The Turning Field of Stars

Deep in myself,

too deep for me to reach

is the earth

I am that earth.

The heavens wait for my arrival

I am those heavens

which stretch down to receive me.

I am a pilgrim

travelling this wheel of stars

seeking a new heaven

and a new earth

I am those stars

that watched and saw

how the old heaven and the old earth

had passed away.

And so among the turning field of stars

I tread the underworld above

to free myself from these cycles

of dialectic powers:

these eons with their traps,

temptations of thought 

before I'll find that light

which leads me through the refining fire

to my transfiguration

and the resurrecting of the inner God.

Painting by Briton Riviere

The Crossing

The Crossing

Look: that’s me on the right

with my daughter’s eldest daughter.

We sit on sacks of grain, she and I,

in the white Siberian light,

afloat between the brightness of the water

and the brightness of the wide and hollow sky.

Now we near the shore.

The dip and splash of oars

breaks the slow silence
of the river's run,
stirs spiralled mud in the shallows:

another crossing nearly done.

I have crossed over so many times.

My Oka. Not so great 
as the Ob or the Don, I know,

but still my river, borrowed from God,
born from distant Altai snow
through winter's ice and summer's heat.

‘Are you thirsty, Babushka?’ someone asks.

But I’m used to thirst.

I’m grateful for the thirst

That lets me know I’m still alive.

I’m grateful for the strong arms of the rowers

and for my granddaughter’s quiet company

beside me in the white and silent sun.

I’m grateful to the sown, and to the sowers,
I’m grateful for this harvest-seat of grain.

I’m grateful for my tired eyes,

For the tiredness of my body

that tells me I’ll be grateful for
another crossing soon to come
towards a yet-untrodden shore
beneath another brighter sun......

Painting: On the River Oka, by Abram Efimovich Arkhipov, 1890

"To Thine Own Self Be True"

When the world was much younger than it is now, and the gods were less shy about making themselves visible to us mortals, there was a king called Pygmalion. The king had fallen hopelessly (and inappropriately) in love with no less a being than Aphrodite, the goddess of love. However much he begged her, she refused (naturally enough) to sleep with him, until at last in utmost despair he fashioned an exquisite ivory likeness of her, placed it in his bed, and lay down beside it.
  
When Aphrodite saw him lying there lovelorn, with only the embrace of cold ivory for company, she at last took pity on the king. Her spirit then entered the sculpture, imbuing it with the seed of life which it is the grace of a goddess to give. With a king's kiss the transformation began, as beneath Pygmalion's wondering touch hard ivory became yielding female flesh. And this is how the carved likeness became transformed into a living woman, who in later retellings of the story acquired the name of Galatea.

Whether or not Pygmalion found happiness with his Galatea is for us to speculate upon. What we both recognize and respond to in the story is the way in which the king projected all his fantasies and his longings, not onto a real person, but instead onto a mere image which he himself had created. The heart of the story contains the powerful recognizable truth: that we often do not see another for who they truly are, but rather as we would wish them to be. And so it happens that, like Pygmalion, we create someone in our own image. 

This can have its appeals - but when it happens within a relationship, it also can have its dangers. A top sportsman might find it flattering to his ego to have a supermodel on his arm, but there still is a human being beneath those supermodel looks who might not be seen for who she truly is - either by him or by the hotly-pursuing paparazzi. But the story of Pygmalion's fixation with a created image can also apply to more spiritual 'sculptures' which we create - even unconsciously.

We all have our own ideas about 'God', both according to our beliefs (or lack of them) and to our personal views within those beliefs. But just how difficult it can be to let go of these thought forms is demonstrated by the mystic Meister Eckehart when he cried: 'Oh, God, help me to release myself from God!' He understood that unless he could let go of all the preconceived images of God which he held, and so make himself a receptive 'empty vessel', he would never be able to draw close to the true nature, the true being of God.

And it even can be the case that we create Pygmalion-style 'sculptures', not just of others, or of the forms in our beliefs, but of ourselves. This could happen because we wish to project a certain image of ourselves to others, or because we seek to please someone - perhaps a partner - by being who they wish us to be, rather than who we truly are. And so we turn ourselves into sculpted 'statues', for the sake of wishing to be more accepted and loved by another. For this reason I can't help wondering if Galatea was herself truly happy. After all, she was the living creation of the wish fulfilment fantasy of Pygmalion, and (assuming that the story has its own inner reality) must have wondered about her own true identity.

"To thine own self be true" advises Polonius in farewell to his departing son Laertes in Shakespeare's Hamlet. It is the best - and at times the hardest - advice to follow!

      
Drawing 'Pygmalion' by Edward Burne-Jones

My Own Name

My Own Name

I wind myself in braided vines

winds from the sun, and starry fields       

and clothe myself with woven sounds

that a royal child shields.

I seek to pluck the ripest fruit

whose coursing sap runs through my veins

and through the canopy of leaves

I'll sing the colours of refrains. 

Towards the meadowlands I turn

where wild flowers and soaring lark

spread fragrant air and airy song

above the azure lake. 

And I will plant a future glade

in raw grey earth and stable ground

and count the numbered grains of sand

and smooth the stones to pebble-round. 

The streams and rivers I release

to flow towards the mountain crest

where sun and moon will stand as one

and the winged horse finds its rest. 

Then garlanded with mountain songs

of eagle's cry and feathers roan

I touch the sky and voice at last

the name which is my own.

painting: Birth of Venus by Odilon Redon

The Transforming Journey

The Journey of Inner Transformation from Suffering to Freedom

Suffering is a universal human condition. We do our very best to avoid it but very few of us can. Buddha talked at length about suffering. He called it "dukkha" which includes the entire spectrum from dissatisfaction and discomfort to intense pain and suffering. He discovered a way to end suffering and find lasting peace - a peace he calls Nirvana. Many sages and spiritual masters have touched upon this human condition. Although suffering is an unwelcome condition it can develop in us a greater depth of soul and gives us the capacity for deeper compassion. Suffering acts as a crucible in which we undergo inner transformation, a transformation that shatters the very core of who we think we are and opens the doors to deeper perception and realization of what may be called our true Self within.

We do not need to intentionally seek to suffer to experience transformation.  The way to transformation may be practiced without the presence of suffering. Suffering can lead to inner transformation. This transformation can happen right in the midst of suffering. Such an experience is often revelatory and some call such experiences "awakenings." These changes can lead to further awakenings and life itself becomes a journey of transformation. It is a spiritual journey, as each awakening shatters one's previous concept of self and allows discovery of deeper levels of being. It is a journey that leads us to that place within which reveals our true nature or true Self, that place in which we are at the matrix of creation, and the fountainhead of peace, love, joy and freedom, and these states are emanations of the true Self and not separate emotions. 

Suffering is invariably caused by the "desire gap." This is the gap between what we want (desire) and what is. What we want can be anything - an event, a person, a set of specific circumstances, material things, a physical condition, etc., but they are all personal mental and emotional projections. Of course, what "is" happens to be the undeniable "reality" in front of us that we find hard to accept. This is the seed of suffering - the gap that exists between what is and what we want. 

When one has reached a point of being utterly exhausted from suffering, and arrives at juncture where there appears to be no exit point, no escape route, and the mind offers no solution, it is in this state of existential crisis that a transformative opportunity arises. It does involve the act of stopping the mental and emotional bicycle that we have been on to look squarely into the face of suffering. 

For one moment we must stop, completely stop, and step back from the emotions and thoughts.  Stopping leads to recognition, to simply place full attention on one's feelings and thoughts. Recognition is awareness, and awareness requires stopping even for a brief moment. One's suffering must be confronted squarely. Rather than turning away from it, look into its face with courage by quietly placing attention on it. In order to transcend it one must accept it and embrace it.

Our suffering may consist not only of the pain itself but also the desire for the suffering to cease. We may be overwhelmed by both pain and desire.  It may feel impossible to stop. We feel overwhelmed because we are identifying intimately with our thoughts and emotions. However, know that we are deeper than any thought we could think of.  We are deeper than any emotion we may feel, whether that emotion is sublime or ugly. Stopping does not mean rejection or repression of our thoughts and emotions. Rather it means letting them be and observing them as a witness. Awareness requires us to focus our full attention on what is happening inside us. By doing so we open a small gateway to our heart of hearts, and there is the softest whisper that may be heard inviting us to enter.

The road of suffering divides into two paths, and both paths lead to transformation. It is up to the individual which path to take. It is a personal choice. The first path is that of acceptance. The second path is that of release. Both involve an element of surrender in slightly different ways. However, the end is the same.

The path of acceptance requires resolve. The emotions of suffering are wholly accepted and embraced. Accept and embrace the suffering - even if the condition of suffering is for the rest of one's life - say yes to it. As Christ accepted his crucifixion and his cross, embrace one's own cross in an act of surrender. From this surrender the suffering will be transmuted to liberation. The path of release requires courage. In the path of releasing, one needs to release the desire in the "desire gap." It may also be described as surrendering, surrendering in the sense of letting go, of the one prime desire inherent in the "desire gap."

In the path of release, by giving up what you desire most of all there is not only a shift of one's sense of self, but a major falling away of one's identity. This crumbling of identity also occurs with the path of acceptance. If you accept what you once deemed unacceptable then this impacts upon one's sense of self. However, this is not to be feared. In the falling  away of one's perceived identity is the realization that the identity was not real to begin with. It was self-created over time, supported by family, friends, peers and society in general. The imaginary construct of self was held in place by a myriad opinions, judgments, and thoughts - all of them insubstantial. This false identity is sometimes called the ego or the small self. Upon this realization we suddenly experience an overwhelming sense of freedom and joy. We have peeled away layers of illusion to recognize something in us that is more real. This is an awakening to one's true nature or one's true Self. It may be a small and gentle glimpse or an overwhelming experience - again it does not matter. It is the end of your world as you know it and it is the beginning of your journey, the journey of transformation.

"There is a place within, even in deep sadness, where you are totally whole and complete." 
~ Rumi

paintings by Kahlil Gibran

My special thanks to Joseph for writing this post at my request.

The Longing

The Longing

I am dreaming

I am dreaming everything –

and everything which happens to me

happens because I dream it.

My dreams are not always the dreams

which I wish to have – 

but they are the dreams

which I choose to have.

They are my dreams,

both good and bad –

for that is my choice

and to imagine that there is no choice

is also a choice.

There is always a choice –

always.

I am longing

I am longing for everything –

although I do not always know

what it is that I long for.

Neither do I need to know – 

for not knowing is for me

the most precious longing of all.

This is the longing of my heart’s secrets

and my heart does not tell me everything – 

neither would I wish it to

for I will know all these things one day

when I awaken.

Pastel  Portrait of Emma © by David Bergen

Sacagawea

To know the ways:

The wide rivers’ courses,

the secret trails

untrodden by the steps

of those who walk without seeking,

the unseen traceries

left by the flights of birds

like lace across the sky:

For this she journeys 

with the makers of maps

and of history,

plotting her own charts

invisible to others:

She crosses inner meridians,

strange horizons,

new wildernesses of the heart.

The Goddess in the Well

One of my pendants which I like to wear depicts the design which is on the cover of the Chalice Well. This well is in the gardens below Glastonbury Abbey at the foot of Glastonbury Tor in the county of Somerset, England. The well itself was originally believed to have been built by the Druids, although the well cover was designed in 1919 by Frederick Bligh Bond. His design depicts the overlapping twin circles of the Vesica piscis symbol combined with a spear with a sprig of oak leaves and tendrils of intertwining holy thorn. In local folklore the waters of the well are believed to possess powers of healing and even of immortality – a sort of fountain of youth. In 2001 the site became a World Peace Garden. 

Two springs are found at the Well: the White spring, which is associated with masculine energy, and the Red spring, which is seen as containing feminine energy. It is the interweaving of these two energies that is believed to provide the Well waters with their healing properties. These energies are reinforced by the rising masculine tower of the Tor above the gardens, and by the receptive feminine form of the well itself. For these reasons, the Well has been a popular destination for pilgrims and contempory pagans who seek a contact with the divine feminine.

In the design of the Well cover we can perceive symbols of Christianity: the spear which pierced the side of Jesus on the cross, and the holy crown of interwoven thorns. Where the design is so powerfully effective is in its layering of deeper, more ancient worlds lying beneath this Christian symbology: worlds which invite us into the realm of the goddess. The sprig of oak leaves reminds us that the oak was a sacred tree. And its presence reminds us that, wherever we are, wherever we happen to be, we may connect with the goddess in the sacred grove which lies always within each one of us.

Vesica Piscis

The two circles are seen as the meeting of the worlds of spirit and matter. And the overlapping area of the two circles appropriately forms a shape known in Sanskrit as the yoni: the vulva of the goddess (the male organ is known as the lingam). In the imagery of our contempory world we have become used to thinking of the yoni as a passage of penetration by the male. But it is the very form of the Well that invites us to go deeper into these meanings, to see beyond this masculine perception of the female vulva, and to reverse the image from one of penetration to being one of a passage for new life, not just in the physical sense of the vagina being the birth canal, but in the deeper sense that it is also the passage of the soul from the realms of the spirit into the earthly world of its material incarnation. 

It is this deeper awareness of these forms which brings us into the presence of powerful creative forces, for from the yoni flows all life. It is the source of life itself, and a reminder of the journey that every one of us has made to come into the world: that journey from the realms of spirit into our own earthly existence. And it is also this deeper awareness which brings redemption: a releasing of the yoni from its crippling associations with the guilt and shame of Biblical sin, and from the aggression perpetrated against women as victims of rape, both in society and in war zones, for these violations are not about sex, but about masculine denigration, humiliation and conquest.

“I am a child of earth and starry heaven”, the beautiful hymn of the Orphic mystery schools reminds us. When on a clear night we gaze into the depths of the Well, it is not the darkness which is reflected back to us in its waters, but the compassionate goddess who reaches down to us from the stars overhead.

God Will Nevertheless Be Safe With Us

This is my second post about Etty Hillesum, the young Jewish woman who kept a diary during the second World War. Her writing – and her whole being – made an indelible impression on myself and many others. 
Her diaries were no war-journals: rather, they express a love and compassion above and beyond  the most difficult circumstances in which she found herself. Her appeal to live to the full, not because of circumstances, but rather in spite of them, and to seek for the love within, still resonates for us today. 
The link to my first post, "The Piece Of Heaven Outside My Window" , an introduction to Etty and her circumstances, can be found here and on my sidebar. 

In one of Etty Hillesum's letters from Westerbork camp she writes: "As long as we make sure that, despite everything, God will nevertheless be safe with us."

What a remarkable thing to say - God will nevertheless be safe with us. How to understand this? And was this a farewell letter? Was she preparing herself for a definitive farewell when she wrote this to one of her friends in Amsterdam? She asks for a warm dress, and she speaks about well-filled backpacks. At the same time she prepares bottles with milk and tomato juice for the babies who will make the journey to their unknown fate. And here we read: "One mother says, almost apologizing: 'My baby seldom cries, but now, it is almost as if he feels what is going to happen." The cries of the infants swell, filling all the dark corners and cracks of the eerily-lit blockhouse. It is hardly endurable. And a name wells up in me: Herod." 
These heartbreaking and dramatic moments remind her of the infanticide in Bethlehem, and of the words of Jeremiah: "In Rama a voice was heard, a loud wailing and lamentation. Rachel cried for her children and did not wish to be consoled."

She writes, in the midst of thousands of desperate companions in adversity, letters which reveal her own grief about the suffering of others, and of what people do to each other. She herself searches for a peaceful little haven, for some silence. Exhausted because of her work in the camp infirmary, or, during long  nights, of helping those who are destined to go on the transport the following day, she tries to find some solace in her writings, sitting on whatever is available to sit on: a wheelbarrow, an iron bed, an upturned bucket - anything.

On one of those nights she writes: "I know that those who hate do have their profound reasons for this hatred. But why would we keep on choosing the easiest and cheapest option? When my experience here is how every atom of hate, added to the world, makes this world more barren than it already is. And I therefore mean, maybe childish but persistent, that this earth would only become more inhabitable through the love, of which the Jew Paul writes in his first letter to the city of Corinth." 

Not only in her relatively 'safe' room in her house looking out over the square in Amsterdam, even in the hell of Westerbork, she maintains her stance "..to be without hatred or bitterness.." - even towards her persecutors and executioners. 

It is love that keeps her going. She talks with God, calling it 'one long dialogue'; she rests in God, tears of gratefulness are her prayer, lying in her small triple bunk. In one of her letters we read: "When, after a long and difficult process, one permeates into these primal sources in oneself, and which I now wish to call God, then we renew ourselves through this source... I want to bend down on my knees, but I will ensure that my strength will not explode in boundlessness."
And in her diary she continues: “I can't stop writing, not even here in Westerbork; I would want to search for that one redeeming word, that one redeeming formula...
“Why did you not make me a poet, God?
“You made me a poet, and I shall patiently wait for the words to grow inside of me, words that can testify to all that I feel which I need to testify about, my God: that it is good and beautiful to live in your world, despite what we people do to one another."

Still at home in Amsterdam, July 1942, she writes: "I will promise you one thing, God, a small thing it is: I will not hang my worries for the near future as weights on today; but that takes practice. Every day now is enough in itself. I shall help you, God, that you do not give up on me, but I cannot guarantee anything. But this becomes more clear to me: that you cannot help us, but that we need to help you, and by doing so, we help ourselves. And this is the only thing that we can save and also the only thing that matters: a piece of you in us, God. And maybe we can also work together to reveal you in the wounded hearts of others."

In the care of Etty, God indeed was safe.

Destiny

Calmly they approached, with the self-awareness that comes with the knowledge of their own vested power and sense of mission. Their apparel was opulent and exotic: the deep azure of far oceans wandered together with the ochres of the earth and the pure white of distant stars. There was a scarlet turban, and a headscarf of modest grey. One of the three wore a robe in which red fires seemed to burn. They came to a halt.

They bowed, and I returned their bows. "May peace be with you."

"And with you.” I replied. “You three are welcome in the fields of Efrath."

They asked for water, and I gave them my water pouch. One of them hung a chain of ivory-smooth shells around my neck. Then we settled ourselves down in the cool dusk of the approaching desert night, and they told me their story.

"We have come from the far east, where the sun does not hesitate in her rising. Each one of us is from a different region, but we are befriended as readers in the language of the stars. Our names will remain secret until the kingly child is born on the crossings of all roads. The western road will be darker and carry thousands of years of fear and decline. It is along the eastern road that we will travel back with new light in our eyes. The north road is melting ice on which no-one can tread. The south road is a basket of fruit that still must yield its bounty. We knew that in our lifetime the great star would appear. We began our journey as soon as we saw her rising, and now wait for her to be tethered in the heavens. We know that beneath her is the place where we are to bring our gifts. Even should we be forced to relinquish our authority, we choose to honour him. It is for him that we descry the stars." It was the one with the grey headscarf who had spoken. His mantle shimmered with ochre and white in the light of the rising moon.

“All of destiny resides in the star, and so our own as well.” said the woman robed in red fire, “But we also journey to the City of David. In our baggage we carry sweet herbs and soothing unguents, for in the Holy City we will dress wounds. Of the precious flowing  myrrh which I have brought with me, I will give half to the kingly child. The remainder is for those in Jerusalem. They shall know the scent and the salve of peace.”

“You underestimate the danger,” I said. “Jerusalem is a town full of spies. Whoever defies the will of the great Herod is made a ghost.”

"My power resides in the mountains of Ethiopia," said the woman. "To earthly kings I am untouchable."

“We have descried the coming of the kingly child in the stars,” said her blue-robed companion, “And we have seen that our journey is under the mantle of divine protection. Therefore we fear nothing and no-one. I have the purest gold of alchemy for the child. It shall be wrought into a crown when the time is right.”

“In earthly value our gifts are great,” said the sage in ochre and white, “but for the child such gifts will be humble. For this child will be spoken of in the ages yet to come, and by those yet to be born. Our names will only be mentioned in his presence, for to him they are already known, as all is known in each breath which he breathes. Our own words and deeds are no more then the scent which I bring to him: it burns and fills the air with sweet perfume, and then it evaporates. May the scent of the sweet divine have mercy on him."

“Do not go!” I said. “Do not go to the palace of great Herod. Choose instead your way straight through the fields of Efrath. Far from the worldly powers of the palace you will find the child. That is where you also will find those who are most in need of your healing and consoling gifts. That is where the story of your coming will be told in scents and rich colours.”

But they shook their heads. Either they could not or would not listen. Instead, they gathered themselves up in their finery, the array of their apparel shaming the white face of the moon. The three travellers gestured a farewell with the finality of destiny. “May peace be with you,” I heard the woman say, “for we anticipate a time of peace to come!”

Image adapted by David Bergen from a painting by Jean-Leon Gerome

Earth and Sky

We tend to think that the Earth has always been regarded as Feminine. Mother Earth, nurturing and stable. But has this always been so?

In the wall paintings of Ancient Egypt we find depictions of the Sky goddess Nut bending the arch of her star-covered body over her consort Geb, who is the earth below. But as times and attitudes changed to become more patriarchal, the sky mother and the earth father changed places, just as the moon became feminine and the sun became masculine – all part of the process of re-assigning the 'superior' and 'spiritual' elements to the masculine and the 'inferior' and 'material' to the feminine.

But is Mother Earth a real concept or a patriarchal one?

Venus of Willendorf

In the earliest times there seems to have been a strong emphasis on feminine deities. Apart from male shaman figures painted on the walls of caves, prehistoric carved male figures are exceptional, with only one or two rare examples being known. Far more common from these distant times are carved female figures – the so-called ‘venuses’ – which powerfully suggest a reverence for the creative role of women and the fruits of the earth. Masculine gods were apparently introduced slowly, first as consorts and subjects of the All-Mother, then as equal partners, then later as superior partners, and finally, in the current monotheistic ‘religions of the book’, the feminine deity has been willfully banished altogether from patriarchal theology.

Now there are many signs that the goddess is returning. Kwan Yin, Tara, Gaia, White Buffalo Calf Woman... in all her aspects the goddess is the bearer of a principle beyond herself. What is this principle that is so unique to the goddess? Perhaps it is compassion. 

But what does this quality of compassion truly mean? Not all women are wise, but  ‘wisdom' is a feminine attribute. She lives as a quality in men and women who search for her. She is prepared to transform any human mind into wise certainty - if you ask her, if you love her, if you search for her. In ancient Egypt she was named Isis; the Ancient Greeks and early Christian Gnostics knew her as Sophia, and she appeared in human form as Mary, the Magdalene. She pours herself into every soul that goes through the catharsis, the purification. Every refining, however small, yields wisdom - the wisdom of a woman.

But what is compassion in its essence? And how do we find the balance between strength and vulnerability? Being compassionate requires an active step. We 'see' the other, we are moved by that other and we act accordingly. Or do we? Karen Armstrong writes in her latest book 'Twelve steps to a compassionate life': "This is a struggle for a lifetime, because there are aspects in it that militate against compassion. For example, it's hard to love your enemies. We are driven by our legacy from our reptilian ancestors. It makes us put ourselves first, become angry, (and) when we feel threatened in any way, we lash out violently."

But an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.

So we must look to our collective history, and within ourselves. In my post about the yin-yang (Symbols and the Tao), I mention that each opposite contains the seed – the potential – to become the other. The earth and the sky have at different times been thought of as either feminine or masculine, and if we identify with both, we as well can feel compassion for both the masculine and the feminine, so that neither dominates the other, and both exist in compassionate harmony with each other.