sun had just risen above the skyline of Mount Aenos and yet already bathed the garden in a fiery light, the student selected one of the brooms by the back door and headed left to a nearby leaf strewn path. Lesson one, be careful what you choose; that means both broom and path!
He knew there were lessons to be had in sweeping the path; lessons often more profound than we can imagine; perhaps one would show itself this day.
There are, of course, many paths, each with its own teachings; the one shown above left is not the one he chose; why might you think that it was? Seeing is not seeing. The answer will always be an opposite of that which you at first thought. Think on this, for it is a valuable principle to use in life.
The uneven surface of the grey, crazy paved stones seemed to trap the fallen eucalyptus leaves that strewed the path. The brush he had inadvertently and unquestioningly chosen was a stiff bristled synthetic affair and he at first blamed it for its failings, indeed he blamed it for all failings, thinking that a wider, softer one would be much more effective. Was this the lesson? No, it seemed not, there surely must be more. Keeping the brush he had chosen but changing the direction of sweep soon had the reticent leaves shifted from their erstwhile homes. Could this be the lesson. . . changing direction? It was certainly one of sorts but surely he must look further, deeper. Perhaps using the brush was just practice for the Jo. Could it be that simple?
He began to move leaves from right to left so that he could more easily sweep a whole line of them over the edge into the wild oblivion that lay beyond the formalised garden. This wasn’t a punishment for the leaves; they were going to be happier where he sent them. Most went willingly. His plan functioned reasonably well and the great majority were easily brushed away and dismissed from the perceived ‘battlefield’. It however left a few tenacious, conflict hardened beasts that denied his every move. Even on flat stones the elongated Eucalyptus leaves clung like limpets. The harder he brushed the more they resisted, looking up mockingly at his efforts, laughing, as if they knew the secrets and they could see that he did not. The more strength he added to the brush the closer it came to failing in itself, and he with it. He paused, relaxed a little and instead tried the lightest touch with the brush and there in the capitulating tumbling leaves lay the answer. Use correct technique and never add power; concern yourself only with disrupting the leaves’ stability, only engaging a direction which will prove useful. Then the leaves will cease to become opponents but become partners on the path. No energy was added to the weight of the leaf by pressing, instead the energy ran parallel to the ground and once the leaf was ungrounded it was at the brush’s mercy . . . and none was given !
**
Another day arrived; another brush was chosen yet the same Sun and before them all the same path fresh strewn with wind blown debris from the generous great Eucalyptus that ever shared its leaves with the earth. The brush, new to him yet perhaps old to others, was softer. “This is much better,” the student thought satisfyingly, “much better. . . no need for great pressure, this soft brush is working well.” Each piece of stone was swept, each piece of stone was new, and each sweep of the brush was new. Perfection was sought with every action as if it was unique and all that existed; smooth, flowing, efficient and successful; then, on to the next stone and the process repeated in a manner as if it were the first time.
Suddenly a gift appeared before his eyes, there in the stones so carelessly swept before, he saw the signs of ancient life. . . fossilised plants and perhaps a promise of more to find. Now each stone was brushed more carefully, the student’s awareness raised to what the moving leaves might present. What joy, what discovery might be behind every leaf on the path. . . the destination became the path itself. The routine of sweeping a path became a series of profound lessons. Brush, leaves, stones, the path and the student himself all took on new meaning.
When someone asks you to sweep their path accept it as a gift and think on what I have written, for nothing will ever be as you think it is. Much if not all of your world is illusion, as may be this, too.
And now here is a space for your own discoveries . . . .
Keith's sheep and the fence
“Now,” he paused in thought as he scribbled his notes in the Royal, while awaiting his roast dinner, “is it Tony's or Persephone's fence?” ..........................................................
...................................
It had all started to meander through the trackless neuron fields of his mind a few weeks before: - the usual gang were in their favourite pub after tai chi class; he couldn't remember what had sparked off the conversation, but it went a little like this. ...........”You have to search, but if you look too hard then you don't find what you want; it's a bit of a paradox really, but the very act of 'want' hampers your discovery – want is the fog that hides the path”.
“A bit like sheep wanting the grass on the other side of the fence”, he offered.
Keith, knowing just a bit about farming, supped his real ale and said, “and do you know what? ..... as soon as they're the other side their first thought is to get back again!” The image made them laugh and they returned to their crisps and beer.
Not so very long after this event he was visiting his mentor and distant teacher, Tony, and mentioned the conversation. “Ah”, said Tony, “interesting. Now, using your mind, visualise what it is you want, just like the sheep see the grass, and in your mind approach the 'fence' calmly and with patient consciousness. When you arrive at the 'fence' imagine that you can remove it, and in its place there will be a space, a gap that separates where you were and where you wished to go. Enter that space using your mind, your imagination. In this space all is connected, physical and mental all become one; at this point you should find you are one with all, one with the universe – your search is over.”
“Wow,” he thought, “I can sense the value in this”, and his neurons raced to create a memory of this mini enlightenment.
Later that night he was to put the theory to the test. His mind was so active, what with the day’s journey and new information, but he needed to sleep. Sleep was where he wanted to be; the more he wanted to sleep to calm and refresh him, the worse the fence became. In his mind, he approached the fence, and surprisingly found the space; he entered the space and sensed that all became quiet and still, and sleep crept ever closer – that is until he thought, “hey, this is working!” and he was back on the 'wrong' side of the fence again.
Morning came with a light fenland mist and, after breakfast, they drove to the workshop venue on 'Synergy and Healing' and all was soon underway.
He made a mental note to use this idea next time he meditated, ‘mmm, a nice idea’, he mused, returning his attention to the class.Tony was explaining how best to approach clients and chose to illustrate it with a story about a pet dog with an injured paw. “You want to help the dog”, he said, “you must approach calmly, with whole body, not just your hand; in the brief instant of the first touch it is a moment when you and the dog are one. (The space where the fence once was) but this connection of oneness can pass quickly and now Ego and you are the ‘great healers’ and dominating the situation as you ‘will’ your energy to ‘fix that paw’. You are no longer 'one with all', access to the great universal has slipped through your hands; where one is connected to the great universal there is no fear, no want, and in that place of nothing everything is yours.”
Later that cold winter evening, as the car hastened homeward and the long road rushed under the wheels and backwards into a deepening darkness, he sat still, warm and comfortable in the middle. His mind wandered pleasantly around some recent teachings he had read;-
‘Be of good heart’ went the voice in his head, ‘and begin a smile’ …… “That’s it”, he thought, “the beginning of what we want is actually found in the middle, it’s not at the beginning nor at the end; it’s not the straight face nor the smile, it’s that little bit of relaxation in the middle where it all happens, just before the smile – just where the fence was.”
......................... Many miles and hours later, up on Exmoor, he spoke of his new found wisdoms and how he had tried to share them with others, but how he had failed to make them understand – it was nothing to them.
Persephone sympathised and offered another glass of mulled wine, “perhaps,” she said, “it is we who put the fences there, if we were not to build them perhaps we would intuitively be one with the universe; perhaps the gap you speak of is the place where something greater than we exists, the very thing that allows the healing to be manifest
Drinking down the warm wine, he wondered if we can ever stop building fences, only then, perhaps, we can really help others.
Whose fence is it, Tony's, Persephone's, or is it yours?
How many have you put up while reading this?
“Now,” he paused in thought as he scribbled his notes in the Royal, while awaiting his roast dinner, “is it Tony's or Persephone's fence?” ..........................................................
...................................
It had all started to meander through the trackless neuron fields of his mind a few weeks before: - the usual gang were in their favourite pub after tai chi class; he couldn't remember what had sparked off the conversation, but it went a little like this. ...........”You have to search, but if you look too hard then you don't find what you want; it's a bit of a paradox really, but the very act of 'want' hampers your discovery – want is the fog that hides the path”.
“A bit like sheep wanting the grass on the other side of the fence”, he offered.
Keith, knowing just a bit about farming, supped his real ale and said, “and do you know what? ..... as soon as they're the other side their first thought is to get back again!” The image made them laugh and they returned to their crisps and beer.
Not so very long after this event he was visiting his mentor and distant teacher, Tony, and mentioned the conversation. “Ah”, said Tony, “interesting. Now, using your mind, visualise what it is you want, just like the sheep see the grass, and in your mind approach the 'fence' calmly and with patient consciousness. When you arrive at the 'fence' imagine that you can remove it, and in its place there will be a space, a gap that separates where you were and where you wished to go. Enter that space using your mind, your imagination. In this space all is connected, physical and mental all become one; at this point you should find you are one with all, one with the universe – your search is over.”
“Wow,” he thought, “I can sense the value in this”, and his neurons raced to create a memory of this mini enlightenment.
Later that night he was to put the theory to the test. His mind was so active, what with the day’s journey and new information, but he needed to sleep. Sleep was where he wanted to be; the more he wanted to sleep to calm and refresh him, the worse the fence became. In his mind, he approached the fence, and surprisingly found the space; he entered the space and sensed that all became quiet and still, and sleep crept ever closer – that is until he thought, “hey, this is working!” and he was back on the 'wrong' side of the fence again.
Morning came with a light fenland mist and, after breakfast, they drove to the workshop venue on 'Synergy and Healing' and all was soon underway.
He made a mental note to use this idea next time he meditated, ‘mmm, a nice idea’, he mused, returning his attention to the class.Tony was explaining how best to approach clients and chose to illustrate it with a story about a pet dog with an injured paw. “You want to help the dog”, he said, “you must approach calmly, with whole body, not just your hand; in the brief instant of the first touch it is a moment when you and the dog are one. (The space where the fence once was) but this connection of oneness can pass quickly and now Ego and you are the ‘great healers’ and dominating the situation as you ‘will’ your energy to ‘fix that paw’. You are no longer 'one with all', access to the great universal has slipped through your hands; where one is connected to the great universal there is no fear, no want, and in that place of nothing everything is yours.”
Later that cold winter evening, as the car hastened homeward and the long road rushed under the wheels and backwards into a deepening darkness, he sat still, warm and comfortable in the middle. His mind wandered pleasantly around some recent teachings he had read;-
‘Be of good heart’ went the voice in his head, ‘and begin a smile’ …… “That’s it”, he thought, “the beginning of what we want is actually found in the middle, it’s not at the beginning nor at the end; it’s not the straight face nor the smile, it’s that little bit of relaxation in the middle where it all happens, just before the smile – just where the fence was.”
......................... Many miles and hours later, up on Exmoor, he spoke of his new found wisdoms and how he had tried to share them with others, but how he had failed to make them understand – it was nothing to them.
Persephone sympathised and offered another glass of mulled wine, “perhaps,” she said, “it is we who put the fences there, if we were not to build them perhaps we would intuitively be one with the universe; perhaps the gap you speak of is the place where something greater than we exists, the very thing that allows the healing to be manifest
Drinking down the warm wine, he wondered if we can ever stop building fences, only then, perhaps, we can really help others.
Whose fence is it, Tony's, Persephone's, or is it yours?
How many have you put up while reading this?
The above slide show is from photographs I took of a wonderful little book, a gift to me from Sue Valentine, author, artist and friend. Clever, isn't it? So is what they wrote.
************************************************
************************************************
Value added. . . ?
It started with a seed, well, one of many actually, picked freely by dear Mrs Goodgrace, from a Hollyhock that overhung a public path. Lovingly collected and placed safely into a folded envelope the seeds were carried back home along with their new owner’s benevolent dreams. . . then forgotten, misplaced in the shed for a year.
It was a pleasant surprise when the seeds turned up again, discovered by her helpful neighbour, Mr Kindly. “Oh you can have them,” she said, “I meant to plant them then forgot, pity, they’d have been lovely.”
They all germinated, part of God’s nature, the way of the universe you know, there was no charge, the rain came and the seeds grew unhindered into fine plants nurtured by the Sun and a small pot of garden earth. “Lovely, dear, but you have too many,” said his wife, Argusina Kindly, “and I think they’re just a bit too tall for our little garden.” “All right love,” he replied, “I’ll not waste them, I’ll give them to Mr Grubitout at the nursery, I’m sure he’ll find a good home for them.”
**
Not so far away at the posh end of the village, Mr and Mrs Havalot were in the process of having their garden landscaped by Mr Trimmings and Sons and, never having lifted a finger in the garden themselves, were taking his advice. He should be good as they had seen his old pick-up outside the ‘big house’, owned by none other than the Lucre El Dorado, banking consultant.
He’d ‘do a good job’, Trimmings had said, and ‘keep the price low for them as the Havalots were struggling to live on the rents from their Lucerne holiday flats, and what with the mooring costs at the yacht club too’.
**
“Just the very thing for you, Trimmings”, said Grubitout, “some fine Hollyhocks, mixed colours and only £6 a plant, I tell you what, I’ll discount them at £5.50 for you, can’t say fairer than that, a real steal as they say.”
“I’ll take the lot, Grubitout”, replied Trimmings, eyeing the strong dark green foliage and beginnings of good stems – they’d flower this year with luck.
“Right, that’s 20 plants at £5.50, er um, £110 plus VAT at 20%. . . dreadfully sorry about that, can’t be escaped you know, we all have to pay . . . so that will be £132 if you please”, said Grubitout not so much organically but more orgasmically as he rung the bell on the nursery till.
**
“All planted Mrs Havalot – I got you some real beauties, nursery grown, quality plants from Mr Grubitout’s Establishment. . . Let’s see now. . . that’s £150 for the plants, real beauties, mixed colours he said, you won’t find better anywhere I dare say. . . then only £50 labour, tell you what, you’re nice people, make that just £45, as I like you. . . £150 plus £45 is er £195, plus that damned VAT at 20%. . the scourge of the nation that, still, we all have to pay it, can’t be escaped . . . so that comes to £233 then please. Thanks for your business, call me back anytime,” smiled a very happy Mr Trimmings the landscaper.
Meanwhile out in the garden 20 free seedlings flourished in God’s earth with free rain and free sunshine. Their added value would be the scented flowers that perfumed the garden, the drop-in pollen café for the bees, no charge, no tax, and later the seed heads would feed winter hungry birds, free, no tax, their autumn leaves would fall and enrich the soil for free, no tax . . . such is the way of nature.
Some years later, as the Hollyhocks developed, they began to spread and overhang a garden wall, there to be spotted by that dear little old lady, Mrs Goodgrace while out walking with her granddaughter; She reached out and picked a few seeds. Carefully placing them in a folded envelope she said, “I’ll jolly well make sure I plant them this time, I bet they’ll look lovely, come on, let’s go home for tea and find some plant pots, I have some really pretty green ones I saved free from the rubbish tip.”
*************
It started with a seed, well, one of many actually, picked freely by dear Mrs Goodgrace, from a Hollyhock that overhung a public path. Lovingly collected and placed safely into a folded envelope the seeds were carried back home along with their new owner’s benevolent dreams. . . then forgotten, misplaced in the shed for a year.
It was a pleasant surprise when the seeds turned up again, discovered by her helpful neighbour, Mr Kindly. “Oh you can have them,” she said, “I meant to plant them then forgot, pity, they’d have been lovely.”
They all germinated, part of God’s nature, the way of the universe you know, there was no charge, the rain came and the seeds grew unhindered into fine plants nurtured by the Sun and a small pot of garden earth. “Lovely, dear, but you have too many,” said his wife, Argusina Kindly, “and I think they’re just a bit too tall for our little garden.” “All right love,” he replied, “I’ll not waste them, I’ll give them to Mr Grubitout at the nursery, I’m sure he’ll find a good home for them.”
**
Not so far away at the posh end of the village, Mr and Mrs Havalot were in the process of having their garden landscaped by Mr Trimmings and Sons and, never having lifted a finger in the garden themselves, were taking his advice. He should be good as they had seen his old pick-up outside the ‘big house’, owned by none other than the Lucre El Dorado, banking consultant.
He’d ‘do a good job’, Trimmings had said, and ‘keep the price low for them as the Havalots were struggling to live on the rents from their Lucerne holiday flats, and what with the mooring costs at the yacht club too’.
**
“Just the very thing for you, Trimmings”, said Grubitout, “some fine Hollyhocks, mixed colours and only £6 a plant, I tell you what, I’ll discount them at £5.50 for you, can’t say fairer than that, a real steal as they say.”
“I’ll take the lot, Grubitout”, replied Trimmings, eyeing the strong dark green foliage and beginnings of good stems – they’d flower this year with luck.
“Right, that’s 20 plants at £5.50, er um, £110 plus VAT at 20%. . . dreadfully sorry about that, can’t be escaped you know, we all have to pay . . . so that will be £132 if you please”, said Grubitout not so much organically but more orgasmically as he rung the bell on the nursery till.
**
“All planted Mrs Havalot – I got you some real beauties, nursery grown, quality plants from Mr Grubitout’s Establishment. . . Let’s see now. . . that’s £150 for the plants, real beauties, mixed colours he said, you won’t find better anywhere I dare say. . . then only £50 labour, tell you what, you’re nice people, make that just £45, as I like you. . . £150 plus £45 is er £195, plus that damned VAT at 20%. . the scourge of the nation that, still, we all have to pay it, can’t be escaped . . . so that comes to £233 then please. Thanks for your business, call me back anytime,” smiled a very happy Mr Trimmings the landscaper.
Meanwhile out in the garden 20 free seedlings flourished in God’s earth with free rain and free sunshine. Their added value would be the scented flowers that perfumed the garden, the drop-in pollen café for the bees, no charge, no tax, and later the seed heads would feed winter hungry birds, free, no tax, their autumn leaves would fall and enrich the soil for free, no tax . . . such is the way of nature.
Some years later, as the Hollyhocks developed, they began to spread and overhang a garden wall, there to be spotted by that dear little old lady, Mrs Goodgrace while out walking with her granddaughter; She reached out and picked a few seeds. Carefully placing them in a folded envelope she said, “I’ll jolly well make sure I plant them this time, I bet they’ll look lovely, come on, let’s go home for tea and find some plant pots, I have some really pretty green ones I saved free from the rubbish tip.”
*************
The Tai Chi Class and Path to the Temple.
Spiritually uplifting, harmonic, Chinese music softly filled the air; students meeting once again as the weeks before, chatting intently with each other. The instructor never knew what they talked about – and to be honest never wondered either.
He clapped his hands twice to bring the class to a beginning. Some students were always up and ready early while others seemed to wait for the signal before they even changed their shoes! Some still chatted, seemingly frivolously and obliviously. When the instructor broke up conversations by moving the offending students to another space in the hall, the offenders would promptly start chatting to the person next to them. Eventually they would settle.
‘What’s the point of shouting and rushing?’ thought the instructor, ‘it’s not what we’re here for.’
‘We’ll start this week with the Dao Yin exercise”, the instructor said from the front of the class, from which position he could well see the grimaces of those students who obviously didn’t like the exercise and the smiles of those that did. Trying not to let his psyche be affected by the judgement on his plan, the teacher mustered his spirit and began the exercise.
Before the start he once more reminded them, ‘feet parallel; feet parallel; it’s really important!’ Occasionally he would spend some time correcting foot positions for those who weren’t sure what ‘feet parallel’ actually meant.
It seemed that every week he had to repeat the same thing – he often wondered why – and even today, still wonders.
The Dao Yin exercises were completed to the satisfaction or not of the participants and in as many variations as there were students. The instructor continued the class with warm up exercises and form, wondering if he’d got it right too!
“It’s more important to understand one move well and engage with the good energies and proper structure than it is to know lots of different shapes and forms,” said the teacher hopefully peering into a crowd of sometimes expressionless and unconvinced faces. Did they make progress? He could see that most of them did ….. in their own way.
He thought back to his early, and inadequate, days of teaching, always desperate at the end of each class for some sort of feedback ….. ‘That was a good class’ ……. What a difference it makes when we do ..’ …. ‘I feel so much better after a class’ … etc; it rarely came. Now he was sure he was on the right track, he’d moved on, discovered things he hadn’t dreamed existed before, and now feedback had less meaning anymore – which was just as well as not much came. Observation told the truth.
The teacher turned towards the stage, put a CD in the player and pressed the play button. Suitable and appropriate music gently filled the hall. Now, suitable and appropriate it might have been but not necessarily to the taste of all the students. He remembered, once he’d been asked to turn it off as it made the place sound like a cheap Chinese restaurant. Then there were the hard of hearing (including the teacher!) who it seemed insisted on standing near the player so they couldn’t hear instructions – or stood right at the back where they could hear nothing.
“Ah, meditative peace and harmony – that’s what we’re looking for”, he reminded himself.
“The perfect man is spirit like, great lakes may boil around him, yet he will not feel the heat ……..”
The teacher always had a plan, a theme, and an idea to pursue in his lesson. Of course, it was important to remain flexible and adapt any such plan. It had to cope with students coming in late and missing the essential pre-amble, which meant that the essential pre-amble became more an ‘after-amble’ in order not to rob latecomers of the best chance to learn.
He was minded of an old Vietnamese proverb, “The man who only walks on sunny days will never finish the journey".
“The Ho and the Han may be frozen up yet he will not feel the cold …..”…….
“Feet parallel, feet parallel!” he shouted again as he wondered why most students left the instruction manual on operating their knees at home.
“Whole body; whole body must be involved”, he called out in vain as a few students operated their arms independently of their static straight kneed bodies.
And yet, how could he teach if he did not believe, and if he believed, could he perform?
If only he could put into practice the very advice that he gave his students. He called them students but really he saw them as friends sharing the same journey. He too knew what it was like to struggle with the new; to experience disappointment in realising that what he knew was either not enough or not strictly the truth he was really after; or to glimpse just how far away was the destination of enlightenment.
Yes, he knew the feeling, ‘not internal enough’, ‘not co-ordinated’, ‘poor focus of intention’. He’d been there ….. He was still there! He didn’t want to struggle to the top of the wrong mountain, or perhaps the right one but have no ticket to get in the temple, but at the same time, to give up was to remain in the valley shadows or the abyss below.
Back to the class he would go with renewed determination and a cunning plan in his head. Drawing on experiences and ideas to make the class more entertaining and interactive. ……….. “Offer your wrist to the partner in front and when they tighten their grip use your body and not the gripped arm to move them”, he explained as he demonstrated the advantage of this great ‘secret’ that was to unfold for the students.
Then it was their go. He would wander in wonder around the class looking at all the variations, and give advice to each to make it more real. Then he would notice people in their pairs, talking. “How did you get on with the exercise, did you manage to do it?” he asked. “Oh, yes”, they would smile and reply in unison, “we’ve both had a go”. (Like, one swallow does not a summer make, one go won’t change the world either.) Then there were others who were still trying, but both gripping, and those with feet, independently blundering negligently out of parallel again, “feet parallel, feet parallel,” he would plead, almost without hope by now. And yet there was progress. He could see individual students becoming energised and stronger; it kept him there.
“Thunderbolts may split the mountains and the wind shake the sea but he will remain unafraid ….” …
As the music played and the students performed, his mind drifted to some other disappointments, to past students ……..
‘I went to a teacher in Bumbling Town in Anyshire, he was better than you, you might know of him, his name was John. He used bits of card with North and South on … and was very good’, (implying, ‘not like you’.)
‘Perhaps you could draw out on paper the entire footwork sequence of the form; I think it would help me …’
‘Can we just do that bit again?’ said as the caretaker waits at the door twiddling his keys and thinking of home and dinner.
Then the lady who looked at her watch about every two minutes throughout the class, that’s about 45 times! He didn’t think she would return … he was right.
“It hurts my knees!” Not surprising twisted like that; why not listen to the teacher?
“Any chance of buying a video of the Tai Chi?”
‘Don’t worry, please borrow my copy, and bring it back’ (Ho Ho! He wondered if they’d used it to over record Eastenders or something.)
Then the lady who told him at the end of a class, “I’ve not learned much off you; why don’t you start a beginner’s class?” (Translates as, ‘why not hire this expensive hall and waste your time and money waiting for me to decide if it’s worth coming to’) He knew this and said politely and calmly, “The class is over now and we are just going to do a relaxing balancing exercise to close it down”. As the other students gathered in a large circle, the lady with all the advice on how to run a class, gained from her first and only tai chi lesson, stormed out to the main door. The main door had a peculiar locking method, which she failed with as successfully as she had with her Tai Chi, and so, now even more agitated stomped through the middle of the exercise and burst out through the emergency push bar exit and into the car park, where she no doubt found fault with everything else.
“Neither death nor life changes him; such a being he mounts the clouds, rides the Sun and Moon and rambles at ease beyond the four seas.” Nieh Ch’ueh
He was aware that he and his students were in pursuit of personal growth, not an easy path, but for him there was also reward. It wasn’t all bad; often he would see wonderful progress amongst many students, sometimes almost moved to tears as he witnessed the grace and harmony, the oneness and the peace of those who had found their own journey to the temple on the mountain. Smiles of thanks and hugs of greetings; it made it all worthwhile.
So, there you have it, a brief glimpse into one man’s search for enlightenment – on a journey with his students; sometimes they lead the way too.
He put down his pen and sank back into the comfy chair, eyes closing he drifted into a dream …. at last ….. the top of the mountain ……. the Temple of enlightenment …….
he entered in … suddenly, a monastic voice broke the silence, “Feet parallel, feet parallel” “back foot, back foot,” …… he fell deeper into a sleep, his feet twitching in his new blue slippers.
***************************
Spiritually uplifting, harmonic, Chinese music softly filled the air; students meeting once again as the weeks before, chatting intently with each other. The instructor never knew what they talked about – and to be honest never wondered either.
He clapped his hands twice to bring the class to a beginning. Some students were always up and ready early while others seemed to wait for the signal before they even changed their shoes! Some still chatted, seemingly frivolously and obliviously. When the instructor broke up conversations by moving the offending students to another space in the hall, the offenders would promptly start chatting to the person next to them. Eventually they would settle.
‘What’s the point of shouting and rushing?’ thought the instructor, ‘it’s not what we’re here for.’
‘We’ll start this week with the Dao Yin exercise”, the instructor said from the front of the class, from which position he could well see the grimaces of those students who obviously didn’t like the exercise and the smiles of those that did. Trying not to let his psyche be affected by the judgement on his plan, the teacher mustered his spirit and began the exercise.
Before the start he once more reminded them, ‘feet parallel; feet parallel; it’s really important!’ Occasionally he would spend some time correcting foot positions for those who weren’t sure what ‘feet parallel’ actually meant.
It seemed that every week he had to repeat the same thing – he often wondered why – and even today, still wonders.
The Dao Yin exercises were completed to the satisfaction or not of the participants and in as many variations as there were students. The instructor continued the class with warm up exercises and form, wondering if he’d got it right too!
“It’s more important to understand one move well and engage with the good energies and proper structure than it is to know lots of different shapes and forms,” said the teacher hopefully peering into a crowd of sometimes expressionless and unconvinced faces. Did they make progress? He could see that most of them did ….. in their own way.
He thought back to his early, and inadequate, days of teaching, always desperate at the end of each class for some sort of feedback ….. ‘That was a good class’ ……. What a difference it makes when we do ..’ …. ‘I feel so much better after a class’ … etc; it rarely came. Now he was sure he was on the right track, he’d moved on, discovered things he hadn’t dreamed existed before, and now feedback had less meaning anymore – which was just as well as not much came. Observation told the truth.
The teacher turned towards the stage, put a CD in the player and pressed the play button. Suitable and appropriate music gently filled the hall. Now, suitable and appropriate it might have been but not necessarily to the taste of all the students. He remembered, once he’d been asked to turn it off as it made the place sound like a cheap Chinese restaurant. Then there were the hard of hearing (including the teacher!) who it seemed insisted on standing near the player so they couldn’t hear instructions – or stood right at the back where they could hear nothing.
“Ah, meditative peace and harmony – that’s what we’re looking for”, he reminded himself.
“The perfect man is spirit like, great lakes may boil around him, yet he will not feel the heat ……..”
The teacher always had a plan, a theme, and an idea to pursue in his lesson. Of course, it was important to remain flexible and adapt any such plan. It had to cope with students coming in late and missing the essential pre-amble, which meant that the essential pre-amble became more an ‘after-amble’ in order not to rob latecomers of the best chance to learn.
He was minded of an old Vietnamese proverb, “The man who only walks on sunny days will never finish the journey".
“The Ho and the Han may be frozen up yet he will not feel the cold …..”…….
“Feet parallel, feet parallel!” he shouted again as he wondered why most students left the instruction manual on operating their knees at home.
“Whole body; whole body must be involved”, he called out in vain as a few students operated their arms independently of their static straight kneed bodies.
And yet, how could he teach if he did not believe, and if he believed, could he perform?
If only he could put into practice the very advice that he gave his students. He called them students but really he saw them as friends sharing the same journey. He too knew what it was like to struggle with the new; to experience disappointment in realising that what he knew was either not enough or not strictly the truth he was really after; or to glimpse just how far away was the destination of enlightenment.
Yes, he knew the feeling, ‘not internal enough’, ‘not co-ordinated’, ‘poor focus of intention’. He’d been there ….. He was still there! He didn’t want to struggle to the top of the wrong mountain, or perhaps the right one but have no ticket to get in the temple, but at the same time, to give up was to remain in the valley shadows or the abyss below.
Back to the class he would go with renewed determination and a cunning plan in his head. Drawing on experiences and ideas to make the class more entertaining and interactive. ……….. “Offer your wrist to the partner in front and when they tighten their grip use your body and not the gripped arm to move them”, he explained as he demonstrated the advantage of this great ‘secret’ that was to unfold for the students.
Then it was their go. He would wander in wonder around the class looking at all the variations, and give advice to each to make it more real. Then he would notice people in their pairs, talking. “How did you get on with the exercise, did you manage to do it?” he asked. “Oh, yes”, they would smile and reply in unison, “we’ve both had a go”. (Like, one swallow does not a summer make, one go won’t change the world either.) Then there were others who were still trying, but both gripping, and those with feet, independently blundering negligently out of parallel again, “feet parallel, feet parallel,” he would plead, almost without hope by now. And yet there was progress. He could see individual students becoming energised and stronger; it kept him there.
“Thunderbolts may split the mountains and the wind shake the sea but he will remain unafraid ….” …
As the music played and the students performed, his mind drifted to some other disappointments, to past students ……..
‘I went to a teacher in Bumbling Town in Anyshire, he was better than you, you might know of him, his name was John. He used bits of card with North and South on … and was very good’, (implying, ‘not like you’.)
‘Perhaps you could draw out on paper the entire footwork sequence of the form; I think it would help me …’
‘Can we just do that bit again?’ said as the caretaker waits at the door twiddling his keys and thinking of home and dinner.
Then the lady who looked at her watch about every two minutes throughout the class, that’s about 45 times! He didn’t think she would return … he was right.
“It hurts my knees!” Not surprising twisted like that; why not listen to the teacher?
“Any chance of buying a video of the Tai Chi?”
‘Don’t worry, please borrow my copy, and bring it back’ (Ho Ho! He wondered if they’d used it to over record Eastenders or something.)
Then the lady who told him at the end of a class, “I’ve not learned much off you; why don’t you start a beginner’s class?” (Translates as, ‘why not hire this expensive hall and waste your time and money waiting for me to decide if it’s worth coming to’) He knew this and said politely and calmly, “The class is over now and we are just going to do a relaxing balancing exercise to close it down”. As the other students gathered in a large circle, the lady with all the advice on how to run a class, gained from her first and only tai chi lesson, stormed out to the main door. The main door had a peculiar locking method, which she failed with as successfully as she had with her Tai Chi, and so, now even more agitated stomped through the middle of the exercise and burst out through the emergency push bar exit and into the car park, where she no doubt found fault with everything else.
“Neither death nor life changes him; such a being he mounts the clouds, rides the Sun and Moon and rambles at ease beyond the four seas.” Nieh Ch’ueh
He was aware that he and his students were in pursuit of personal growth, not an easy path, but for him there was also reward. It wasn’t all bad; often he would see wonderful progress amongst many students, sometimes almost moved to tears as he witnessed the grace and harmony, the oneness and the peace of those who had found their own journey to the temple on the mountain. Smiles of thanks and hugs of greetings; it made it all worthwhile.
So, there you have it, a brief glimpse into one man’s search for enlightenment – on a journey with his students; sometimes they lead the way too.
He put down his pen and sank back into the comfy chair, eyes closing he drifted into a dream …. at last ….. the top of the mountain ……. the Temple of enlightenment …….
he entered in … suddenly, a monastic voice broke the silence, “Feet parallel, feet parallel” “back foot, back foot,” …… he fell deeper into a sleep, his feet twitching in his new blue slippers.
***************************
An old friend.
"Nobody can know the war
we fight within our own selves."
Tim.
You've come a long way to discover this ... but it will be worth it.
“There is a moment in time and space, where the world of opposites resides in fleeting but perfect harmony. If your mind is willing, it is from beyond that gateway, the unknown beckons. Though you may still return, having crossed the threshold you will never be the same again.
“Nothing in this universe can exist without an opposite. No sadness, no joy; No fear, no courage; No darkness, no light; No death no life; No life, no death. “
“Despite your own belief of normality, somewhere beyond the gateway is an undeniable difference that patiently awaits your arrival.
Know this, we are only here, we only exist, because somewhere out in the beyond, there is an opposite.”
“You are, only because, it is.”
“There is a moment in time and space, where the world of opposites resides in fleeting but perfect harmony. If your mind is willing, it is from beyond that gateway, the unknown beckons. Though you may still return, having crossed the threshold you will never be the same again.
“Nothing in this universe can exist without an opposite. No sadness, no joy; No fear, no courage; No darkness, no light; No death no life; No life, no death. “
“Despite your own belief of normality, somewhere beyond the gateway is an undeniable difference that patiently awaits your arrival.
Know this, we are only here, we only exist, because somewhere out in the beyond, there is an opposite.”
“You are, only because, it is.”
