Hearing Secret Harmonies

All existence is energy, and all energy emits vibrations. If we attune ourselves we become aware of these vibrations, perhaps very subtly or in a more obvious way. But to which of these ‘transmissions’ do we choose to attune ourselves?

We live in restless times, with distractions on every side. Even when on vacation in some far-from-home place, we probably have checked the booking brochure beforehand (online, of course!) to make sure that wifi is available for our laptop, tablet, smartphone or whatever mobile device we might take with us. These are the energies of the technology with which we have chosen to surround ourselves: energies which we ourselves have created, and which we tune in to. They might be the energies of our contemporary material existence - but these are not the energies to which our soul listens.

The explorer Marco Polo travelled along the Silk Road far from his native Venice to reach China and discover foreign wonders then unknown to the West. We ourselves might not travel to the court of Kubla Khan, but we can be ‘far from home’ even when we are sitting at home in our own familiar surroundings. It is our soul that seeks for and recognizes something beyond these things: a song which radiates on a higher, more pure frequency, a resonance which, when we hear it, tugs our being towards it, perhaps subtly but always very surely. This resonance awakens a longing: the longing of the soul for home, for its original state.

We in our turn transmit what we receive, what we are open for. If we only attune ourselves to the unrest around us, then unrest is what we ourselves transmit – and that just creates even more unrest, both in ourselves and in our surroundings. It is when with our being we sing the song of the soul that a harmony is created: a harmony that is both new and as old as the earth. The song might be silent, even secretive, but it is still heard on many different levels in many different ways: a harmonic chord to which all that hears it responds and vibrates in sympathy, an ever-growing song of the soul that draws us towards our true home.

Silk Road by Tang Wei Ming

The Church of Love

The following text is a fragment from a Cathar text from 1148.

It does not exist in a fixed form,
but only by the mutual agreement of persons.
It has no members except for those who feel that they belong to it.
It has no rivals because it does not nourish the spirit of competition.
It has no ambition because it only wishes to serve.
It does not have any national boundaries because love does not act this way.
It does not close itself off, as it tries to enrich all groups and religions.
It respects all the great teachers of all times who revealed the truth of love.

All who belong to it, practice the truth of love with their whole being.
He, who belongs to it, knows that.

It does not try to teach other; but only tries to be and by being to give.
It lives in the knowledge that the whole earth is a living being and that we are part of it.
It knows that the time of the last return has arrived; the way of self-surrender, in free will to return to unity.
It does not make itself known by loud words, but works in the free domain of being.
It salutes all those who have enlightened the path of love and gave their lives for it.
It does not create any ranks in its midst and no elevation of anybody, because the one is no greater than the other.
It does not promise reward neither in this or in another life, yet only the joy of being in that love.

Its members recognise each other by their behaviour, their way of being, by the look in their eyes and by no other external act than to embrace each other in a brotherly and sisterly way.
They know neither fear nor shame
and their witness will always be truthful in good as in bad times.

The church of love has no secret,
has neither mystery nor initiation except for the deep knowledge of the power of love, 
as the world must change, if we as persons wish it so;
but only if firstly we change ourselves.

All those who feel that they belong to it do indeed belong.
They belong to the church of love.

Top image by Victoria Pettella

A Dream of Birds

I wander over the ways, while all around me people turn the rich ochre soil, planting row upon row of new young trees with the greatest care and attention. I walk on, leaving the silently-absorbed people behind me still busy with their devoted task. Now I notice something lying on the ground ahead of me: a large and apparently lifeless young female bird with its neck bent in a strange, unnatural curve.

Next to this creature is a second bird, evidently a larger female, for she is giving birth while standing, splaying her legs as a giraffe does – and also like a giraffe, but certainly not like a bird, she is giving birth, not to an egg, but to a live young one. The new-born baby bird drops to the ground next to the first, who until now has remained unmoving. As if sensing the presence of the new-born next to her, the first bird now suddenly comes to life. She shakes her head, shakes her feathers, straightens her neck, rises up to stand on her two legs, and begins to prod the baby with her beak, encouraging it to do the same.

Seeing this, and apparently aware that her own task is now fulfilled, the mother trots away, the splendid radiance of her iridescent feathers leaving a trail of rainbows in her wake. The new-born and the one now standing over it, who seems to be barely older, also have this same radiant plumage. Lapis blues, turquoises, even raven-blacks: all are shining with the brilliance of butterflies’ wings. 

My feet carry me onwards, as if I am forbidden to linger for too long at any one place. Perhaps that is so, for footsteps are always footsteps in time, and the way we see things now is not as they will appear to us tomorrow, or as they seemed yesterday. And so I leave the two birds behind me, with the new-born still being encouraged to stand by her companion, her identical other.

Did the new-born also manage to struggle to her feet? I am sure that she did. The struggle to stand up is inherent, instinctual. We make the effort even though it is so much easier simply to stay lying on the ground. Farther behind me, new trees are already growing. And I who must walk on, follow the path which the mother has taken, walking in the trail of rainbows which she has left for me to follow. 

  Search for the Soul by Kamil Vojnar

The Firebird

A beautiful sash, a shirt worked with fine patterns, a shawl, a headscarf: miracles of perfect embroidery that always seem to have the effect of making their wearers feel that in some way they are special. All these items and many others flow from the hands of a modest and gentle orphan named Maryushka. But there is more. Coloured silks and glass beads combine in intricate and constantly-varying designs as if to tell their own different and unique stories, and each story seems subtly to change with each retelling. The young girl could earn a comfortable living with her remarkable embroidery work, but always she is content with the money that others are prepared to give, however small the sum.

Inevitably, some of those who buy and wear Maryushka’s work go on their own travels, and so her work travels with them. Merchants far beyond her own small village notice her handiwork, and so her fame spreads. Some of the more enterprising merchants, eager in their turn to possess more of these miraculous items to resell at a tidy profit, undertake the journey to her village. Each has a similar message: that if she will work exclusively for them she will receive in her turn riches and fame. Maryushka’s response is always the same: that she will never leave her own village, for there her dear parents are buried, and she wishes always to be able to visit and to tend the place where they rest. And in any case, she has no need of riches and fame – although she will continue to sell her work to any who find it beautiful.

Each merchant in his turn leaves disappointed, resuming his own trading and travels. And in such a way Maryushka’s reputation spreads even farther afield: far enough eventually to reach the attention of the evil sorcerer Kaschei the Immortal. Evil abhors beauty, especially the true beauty which flows from the pure of heart. Kaschei rages. The sight of her beautiful work on those who wear it revolts him, and in those terrible moments a dark shadow seems to spread across his face, as if a heavy cloud were passing overhead. Such beauty, he decides, could not be allowed to exist, could not be allowed to cast its light on the world.

Darkness can change its form to become something other than itself. Kaschei’s cracked features, distorted by evil, become those of a handsome and radiant youth. In magical and unseen flight the youth journeys over towering mountains and impenetrable dark forests, arriving at last as an ordinary traveller at Maryushka’s cottage door. An obsequious bow is enough to gain him admittance, and shirts, scarves and other items are set out for his inspection, each more beautiful than the last. "Kind sir," says she, "whatever pleases you, you may take. If you have no money with you, you may pay me later, when you have money to spare. And if my work should not find favour in your eyes, please counsel me and tell me what to do, and I shall try my best to improve upon what I have made."

Surrounded by so much beauty and grace of spirit, Kaschei must now struggle to contain his revulsion. But resolute of purpose, and oiling his most radiant charm, he feigns admiration. “Come away with me, dear one, and I will give you a palace built of precious jewels.” assures the sorcerer in his most unctuous tones. “You will eat from golden plates and sleep on the softest eiderdown. You will walk in an orchard where birds sing sweet songs, and where golden apples may be plucked.”

"Please do not speak of such things," answers Maryushka "for I wish neither for your riches nor for your strange marvels. For me there is nothing sweeter than the woods and fields where I was born. Never shall I leave this village where my parents lie buried and where those kind folks live to whom my needlework brings joy. I shall never embroider for you alone."

At the young girl’s answer a shadow as dark as a thundercloud seems to pass across the face of the youth. “Since you spurn the freedoms which I offer you perhaps you will enjoy another sort of freedom: the freedom of the skies…”  The words of the furious sorcerer have no sooner been uttered than Maryushka hunches forward in the agony of transformation. Her mouth becomes a bird’s beak, her arms reshape themselves into wings, and her whole body covers itself in glowing iridescent feathers: the feathers of a firebird.

Kaschei sweeps the beautiful creature up in his arms, bursts outside, and transforms himself into a great falcon, as black as the pocked dark face of a new moon. His cruel talons grip the firebird and carry her high into the clouds above. But Maryushka’s human soul resolves, even now, to do what she has always wished to do, and what she knows that she is intended to do: to give her beauty to the world, in whatever form that it is hers to give.

A single brilliantly-coloured feather flutters downward to the woods and fields far below. And then another, and yet more, as the wind above the world carries them over the surrounding villages and countryside, meadows and forests. There they come to rest, shining like iridescent jewels among the leaves and grasses: gifts for those below who love true beauty to discover, to wonder at, and to treasure. And with the shedding of her very last feather Maryushka dies, her fragile bird body still gripped in the talons of the great falcon.

But Maryushka’s wondrous feathers continue even now to be discovered where they have fallen: an inspiration to unknown others to create something of beauty of their own, and to bring that beauty into the world. And it is said by those who are fortunate to have discovered one of Maryushka’s feathers, and who recognise – perhaps intuitively – something of her essence in the wondrous plumage, that the works which they have inspired seem more beautiful even than her remarkable embroidery, perhaps because Maryushka through her sacrifice shows all of us the way to personal redemption.

For even when in the clutches of the sorcerer and transformed into the firebird, Maryushka still chooses to keep the power to herself. And it is through making that ultimate choice that the triumphant beauty of Maryushka's empowering spirit shines.

Retold from a Russian Folktale

Artwork Bird of Light by Marina Forbes

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’.