Song of the Soul

Song of the Soul 

by Kahlil Gibran

In the depth of my soul there is 

A wordless song - a song that lives 

In the seed of my heart. 

It refuses to melt with ink on 

Parchment; it engulfs my affection 

In a transparent cloak and flows, 

But not upon my lips. 

How can I sigh it? I fear it may 

Mingle with earthly ether; 

To whom shall I sing it? It dwells 

In the house of my soul, in fear of 

Harsh ears. 

When I look into my inner eyes 

I see the shadow of its shadow; 

When I touch my fingertips 

I feel its vibrations. 

The deeds of my hands heed its 

Presence as a lake must reflect 

The glittering stars; my tears 

Reveal it, as bright drops of dew 

Reveal the secret of a withering rose. 

It is a song composed by contemplation, 

And published by silence, 

And shunned by clamor, 

And folded by truth, 

And repeated by dreams, 

And understood by love, 

And hidden by awakening, 

And sung by the soul. 

It is the song of love; 

What Cain or Esau could sing it? 

It is more fragrant than jasmine; 

What voice could enslave it? 

It is heartbound, as a virgin's secret; 

What string could quiver it? 

Who dares unite the roar of the sea 

And the singing of the nightingale? 

Who dares compare the shrieking tempest 

To the sigh of an infant? 

Who dares speak aloud the words 

Intended for the heart to speak? 

What human dares sing in voice 

The song of God?  

A veiled beauty by Frederick Arthur Bridgman

Sea Children

SEA CHILDREN

On the shore

the children of the sea

are playing,

Gathering shells, strands

of marine plants,

DREAMS

At the waves' edge

the children kneel,

Writing the secret name

of God in the sand

in the language of

INNOCENCE

Children playing on the beach 

by Bernardus Johannes Blommers - (1845-1914) 

The Wind among the Reeds

The fruits which we cannot possess are often those which grow in our minds to become sweeter still. Syrinx is a nymph of the woodlands whose passion is the hunt: a passion which claims her heart more than the romance of love. But those same Arcadian woods are also the haunt of the great god Pan, and it is inevitable that, sooner or later, the god will catch sight of the nymph. And this is the day for that sighting. One look is enough. Pan is smitten. Fiercely independent, and with her heart already claimed by her woodland passion, Syrinx rejects the god’s advances. Understandable, perhaps, for even a god can be ugly, and this god is only too aware that his shaggy, horned appearance does not play to his advantage in matters of the heart.

Syrinx takes flight. Pan gives chase. But in her panic (a word we derive from the god who even now pursues her) the nymph runs into a natural barrier – the banks of the deep-flowing river Ladon. With the goat-legged god hard at her heels, the nymph cries desperately to the river god to save her. The lord of the reedy river obliges – but it is a mixed blessing. Be careful what you wish for, we might urge the desperate nymph. For as the shaggy arms of Pan reach forward to embrace her, in that same moment Syrinx is transformed into a reed, indistinguishable from the many which line the river’s banks.

A reed that is indistinguishable to our mortal eyes, perhaps – but not indistinguishable to the ardent god, who now clutches the reed in his arms. In his lovelorn desperation the god breathes out an inexpressible sigh – a sigh so deep, so full of longing for what now cannot be, that it releases a melody in the reed, a melody so tender that it fills the Arcadian air around him, so sweet that it is carried across the river on the wind. Oh, poor lonesome god! What must you do now to fill your aching heart?

But Pan is inventive. From the reed that was the nymph he fashions a flute: a flute which we call the pan pipes after its creator, but which the god understandably names a syrinx. There Pan sits in the sunlit glades of Arcadia, playing heartfelt melodies on the form which his love has taken. And if you venture into those groves of braided light, you might, if you listen very carefully, catch a hint of this music of the heart, and know that it is possible for a love which is lost to be regained in another form. 

Acrylic Painting by David Bergen © all rights reserved

Whom does the Grail Serve?

Whom does the Grail serve? In the legend of the Holy Grail this searching question is asked of each questing knight, who must provide the answer before proceeding further on the quest. It is intimated that successfully answering this question will unlock many doors of knowledge, will rid the waste land of the blight from which it suffers, and will cure the mysterious king known as the Fisher King, who lies ailing in his bed from a grievous wound which refuses to heal. Curing the king, the legend suggests, also will magically cure the land as well.

So whom does the Grail serve? We know the question, but what is the answer? With a flourish of mysticism which history itself has provided, Chrétien de Troyes, the 12th-century writer of the original story, died before completing his romance – and before his text supplied the answer to this central question. Through the chance of history we must set out on our own quest if we wish to find the answer.

Chrétien de Troyes’ death ironically ensured that his story would become an open-ended one, and in that change became something which detached itself from his specific time and place to widen into something that could be applied both universally and personally to each individual who encountered it. But to begin to answer the question of the Grail, we need to understand something of what the Grail itself might be. Traditionally it is the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper. But this interpretation confines it to a specific Christian context, and variations of the Grail story can be found both in Persian legend, in the story of Kay Chosrou and the Vessel of Yamshid, which “mirrors the universe", and in the Russian legend of Vsevolod, who becomes King of the Grail of the invisible city of Kitesj. 

Speculation in a contemporary fictional bestseller suggests that the Grail (which for all its ambiguity is clearly a vessel of some description) is actually Mary Magdalene, in the sense that she is the ‘vessel’ for an imagined bloodline of Christ descended through her. But this voyage to the wilder shores of speculation is itself based upon an unsubstantiated medieval story that after the events of the crucifixion Mary journeyed from the Holy Land to southern France. And none of these various legends, however interesting in themselves, bring us closer to answering the Grail’s question.

We rightly look upon the great wisdom teachers and guides of humanity – Hermes Trismegistus, Buddha, Zarathustra, Jesus, Pythagoras, Lao Tzu and others – as appearing in different cultures and at different times in history, building bridges from our material world to the more perfect world of the Spirit which lies beyond. If we make ourselves receptive to their example, if we (to use the Biblical phrase) make ourselves “an instrument of their peace”, then we ourselves become a vessel for the Spirit. It is we ourselves who are transformed into the Grail. And in this transformation we find the answer: each of us, as the Grail, serves the highest Good, the more perfect world of the Spirit.

Painting by Greg Spalenka

The Quest

The Grail is beyond being able to be contained by or claimed by any one religion. But the quest for the Grail is never truly over. Maybe the reason for this is not so much that the Grail will never be found, but what the Grail actually is, and what it represents, is different for those who quest after it. Sometimes we find what we are looking for, and sometimes we don't. And sometimes what we find is not that which we originally had sought.

Whatever it is that you seek, my wish for you is that you may find it  - or something very like it - in the year to come. And even if you do not do so, then I hope that your journey is still an inspiring one.

Blessings and Joy to all for 2014.

Painting by Arthur Rackham 

A Peaceful Heart

The martial art known as aido does not involve an opponent. It is practiced by a single individual, and focuses on the correct method of drawing one’s sword, making the stroke, and returning the sword to its scabbard. All movement in aido is an expression of economy, poise and balance – of not expending unnecessary energy to achieve one’s objective.

The art of aido grew out of situations in which an unarmoured samurai wearing everyday clothing might find himself in a situation of having to rapidly improvise a defensive action – even while sitting having a meal while his sword lay beside him in its scabbard. Using the techniques of aido the sword could be drawn in a counteraction within one second of time – or left in its scabbard to block defensively when even that second of time is not enough. This explains why aido also can be performed when starting from a seated position on the floor.

Watching an accomplished proponent of aido can be remarkable enough, with all movements seeming as fluid as water, as effortless as breathing. As with other martial arts, neither age nor gender need have any bearing on levels of skill, with the practitioner using only exactly as much energy as is required for the actions. It might seem as if such an accomplished level of aido, where all actions express absolute fluidity, is the ultimate goal of this art. But there is another, perhaps more mystical, level beyond even this.

The ultimate expression of aido is not to fight, but not even to need to draw one’s sword in the first place. This ultimate goal comes only with the poise of the supreme warrior. For such an individual projects such an aura of calm, such equanimity, that any potential threats or aggression will be stilled in this individual’s presence. A potentially overheated situation is diffused.
All will be at peace, for a peaceful heart creates its own reality.

When the sword is at rest

and the wind stills to silence

the song of the birds

will again be heard.  

     

The Cosmic Dance

When we gaze into the starry night what we see is an echo of a distant time. Science tells us that this echo is a remnant, a far reminder from an ancient past, of the beginning of everything. The language of science calls this distant event the Big Bang. The term is descriptive enough, but hardly evocative of the sheer, overwhelming majesty of the event. If we really wish to taste the magic we need to turn to myth. In the beginning…

In the beginning there was a dark, seething, heaving void: an ocean of chaos, full of potential. This dark ocean filled all of space, and all things that were to come drifted in its depths, as yet unrealised and unborn. There were no stars as there are now, for even light had not yet been created. There was only the idea of a light yet to come. But there was life, even before life existed, for just the thought of life is also a form of life, for thought is the potential form of something which exists before that thing is created. This dark ocean was in motion, writhing with the momentous event to come. In its depths a creative seed was growing, growing: the cosmic egg out of which the universe would be born.

With the breaking open of the cosmic egg light and life welled forth, unimaginable in its intensity, in its raw power. All of space vibrated with a new knowing: a knowing that was an awareness of its own existence. This Awareness could create its own form, and the form which it created was a new darkness: a darkness that was other than the darkness which had gone before. This darkness was a wise darkness, a darkness which was aware that darkness is a gift, a necessary part of a light to come: something which light needed to define itself by. This darkness was a new chaos, for without chaos it knew that there could be no cosmos, no dance of magic to bring forth new awareness. This new creative chaos was called Sophia.

How things began fascinates us: we find this story of the birth of the universe in many cultures. To the Ancient Egyptians this primal ocean was known as Nun. The Babylonians knew her as Tiamat – and it was a ‘her’, because to the ancients this ocean was female, for the dark ocean was the cosmic womb out of which all was born. It was full of potential, because it already contained everything that would be created in potential form: the templates for everything that would flow forth from its depths. So while this ocean was (to use the Biblical phrase) ‘without form’, it was a void, yes, but not a ‘void’ in the sense of being empty. In Norse mythology this void is known as Ginnungagap, whose meaning, when translated, brings us close to what is truly being expressed: a magical space, full of creative power.

The power and magic of myth lies in more than its language and vivid imagery. It also lies in the fact that a myth goes on being true. The birth of our universe is also the birth of each individual soul, and our own trials and experiences are reflected in those experienced by Sophia, with light and darkness, chaos and cosmos, weaving their eternal dance through all of time. 


‘So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.’
~ T.S. Eliot, from ‘Four Quartets’.

The Paradoxes of Love

The storming of love is what is sweetest within her,
Her deepest abyss is her most beautiful form,
To lose our way in her is to arrive,
To hunger for her is to feed and taste,
Her despairing is sureness of faith,
Her worst wounding is to become whole again,
To waste away for her is to endure,
Her hiding is to find her at all times,
To be tormented for her is to be in good health,
In her concealment she is revealed,
What she withholds, she gives,
Her finest speech is without words,
Her imprisonment is freedom,
Her most painful blow is her sweetest consolation,
Her giving is her taking away,
Her going away is her coming near,
Her deepest silence is her highest song,
Her greatest wrath is her warmest thanks,
Her greatest threatening is remaining true,
Her sadness is the healing of all sorrow.

These beautiful lines about love by the 13th-century mystic Hadewijch of Brabant seem full of paradoxes. Those paradoxes challenge our sense of reason. How can we arrive if we have lost our way? How can something be revealed if it is also concealed? How can something which is given also be taken away? These statements seem to make no sense. Here are some more lines:

For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the barren one
and many are her sons.
I am she whose wedding is great,
and I have not taken a husband.
I am the midwife and she who does not bear.
You who tell the truth about me, lie about me,
and you who have lied about me, tell the truth about me.
But whenever you hide yourselves, I myself will appear.
For whenever you appear, I myself will hide from you.
I am the substance and the one who has no substance.
On the day when I am close to you, you are far away from me,
and on the day when I am far away from you, I am close to you.

These lines seem to voice the same contradictory paradoxes as those of Hadewijch. How can someone who is barren bear many children? How can one of substance have no substance? How can one who is far away also be so close? These two mystic voices seem to be so similar – and yet the second voice predates the first by several centuries, and was not discovered until centuries after the first. The second voice is that of an unknown writer speaking as Sophia, from the text known as ‘Thunder, Perfect Mind’, the Gnostic scripture discovered last century. Clearly there is no way that either writer could have known of the other’s existence, and yet the ideas which they express are wholly sympathetic with each other.

What we seem to encounter in these texts is a common experience: a language of mysticism. We feel that, had she been able to read it, Hadewijch would readily have recognised the experiences described in the older text. But both texts have more in common than apparent paradoxes. Both seem to offer a reassurance, an unstated advice to let go. Not just in the sense of letting go to trust in events, but an urging to let go of forms, of preconceptions, even of a familiar logic. Perhaps this is the clue, the way in to a greater understanding of what this mystic language suggests: that these greater truths are beyond language, beyond the world of forms, of logic, of preconceptions.

Perhaps the marvel in these lines, in both these voices, is their sense of consolation. Both writers convey a sense that ‘all will be well’, in whatever circumstances we might find ourselves. For as we know from our own life’s experience, logic is not always present. Sometimes things just happen, and we are left gasping for breath and wondering why. But in the visionary worlds of Hadewijch and the remarkable unknown writer who is the voice of Sophia, consolation is in the letting go of even trying to understand, of even trying to seek for rational ‘answers’. Consolation comes with an acceptance of paradox, and when we open ourselves to a loving spirit that simple acceptance can be enough.

Painting by Bernardino Luini

If you like to read more about Hadewijch, you are welcome to read my post The Eyesight of the Soul.

Fair Helen

Homer tells us that the Trojan War was fought to win back Helen of Troy, who was rightfully Helen, Queen of Sparta. The war lasted ten long years and almost ended in an inconclusive stalemate, with both the Greeks and the Trojans suffering heavy losses, including their respective heroes Achilles and Hector. The war hovers between history and mythic storytelling: a twilight conflict written centuries after the events. In our terms, Homer was writing a historical novel, but he was also creating something which still speaks to us: something which, long centuries later, our instincts respond to on the deepest level. 

Helen of Troy remains historically elusive, and perhaps for this reason she gathers in strength in our minds. More than a woman or even a queen, she has come to represent the ultimate in feminine beauty, and therefore the ultimate prize that men wish to conquer. Men will go to war to win her, will sacrifice much to possess her. As Womankind she is the guardian of the deepest feminine secrets, the source from which the elixir flows that completes the unity of man’s separation from himself. If he can conquer that secret then the alchemical wedding can be celebrated.

As a conquest whose battleground lies not at the walls of Troy but within ourselves, it is the conquest of separation and the regaining of a unity which has been lost. It is not a battle of the sexes, but a battle for us all. Whether man or woman, we are confronted with this struggle. But this conquest has a darker side. Where it goes wrong is when we are no longer content with mere conquest, but seek as well to have power over what we have conquered, to possess rather than to assimilate and accept. This is when, instead of unity, conflict and further separation follow.

It is the woman, the eternal Helen, who is the holder of the secret of things. Approach her, surrender to her, and we become co-participants in the secret: the secret of the elixir of life, when soul embraces spirit. But as soon as our ‘man’ side reaches for power, as soon as the soul tries to possess Helen as the feminine spirit, we batter ourselves against the walls of Troy in the folly of a needless war. 

There is a secret story of Helen not told by Homer: a story of the ancient mystery schools. This story has Helen seeking the safety of a sanctuary in Egypt, while the wayward Trojan prince Paris actually kidnaps and takes to Troy a phantom double created by magic whom he believes to be the real Helen. This story as well has its inner truth. For the man who strives after power in place of unity, the woman makes herself invisible. It is this phantom Helen, more ghost than substance, whom he ends up having power over and taking possession of, while the real Helen, the Helen who could so easily be his, the Helen of peerless beauty, remains hidden from his sight. 

Sculpture La nature se dévoilant á la Science by Louis Ernest Barrias
Musée d'Orsay

Birds of Passage

A wise rabbi once said: “It is a great challenge always to be in joy, to make yourself strong, and with all your force, to banish sadness and bitterness out of you. All sickness that comes over human beings, come forth out of the descent of joy. The descent of joy comes from the deformation of the ‘deep song’, of the vital rhythms. When joy and this deep song are affected, sickness can overcome us. Joy is a great remedy. It is important to find one place in us which gives us joy, and attach ourselves to it."

Another wise voice – that of Khalil Gibran’s – said of joy and sorrow: "Your joy is your sorrow unmasked, and the deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain." 

Joy works in us. To enjoy – to ‘en-joy’ – is a way of living which gives spirit and flow. Joy seems to embrace a whole spectrum of verbs: to trust, to heal, to give, to receive, to dance, to sing, to share, to make love: all ways of living from the heart.

And we wish this joy for everyone, which is what can keep us going. But we also will encounter the pain of joy – the joy which has its borders:  borders which always will be there in some form. And when we experience injustice, it is this sense of injustice which can harden these borders. Still we know: I am on my life's journey. Like the migrating birds of passage, after their African sojourn, journey north  to breed and face storm and rain on their journey, in the same way the soul, full of joyful anticipation, hurries straight through the opposing forces towards her destination, which is complete joy.

The way of joy is a way to self-knowledge. For along this road of joy, just as the birds meet their headwinds and storms, we will meet our inner obstructions. We will be given a panoramic view of our fears and flaws, our weaknesses and pains, and we learn that we carry traumas within which cannot be healed. It is understandable that many of us will lose heart altogether, falling into grief and depression, or even face illness which no doctor can heal.

And still we make the attempt to keep enjoying, even though the social pressures to remain positive, to ‘look on the bright side’, can at times appear clichéd and hollow to the point of seeming cynical. For sometimes the pain is too deep, too fierce, for us to be able to discover the tiniest bud of joy in ourselves. But…

No night so dark that it will become morning again, is a line in a song by a Dutch troubadour.

We have to break in order for the light to come in, a dear friend once said to me. How right he was. For in the crack of breaking one will see, however small or faint, this spark. It is the spark of creation! However softly-glowing, it will find its way to our wounded heart, and begin to shine from within. The more we hold on to it, nurture it, the more this creative joy comes to light, and back into our life again.

When that wise rabbi asks of us to be strong, and with all our force to banish sadness and bitterness from us, and Khalil Gibran tells us that joy and sorrow are inseparable, I like to believe that they both contain their own truth. We all have experiences of joy and sorrow to know that we need to be strong like the birds of passage, facing storms and losses, but also experiencing those moments of pure joy, of effortless soaring over the moonlit oceans.

Painting Joy and Sorrow by Kahlil Gibran

On the Shores of Endless Worlds

The Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore was a true mystic – but a mystic in the most human sense in that he allows us to see his fallibility, his constant wrestling with and searching for the form of his relationship with the divine. In this he is like another profound thinker, the Spaniard Miguel de Unamuno, who remarked that: "Faith which does not doubt is dead faith." 

Tagore's collection of blank verse poems known as 'Gitanjali' ('Song Offerings') we came across in an old Dutch edition from 1920. The Dutch is rather old-fashioned, and so we set out yesterday evening to write our own free translation into English. The poem draws no conclusion (and is the stronger for that), but listen to its sound: you can almost hear the rush of the waves onto the shore and the laughter of children. And the interweaving of innocence and experience, death and life, are played off against each other to the backdrop of Tagore's vivid and powerful setting. These things, Tagore seems to be saying, are not contrasts, but simply changing aspects of what is really a seamless whole.

***

On the shores of endless worlds the children gather. The infinite heavens are motionless above, and the restless waters are boisterous. On the shores of endless worlds the children gather, dancing, shouting, laughing with joy.

They build their houses of sand and play with empty shells. They weave their boats from dry leaves and laughingly launch them upon the unfathomable deeps. The children play their games on the shores of worlds.

They are unable to swim. They have not learnt how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, traders sail in their ships, while the children collect pebbles, only to discard them again. They do not search for buried treasure, they cannot cast fishing nets.

The sea rears up laughing, and pale glints the smile of the shore. Death-dealing waves sing songs without meaning to the children, as a mother who rocks the cradle of her infant. The sea plays with the children, and pale glints the smile of the shore.

On the shores of endless worlds the children gather. Storms course through the uncharted firmament, ships founder in the trackless watery wastes, death is abroad, and children play. On the seacoast of endless worlds is the great gathering of children.

From ‘Gitanjali’, by Rabindranath Tagore
Translated from the original Bengali into Dutch by Frederik van Eeden, and from Dutch into English by