I AM

No longer a spectator but an observer, my perception is my creation. No longer victim but creator, my creation is my act of love. No longer possessed but lover, my act of love is constant recognition.

I am old and weary, tired of the years.

Young am I, all wonder.

The beginning is me, and the end, and everything in between.

The hand that embraces me in love, is me in gratitude.

I am.

A piece of text that touched me, from the beautiful book by Hans Korteweg: "Many More Years" 

Art: Jacob's Ladder by William Blake

Your Children Are Not Your Children

"Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself."

- Kahlil Gibran

A reflection

It is only human to be devoted and attached to one's family. To desire a good relationship with one's own children is probably the most genuine desire of any parent. To lose the connection, whether by death or by life, causes suffering. 

To come to peace with this loss is possible..; to lay the suffering to rest is also possible. But it is only possible when to the profoundest depths is understood that love is not an exclusive blessing for one's own loved ones, but that love abounds and permeates everything. Then the heart calms down and the surrender to what is simply follows.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

Art: Les enfants de Bretagne by Emil Vernon

A Time for Everything

 

   

There is a time for everything

 and a season for every activity under the heavens.

Ecclesiastes 3

*

We are familiar with the expression ‘quality time’, meaning time meaningfully spent, perhaps in the company of a loved one, or doing something which we value. But in our vocabulary there is only one sort of time, whether that is spent in quality time or doing some routine chore. That time is the familiar past, present and future of our everyday experience. To us in the 21st-century, it is all just ‘time’. The paradox here is that so many nowadays complain about having no time at all.

But the Ancient Greeks saw things differently, and their vocabulary expressed more, for they had two words for time: kairos and chronos. Kairos means the right or supreme moment. While kairos signifies a time in between ordinary time, a moment of indeterminate time in which something special happens, chronos refers to chronological or sequential time – the past-present-future time familiar to us. While Kairos is qualitative, chronos has a quantitative nature.

Kairos is about time that lies outside of ordinary time.  It is the space we experience when we turn inwards, the kind of time in which everything is absorbed. In kairos all pasts and futures are contained in every moment: an eternal ‘now’ of infinite possibilities. There is no judgement, only immense space and gentle awareness - and the realisation that everything is connected with everything else, and assimilated into the loving unnamable Mystery. We can turn ourselves towards this state of being, and make space for our soul, our wisdom and our compassion. Put simply: if chronos is secular time, the time of clocks, busy schedules, deadlines, and feeling like we never have time enough to get things done, then kairos is sacred time, in which we have infinite time to restore our soul and connect with the eternal. 

As Ecclesiastes the Preacher says: there is a time for everything. Kairos is the beautiful kind of time where the divine mystery steps in and changes everything. Experiencing kairos can prompt pivotal moments, crucial moments of great consequence for our life, moments which prove to be turning points in our life which can change the direction of our journey forever.

The Preacher also says: There is a time for sowing and a time for harvesting. And so we need the time to ripen certain aspects within us before they can flower and be harvested. Here every moment is important in connection with the great Mystery which surrounds us. This is the true ‘quality time’: the time known as kairos. And it could even be true that every moment is the right moment once we accept and welcome what is - and the touch of love will be all that is needed.

Photograph: Planetarium of Eise Eisinga in Franeker, Friesland, The Netherlands.

Golden Joins

How often in life are we left feeling that something has broken us? We might feel this way for any number of reasons, perhaps because of the loss of a loved one, leaving us heartbroken. Or because of some failed business venture, when our dreams collapse and we are left to ‘pick up the pieces’. Or perhaps some relationship comes to a sudden and painful end, leaving us feeling wounded, heartbroken and hesitant about risking some new beginning.

All such experiences are common enough, and it is unlikely that we can manage to get through life without encountering one or more of these various trials, perhaps even multiple times. But what seems to make these experiences unique is not so much that they happen, but our different reactions to them and how we personally deal with them. One way of coping with them is to ‘put a brave face on things’ and to act as if everything is alright really, and carry on behaving as if all is normal and that there is nothing really to worry about. In such a situation we have decided ‘not to make a fuss’, even though the reality might be that below the surface we are feeling emotionally devastated.

Methods used in the West by pottery restorers can be very successful at disguising damage caused by breakage. Some beloved or valuable ceramic, having been accidentally smashed into several pieces, is painstakingly restored by a competent professional. The ceramic is carefully glued back together, the pieces are joined once more, and any gaps between the cracks are filled with an appropriate modelling material before being painted over to closely match the original. In the hands of a skilled restorer the damage can be rendered invisible to all but the closest inspection. But there is another way.

The Japanese know it as the art of kintsugi. It is in every way the opposite, both in materials and in philosophy, of the restoration methods described above. Kintsugi means ‘golden joins’, because rather than making any attempt to disguise any cracks, the cracks instead are not only left plainly visible, but transformed into a feature of the ceramic by filling them with gold lacquer paste, transforming every single item repaired in this way into an individual object, even a unique work of art. The history of a piece, including the event of its breakage, is plainly visible, turning a potential disaster instead into a celebration.

Both of these methods ensure that the piece in question is as functional as it was before the breakage and suitable to be passed on to the next generation, but oh, how different they are in their approaches! Perhaps, rather than always ‘putting a brave face on things’, we ourselves might do better to remember the art of kintsugi and choose to bear our emotional and physical scars as worthy signs of our own personal history. A woman who has undergone a mastectomy and chooses to have her scar tattooed might in her own way be said to be practicing the art of kintsugi. Who among us has not been damaged at one time or another? It is up to us either to disguise that damage and pretend that everything is alright really, or to embrace it and create our own art of healing, our own ‘golden joins’.

In the Name of the Mother

“In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.” This invocation to the Holy Trinity is so familiar in Christian prayer that it probably hardly registers that two of these terms are decidedly gender-specific, with the third term implied as being so by the first two. This can be a troubling point to maneuver around for those liberal souls who might insist that ‘God’ is neither male nor female, when the phrase ‘God the father’ has become so entrenched in our consciousness.

To help us to a greater understanding, let me here offer a thought of the Sikh sage and spiritual teacher Harbhajan Singh Khalsa, known as Yogi Bhajan: “Why do we call God the Father? Father does not have a creative nature... father can only seed. We are a soul and part of that whole great soul which is the seed in you. Creativity of sustenance and deliverance is from the mother, and that is why the Earth is called mother.”

Why indeed is God ‘the father’? It perhaps needs a mental effort to realize that things were not always this way, for in the beliefs of Ancient Babylonia the First Cause was female: the primordial Cosmic Ocean from whose waters all arose. It was the mingling of two waters, the salt waters of the seas and the fresh waters of the rivers and lakes of the land, which allowed all creation to begin, and it was the primordial Feminine which provided the impetus to initiate that momentous act. In this creative scheme of things no ‘father’ was necessary.

In nature as well ‘no father is necessary’, for in nature we encounter ‘parthenogenesis’, meaning ‘virgin birth’, and it is by no means uncommon in many species of reptiles, in bees, and in plants. No male is needed for these life forms to procreate: they simply do what they do! Nature might be showing us the way forward by example, although we in our Western mindset might still be a long way from ‘God the mother’.

To go back even further in time from these very first Babylonian beliefs of the primordial Mother Ocean, but staying in the Middle East, we arrive at the ancient civilization of Sumer, and the temple of Sumer’s High Priestess Enheduanna. Who did Enheduanna worship as the Supreme Creative force? The goddess Inanna, to whom the High Priestess composed several heartfelt and moving prayers – now among the oldest surviving writings in existence.

This ancient religious landscape already looks fundamentally different from our Holy Trinity of today, for God is only 'God the Father' in those patriarchal traditions which had - and still have - a vested interest in preserving their own power. But as Yogi Bhajan points out, the Creative Force is both initiating and sustaining: it is the Mother of all, the Divine Ground of all being.

Artwork: The Healing Women by Michael Malm

Simple Thanks

Years ago I remember reading the autobiography of an enlightened ‘master’ of the previous century. This particular person had, and still has, an international following of devotees and is a name recognized by many; although in view of the direction of this particular post I won’t name him here. In his book this person describes how he sat meditating deeply upon various subjects, and was so immersed in his reverie that only afterwards did he realize that in that time his granddaughter had dutifully brought him no less than twenty-seven cups of tea.

Although it is now a long time ago that I read about this incident, I find that my reaction now is the same as it was then. The ‘master’ claimed that he was so absorbed in his reflections that at the time he did not even notice his granddaughter’s presence. But (I thought) if he was conscious enough to drink the tea then he also was conscious enough to thank his young granddaughter for her kindness. Simple thanks are not mere commonplace things. We might consider the thought that the angels perhaps place more value in a single sincere 'thank you' to a dutiful and well-intentioned granddaughter than in a whole day spent meditating about them.

Life is not a comfort zone. We are here to experience what life is, and how it feels. If we are to grow then often enough we will be confronted with a situation which we cannot get ‘around’, but only ‘through’. It is a natural reaction to shy away from something which we might find painful, but life would not consider us to be diligent students if we simply tried to skip the lessons which we felt were too painful to follow. If we can thank our lucky stars for granting us strokes of fortune or what seem like ‘heaven-sent’ opportunities, why should we not equally give thanks for reversals of fortune or what we might feel are unjust setbacks?

Only being grateful for those things which seem to work in our favour, and begrudging those things which seem to work against our own best interests, is perhaps showing our ingratitude for everything which happens to us, because if we only appreciate the good, then we are only showing our appreciation for half the story – and half of what life has to offer us. Perhaps we need to regain this ‘other half’. Perhaps we need to do what for many is unthinkable or even absurd and give thanks for misfortunes as well, for misfortunes perhaps offer us the chance to grow even more than those fortunate times – if only we do not shy away from experiencing them.

There is another aspect to the story which begins this post, and that is the aspect of personal ego. A master who openly declares that he was so deep and so long in meditation that he was able to drink twenty-seven cups of tea without, apparently, being aware that he was doing so, comes uncomfortably close to ‘bragging rights’ (as we would now call them). It is almost as if this ‘master’ is saying to us, his readers: “Look how great I am at meditating!”

But supposing that instead he actually had broken off his meditations to give his devoted granddaughter his full attention, and show his appreciation of her presence, even of her actual existence, then perhaps I might now be saying of this person: “Look what a loving soul he was.” 

That is how much simple gratitude matters, and simple thanks as well.

Because, as the kind voice of Thich Nhat Hanh once said: "You must be completely awake in the present to enjoy the tea. Only in the awareness of the present, can your hands feel the pleasant warmth of the cup. Only in the present can you savor the aroma, taste the sweetness, appreciate the delicacy, for even just a few moments ago this cup of tea had not yet brewed properly, and very soon it will be too cold to enjoy."

So drink now, my friend, for this delicious cup of tea truly exists only in this precious present moment!

Words of Gold

In the early 19th-century, in Petelia in southern Italy, a small cylinder-shaped amulet was unearthed together with its gold chain. When the amulet was opened it was found to contain a tiny rolled-up plate of pure gold which, when flattened out, was no larger in size than a matchbox (above, shown approximately twice size). On the plate was inscribed a text, which turned out to be the oldest known text which we have, and one of the very few to survive, of the Orphic mysteries of Ancient Greece. 

We know so very little about these ancient mystery schools. The initiates guarded their secrets well, and we must guess what most of their teachings were about. The Petelia Tablet, as it has become known, lifts a small corner of the veil with which time has covered these teachings, but as with the few surviving fragments which we have of the poetry of Sappho, even this small leaf of gold is enough to hint at the intense beauty and poetry of those mysterious teachings.

‘Orphic’ we know comes from the name of the Ancient Greek poet and musician Orpheus, an immensely popular figure in stories of the time, the best-known today of which is the story of his journey to the Underworld in a bid to be reunited with his deceased love Eurydice. To defy Death itself to regain a lost loved one is a powerful theme to which any age can relate, which probably accounts for the enduring fascination of this story. Orpheus also appears in the story of Jason and the Argonauts in their quest for the Golden Fleece. In this story Orpheus takes on the role of Odysseus before him to outwit the Sirens, for when Jason and his crew approach the island of the Sirens, it is Orpheus who takes up his lyre and drowns the Sirens’ alluring song with his enchanting music, allowing the ship to sail safely onwards.

This is the central character of the Orphic mysteries: a character who is both poet, musician and daring adventurer, both in this world and in other unknown realms beyond. Orpheus, like many larger-than-life cultural heroes, exists somewhere between myth and folklore, and his presence apparently was powerful enough to have a mystery school founded in his name. So what does the Petelia Tablet actually tell us? What can we learn from these few brief lines of ancient text rescued from the earth? When translated from its original Ancient Greek, it begins by warning us (that is: the deceased thirsting soul) not to drink from a specific spring in Hades, but instead to seek another to quench our thirst from the Lake of Memory. But, we are warned, the guardians are nearby, and to them we must say:

“I am a child of Earth and the starry Heavens;

But my race is of Heaven alone; and this you know yourselves.

I am parched with thirst and I perish; but give me quickly

refreshing water flowing forth from the Lake of Memory.”

The fragmentary text then closes by reassuring us that the guardians of the Underworld will then allow us to drink from this divine spring, after which we may celebrate with the souls of other heroes. More text would have followed, but this is as much as has survived for us to read. Even this much leaves more than enough room for wondering. Are we being told that our soul is originally from Heaven, that the text is describing a mere metaphor? Or more profoundly, is the Petelia Tablet telling us a great secret: that we originally come from the stars? We might be both of Earth and Heaven, but our race – humankind – is originally from Heaven alone. Looked at in this way the text could not be more specific, and all that we can do is ponder these words of gold, and gaze up at the stars and wonder.

A Universal Force

Love is so very much more than an experienced emotion. It is a universal force of being. It cannot be destroyed. At times it might seem to us that this happens, when we feel that other forces overwhelm us. But even then - especially then - love transforms itself, finds new forms to replace those forms which, sometimes for reasons which are difficult for us to understand at the time, it no longer needs. No, love cannot be destroyed. But it can be transformed. And in that process of transformation it burns even brighter.

Painting by Gustave Moreau

Letting Go - An Act of Love

The phrase ‘letting go’ perhaps tends to be used rather casually. But there surely is a difference between letting go an unkind remark someone might have said to us, between urging ourselves to ‘let it go’, and the letting go of something so deep that it feels like death. This type of letting go is never easy and requires enormous courage. This type of letting go takes us on a journey that is highly personal, and only the person involved can do this in her or his own time. It is a lone process: no one can do it for us.
It is the act of letting go of a loved one. 
As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in one of his poems: "We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go." Letting go of a loved one is a recognition that we never really owned anyone or anything. It is a conscious act of great love and faith. For no one wants to part from a beloved one. 

The act of letting go itself seems to be an ongoing state of being; like the tides, one's emotions tend to ebb and flow, and these processes never seem to go quite in a straight line. But slowly, slowly, a little drop becomes the ocean and things find the level which is intended for them.

Often we have dreams of what we want in life, including who we want to be with, and how we want things to be. But sometimes life itself says 'no': we realize with terrible finality that our dreams are not to be, and our most sought-after aspirations are doomed to remain unrealized. Then what?
The author Clarissa Pinkola Estes describes such a situation as: "leaving what cannot be." But what is this "leaving?" How do we stop reading the same chapter again and again? How do we stop the same looped recording playing over and over in our thoughts?

This more profound act of letting go is a deep acceptance, a surrender to what is, a realization of how things truly are, and a leaving behind of any desire for how we would like or prefer things to be. Saying ‘yes’ to this type of letting go irrevocably changes and transforms us. It is not a matter of hardening our hearts, of closing them so that no pain can enter. For if we close our hearts in this way, and with this intent, then not only do we not let pain in: we allow pain that is there to become trapped and to find no escape. The pain stays within us.
Instead, if only we open our hearts completely, if we open our hearts as wide as the summer skies, then not only all our joys and loves are embraced, but also all our pain and suffering and emotional turmoil. This is the marvelous paradox: in embracing our pain we also truly ‘let it go’. Inner freedom comes from this.

And so letting go is a deep acceptance, a surrender to what is. Every living soul on this earth, whether in physical or in spiritual despair or distress, is walking this road at some stage in her or his life. And it is up to each and every one of us to break through that hidden isolation and take that one step nearer to the real freedom which comes with truly ‘letting go’

Painting by Isil Gönen

Saint Michael and the Dragon

When the Saint George of legend valiantly sets out to fight the dragon and rescue the fair maiden, the king’s daughter, he not only accomplishes his mission; he also supplies us with a powerful archetype of the bold knight and the damsel in distress. But: ‘as above, so below’ is the dictum at the cornerstone of Western mysticism, and so we might expect to find Saint George’s bravery mirrored by events in the heavens.

Today, September 29, we celebrate the feast of the archangel Saint Michael, whose name means ‘the one who is like God’. The principal task of Michael is to fight against evil, and evil in Western tradition is personified by the dragon. According to John of Patmos, the author of the Book of Revelation, this battle between these two ultimate adversaries took place in the heavens. John gives us a stirring account of the conflict: Michael and the other angels fight against the dragon and its accompanying demons, “and the great dragon, that old snake… was conquered and thrown out of heavens into the deep.”

When we gaze up into the night sky it might seem a peaceful and orderly place. But appearances can be deceptive, for our telescopes reveal to us stars exploding with such violence that the worlds around them must surely be destroyed. The cosmos is itself a battleground, and reflects the epic struggle of the angels taking place on less visible planes. In John’s narrative Michael emerges as the victor of the battle against the powers of darkness. And so the celebration of Saint Michael on this day is a calling to us to acknowledge and recognize those powers which seek to unbalance the cosmic equilibrium, and each in our own way to strive against them, whether they be destructive forces in the world itself, or demons of a more personal nature with which we must do battle inside ourselves.

And so Saint George rides out to join battle with the terrible monster and rescue the fair maiden. The maiden is essential to the story, for she represents all that is pure and good: those qualities that must be guarded and cherished, especially in the face of evil. Saint George battles the dragon on earth as Saint Michael battles the dragon in the heavens. The one reflects the other, and although the outcome of the battle might at times seem uncertain, to fight and to strive for victory is all and everything.

Painting by James Powell