Tuesday, 27 September 2011

The Realm of The Miraculous

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We find love in family, in our arrangements and choices for life. Then we are surprised when Love doesn't find preferment in us. It takes away a family member inexplicably; it casts asunder all our arrangements and plans and throws us out into a cold world unprepared. How is this possible? Life isn't meant to be like that - it's meant to be secure, protected, healthy. Part of the answer to this is that the security we think is secure is actually an empty idol. We bury the gold of Love in family, occupation, lifestyle, country and then worship it as a thing in itself. Politicians particularly trade on this. Love itself stands apart and chooses - or inflicts - what creates and sustains life, not what preserves and hardens it. Thus the inexplicable comes in and takes a loved one away or, apparently, takes love itself away.

Nothing will ever explain why this happens except the process of life itself. Suffice it to say that life wants you to turn towards Love itself and see it as something quite independent of all the things and institutions in which you have enshrined love. You can choose to see Love as the ultimate Being in this way. If you choose to love family, country, way of life more than the Being of Love then you will never see that the inexplicable events of life are actually tinged with the miraculous. There is always new life, there is always new creation - that is the principle lying behind the twists and turns of life which we can't explain. The process of life itself will eventually reveal where the miracles lie hidden.

This realm of the miraculous is the real gold, the real treasure of existence - not the outward forms in which we try too hard to crystallize love. The mere preservation of forms, families, and institutions will always result in social fracture and warfare. The inner current of the miraculous will allow for new life and creation. This is the reason for loving the Being of Love before anything else.

Jay


©landar 2011. All rights reserved


Picture: The Miracle of The Roses by Valerio Castello




Friday, 23 September 2011

The Smallest Wave of a Great Ocean

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Life plays itself out on two levels. The one is breath and blood and heart, the other is thought and feeling and understanding. A fatal damage may occur to either. If to the first then life is over; if to the second then what remains of life - all your days - may seem like an open coffin. However, Love might not give up on you. It might choose to place a flower on that satin bed. Then, though hope and trust appear to be gone, the miracle of new life or of life sustained takes place. I believe this is true. Even if someone dies with all hope and trust lost, that flower may still be placed there. It may happen at the moment of death - many stories attest to that - or, I believe, it may happen after. The miracle of new life or of life sustained will take place at some point.


This fact indicates the vital relationship between the two levels. On the one hand we don't know why death, illness, accident take place; on the other we feel it is essentially connected with the inner impulse of thought, feeling and understanding. Loves gives meaning or restores the balance - by that I mean the force which creates or sustains both levels. By its intrinsic nature this force is miraculous - we wouldn't be here if it wasn't. At its most outward level it may make the dumb man speak or the blind man see. Only - we've grown so far away from understanding it. Faith is what binds us to it. But faith has grown like a very long arm stretching further and further away from the miraculous.

What separates us from the animals? Truth. The ability to apprehend truth. This ability gives us the means to overcome all divisions. Unfortunately, the faculty to divine the truth has been largely replaced by the process of rationalizing phenomena. In other words a faculty has been supplanted by a process, 'divining' by rationalizing, and the truth by phenomena. The verb 'to divine' is very little used nowadays. It accurately expresses our relationship to the truth at a human, non-animal, level. It contains the notion that truth is a treasure which is not so easily discovered. Ultimately, I believe, it embodies our relationship to the divine itself. As such it is the means by which we arrive at the flower laid on the white satin bed. It is the force which rekindles faith.

Truth can be as great or small as you like. It can be the smallest wave of a great ocean. That might be the wave which makes you take off your shoes and bathe your feet. It is the wholeness which brings your feet back to life again.

Jay

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

The Noise of Many Places

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Truth will always find its friends. I understand that because truth knows me and calls me by name. Who is truth? Pontius Pilate asked the question, 'What is truth?', because he did not know the being who stood before him. Would you or I have acted differently? Pilate was in a position of authority - he was required to act. He did not have the benefit of hindsight; the book had not been written yet. Would we have acted differently? And yet truth remains. It doesn't matter that militant atheists will not give it a shape, a name, an identity. Truth will always find its friends. Sometimes they will emerge shyly, unexpectedly, at the point of defeat. Truth is the quiet shoulder in the turbulent man. It wears its chequered coat in company. Who would not want it to be a harlequin, a thing of many varied colors? And yet it stands by the person who bears its single color alone - the person who has no friends. It will stand with him or her until the end of the earth.

The stillness of truth rebuffs all agitation; it needs no convincing or persuasion of its right. It doesn't waste its time in condemning what is wrong. It lets its silence reach into the noise of many places.



Truth


Will truth stay in itself and shield its light?
It will not shun the market-square or hide
from people who've never learned debate.
It wears it chequered coat in company
but knows its friends by name and calls them out.
Yet it will stand by one who is alone,
who bears its colour with no one else around.
Even until the end of earth it will stand
when every false attack has gone to ground.


Jay
©landar 2011. All rights reserved


Image: The Seated Harlequin, Picasso


Thursday, 15 September 2011

The Ass's Colt

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A long time ago there lived a certain donkey who was the property of a trader who dealt in salt. The donkey was patient and enduring - he carried vast loads without complaint. He waited only for the end of each day when he could be alone with his dreams. Then, by night, he filled himself not with food but with thoughts of the world above the earth - he felt himself flying among creatures which had never lived on the ground: strange, fantastical, beautiful shapes whose wings only sometimes brushed the soil. These beings had never tasted salt, the donkey was sure, and he wanted to be one of them - to grow true wings of his own.

The salt grew heavier and heavier. The trader bought it from desert nomads who in turn bartered for it from a slave kingdom in the south. Nothing was good about it, except that it seasoned the meat of soldiers who were garrisoned in the town and who longed for the shaded avenues of their home. The donkey knew that one more sack on his back would break his spine. The trader contemplated bringing more but saw that the donkey would not reach town in time for him to do his rounds of the wealthy houses. Everything was calculated to within a grain of breaking point.

Although he had been doing the same work for many months since he had grown to his full size the donkey was still described as 'the ass's colt', as if he were just a foal or a newcomer to the stable. Generally the older animals who could not work any more went for meat but this donkey's mother stayed in a shed in the garden. The trader's daughter rode on her back every day and the good-natured animal listened to the birds singing in the evening. Nobody, man, woman or child, had ever ridden the colt himself.

The donkey couldn't be sure if time was speeding up or slowing down. There was so much business to do in town. The work never stopped, the roads were dusty and dry; each day was too short to do as much as the trader wanted to do; each day stretched like a hurried eternity before the donkey. He wanted the trader to sell as much as he could because then his load would be lighter. But most of all he wanted to stop and dream of the golden creatures flying in the sun.

His mother told him this: "Son, dreams are like butterflies - they mean much more than what they seem to be. But only the butterfly knows what its life is for. Will a donkey ever fly? Let me tell you this - the soldiers you take salt to must suffer their lives; the rich people you visit will lose their sons and daughters like anyone else. The nomads are cursed by freedom and the slaves die other people's deaths for them. Look and see. If you are lucky you will carry a trader's daughter in a pretty courtyard and listen to the birds in the evening. If you are lucky your back will not break. Listen to me. Once there was a donkey just like yourself who worked like a slave. But he looked at people as only a donkey can. He saw that their own lives made them slaves of themselves. They could not carry their burdens. He alone was able to bear the weight on his back and at the same time to see how people suffered. He endured beatings and curses and hunger. One day he looked down at his hoofs and saw that a little rim of gold, like the edge of the sun, had formed on each foot. No man could see that, he knew. And as he drank he saw the reflection of his tongue in the trough. It was coated in silver, like the light of the moon. His master would never know it. And now when he worked he felt his spirit inside lifting up with every step. Wherever he went he spoke, in his own words, the sorrow he saw. Son, is this not flying? Can a donkey not be equal to a butterfly and know its own life? Is a dream not what you become with your life?"

The donkey listened and looked after this. Sure enough the nomads, the slaves, the soldiers and the rich people suffered and fell more than he did himself. He saw this now. Their lives were like disguises for their souls. Wealth and strength, freedom and servitude meant very little. Had they dreamed truly? Had they become what they dreamed? The donkey felt sorry for people. And every day he looked at his hoofs, and at the reflection of his tongue in the trough, to see what was forming there.

One day the donkey stood by the well while the trader drank. There was a feast coming up and he wanted to make sure every house in town had all the salt it needed. The donkey knew what that meant for him. The trader went inside. Suddenly two men appeared as if from nowhere.

"This is the one," said the first man, looking at the colt. "We'll take him now."
   "We should tell someone," said the second man. He looked inside the gate.
   "There's no time," replied the first. "We need to go."
   At that moment the trader walked out.
   "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, when he saw the two men preparing to lead his donkey away.
   "The master sent us," replied the man.
   "The master?"
   "Yes, you know who I mean. He's returning to the city and means to ride in."
   "I know your master," pondered the trader. "He spoke to my daughter. She's never forgotten it. I need this animal for work today. But I have another in the back. She's his mother and very sweet tempered. She would do the job well."
   "No," answered the second man, "he specifically asked for the colt we would find tied to the gate. The colt with the sun in his feet and the moon on his tongue. I don't know what that means."
   The trader looked at the donkey. The words affected him for some reason.
   "It might be this is the right one," he said slowly. "Take him then. For the sake of my daughter you might as well take the old one too. But bring them back safely. You know what they are planning to do to your master."

He went to the shed in the courtyard and led out the colt's aged mother. The men set off briskly with the ass and her colt behind them. Once, when they stopped for a moment, the old donkey said to her son, "This is the day when you will bear the world upon your back." The colt could not think what she meant. He only imagined that he would be expected to carry a greater load than ever.

A group of men and women were waiting at the city gates. To the donkey's eye they seemed different to the nomads and traders, the merchants and the soldiers. The donkey could not find a hint of slavery about them and with his practised eye he could tell they were able to carry a burden if they had to.

In the middle of the group there was one man in particular who had a special lightness about him. The donkey could see that this man carried all his own weight in an effortless kind of way. The man looked at the mother and son, the ass and her colt in such a way that the colt felt he had all the evenings of his life to spend listening to the birds.

"This one has completed her work," said the man, stroking the older donkey. He turned to the colt. "This fellow is the one with the sun in his hoofs and the moon on his tongue." He patted the colt, who felt a blissful sensation coming over him. "No human soul has ridden this beast before," went on the man, "but he knows how to carry the world!"

The man climbed up onto the colt's back. The colt felt as if all the salt he had ever carried had been shifted away. If tears could have fallen from his eyes they would have. Is this what it meant to carry the world? If it was then he would gladly do it every day of his life!

Now all the people in the group set off in procession through the town. The colt walked in the middle with the man on his back. Many people came to greet them. The donkey knew them - where they came from and what pains they suffered. The people shouted and threw down branches in front of them as they passed. And each branch was like a heavy weight being lifted.

Suddenly the donkey had the strangest sensation. Instead of there being a burden on his back he felt he was carrying all his dreams: the creatures who lived above the ground; the fantastical, beautiful shapes whose wings hardly brushed the soil. They were all there - he was carrying them all. He was part of their world and would never be separated from them again.

Now when they reached the temple the man climbed down. He stroked and patted the colt in thanks. He turned to the colt's mother and thanked her for bringing her son into the world and making this journey possible. "You are the very soul of wisdom!" he said. In that moment the donkey felt that every donkey who had ever walked on the earth was there with them, and all their burdens slipped away. He saw that slaves, nomads, merchants and soldiers alike would one day be released from the loads they were forced to carry.

The man disappeared into the temple. The donkey and the mother were returned to the trader's yard where they resumed their normal life. The greatest feast of the year was nearly upon them and the town was crowded. The donkey and the trader had work to do. But in his own mind the ass's colt was preparing for a completely different feast.

It came five days later. A thick darkness fell over the town during the day. The birds stopped singing. The colt's mother stood very still indeed. The donkey felt his back tingling. He looked down and the only thing he could see in the darkness was the light coming from the rims of gold on his hoofs. He found the trough and peered into the still water. A silvery, moonlike glimmer reflected from his tongue.

The darkness passed and the world was changed. An invisible feast had taken place even while the townspeople hurried to prepare for their usual one. The donkey knew that nothing he carried would ever feel the same again.

Two days later a strange thing happened to his dreams. Among all the beautiful, flying creatures he so much wanted to join, the donkey saw the figure and face of the man he had carried. From that point on he knew that the world he lived in and the world of his dreams would be one and the same.


Jay
©landar 2011. All rights reserved


Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Life Is a Dream

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Which is greater, the love of life or the fear of death? If you level them out you have the sphere of earth: a roundness purporting to be flat. Earth is the sphere of our activity - we walk in it in life and lie in it in death. Therefore in a sense the joys and fears are equal. We forget ourselves by night and remember by day. We expend our life by day, recoup by night. As an individual I am an eternal thing: a myth born in a moment. I am like an ornament hanging on a tree which is already dying. The world is the vehicle for my existence but that existence must always pass away. As regards life things might as well be equal - the love of life and the fear of death. As regards my individuality, my heart is like a square object in a round space. It must go on trying because the earth is walking in me too.

Life is a dream; the waking point is pain. I hardly have the right to speak of pain - to quote chapter and verse - unless I am prepared to bear the burden of my own and help others carry theirs. Therefore I have to make myself a beast of burden. But as a human spirit I also want to soar up to the sun. How can I reconcile these things? Become a donkey with wings? An ox who ascends? I am what I am: I'm born to do and to try and to be what I can. Nothing will stop me even though I plod the silent road. Here it is that pain reveals itself as the light-bearer. It is the gilt on my hoofs, the silver on my tongue - it lifts me, one foot at a time, where I might otherwise not go. It ascends with me, raises me to the sun by diverse ways - the weight in the legs becomes lightness to rise up. And what is more it gives me the precious coin of expression: sympathy for all life. How else could Don Quixote - a dreamer - outride the jeers and remain a Don to the very tips of his toes? Because he knew the impossible can happen - he understood the roundness of life.

All this belongs to the question of fatalism or commitment. Fatalism is where things happen to you; you have no control over them and no choice but to accept them. It's the condition you live in before taking the decision to level out the love of life and the fear of death. After taking that decision the flat roundness of earth is yours to live on. Pain is no longer an expression of fate but a commitment. Ultimately the gilt and the silver appear through it. No one wants or invites pain - but you have to dream like Don or fly like the donkey to ascend to true life.


Jay


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©landar 2011. All rights reserved

Friday, 2 September 2011

The Isle That Gave Me Birth

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Is it just that I grow old and want to die? (Every human being must ask this question at some point.) No, the heart continues to sing its song. The song is of love and by this token it knows that it will be there when the new world rises. The new world is coming, as surely as that day in the old when the serpent first bit my heel, when I first learned to know defeat and hope in the earth. I've loved and known the old world, together with its beasts and birds, its seas and tireless mountains. I have to go back to the beginning and see the ancient Hyperborean isle that gave me birth; to the north, to feel again the cold, clear air of Polaris, when the stars first came down to receive their names. My hidden, secret history. But the new world will be born, through the tears of the old.

I feel the new world as a cocoon inside me. I see it, and hear it, in the heart's song. Will you let go of the old, as a snake sloughs its skin? The new world is not there in knowledge, which the serpent bestows. It's there in the way in which knowledge is received and given - in other words, in the human form: the being who stands with her foot above the serpent. In the transmission of love we can rise above the serpent's bite. The new world is already in and around us. It holds an end to suffering and death. But only if we become what the song sings to us. Is it possible to become the music of a song? In truth, there's nothing else you can become.


Serpent
The ancient world grows tired of living -
refreshing itself each day
in its own founts of wisdom
to give my eye the price of a new view.
It sees with imperceptible joy
the new world forming like a cocoon in me
and waits with breath held
through Platonic years
for its terrible, impressive weight
to be lifted from it. And with it
will go the four-legged creatures,
spines parallel to the earth, the birds
who've sung creation into life each day,
the seas whipped up by storm,
cold, enduring mountains left alone.
The new world will remember how
the old upheld its vow even as
that first, curling serpent bit my heel.


Jay

You can also find Landar on EVOLVER:
http://www.evolver.net/user/landar


©landar 2011. All rights reserved