The Crossing: Hallelujah ~ Russian Orthodox Choir

Following his video of my poem Invocation, my husband David Bergen has now made a second video featuring my poem The Crossing, with an animated version of the beautiful painting by Abram Efimovich Arkhipov which originally inspired me to write my poem.

The poem on my blog can be read on
The Crossing

Flight and Pursuit

Desperate situations call for desperate measures. A true free spirit, the wood nymph Daphne is never happier than when she is roaming the forests. The dappled sunlight of the forest glades are more than home to her: they are her preferred company, and she vows that she would sooner keep herself chaste than exchange the familiar company of the surrounding trees for a partner in life.

All might have continued to go well for Daphne, were it not for the fateful day when the glorious god Apollo happens to catch sight of her as she dances in a sunlit glade. At once smitten by her beauty and charm, the god approaches Daphne and attempts to seduce her. Now, Apollo is used to having his way, whether with mortal or with nymph. But for the first time ever he finds his advances rejected. In a moment’s distraction Daphne seizes her chance to flee the god’s amorous advances and runs away as fast as she can, hoping that her familiarity with the forest trails might offer her an advantage in her flight.

But Daphne’s knowledge of the secret paths through her beloved forest is proving no advantage when matched against a god’s bruised ego. Wounded pride mixed with ardour for the fleeing nymph only fuels the pace of Apollo’s pursuit. At the last moment of her flight, when the god is so close behind her that she can feel his hot breath on her back, Daphne calls out in panic to her father, the river god Peneios. 

The great river stirs angrily, and white-topped waves slap its banks in a frenzy of fury as Peneios sees the plight which his daughter is in. Unable to leave his watery domain, the river god makes a last-resort move to save his daughter. Just as Apollo reaches out to seize the nymph, his all-too-eager hands grasp, not soft and yielding female flesh, but bark and branches and dark green leaves. Peneios with his powers has changed his daughter into a laurel tree: one more tree among all of its fellows in the wood nymph’s beloved forest.

A handful of laurel leaves are Apollo’s only gain. How to save face? How to restore a god’s bruised ego? By declaring a defeat to be a victory and founding a tradition. Apollo decrees that from that moment on, a crown of laurel leaves will become the worthy symbol of a victor. And the god promptly begins the tradition by weaving for himself a crown from the leaves that just moments before had been the living flesh of the beautiful nymph.

How often has it happened that reality has been turned on its head, and those who have been bettered have, through one means or another, insisted that they have in fact triumphed? Saving face in such a way is familiar enough to us from our own current news events. But in the story of Daphne and Apollo we can perceive a deeper meaning. Sometimes circumstances force us to change, and to change dramatically, and we become something other than that which we were before. It might not always be a change which we have wished for ourselves, but it has been a change made necessary for our survival, in whatever form that might take.

But Daphne’s fate also gives us reason to hope. The nymph’s essential nature was that of her own beloved forest, and her essence did not change. Instead it became absorbed into what she truly loved the most. Even in dramatic change, even undergoing apparent complete metamorphosis, our true essence survives in some form, and endures beyond even the great change at life’s end.

Apollo and Daphne by John Willam Waterhouse

The Daughter of the Air

Is it possible for a daughter to come before her mother? It is, but to find such an example we need to visit the world of myth. Today, 28th of February, Finland celebrates the day of its national epic, the Kalevala. As with Homer’s epic stories, the verses of the Kalevala originally would have been sung to an audience by a bard. Such performances not only kept these stories alive; they also helped to give their listeners a strong sense of their national identity, of being aware of who they were as a people. 

Sitting listening to their bards of long ago, the Finns would have heard the story of Ilmatar, the Daughter of the Air. No one knew who her parents were, or even if she had any. She was simply there, living alone in an airy palace of eight thousand rooms. Beyond the palace there was nothing to see except drifting mists and the shimmering curtain of the Northern Lights. But the Daughter of the Air felt that somewhere beyond her echoing palace there must be more. She was sure that if only she could just reach out of one of the windows far enough, she at last would be able to catch a glimpse of what might lie far below.

One day, determined at last to satisfy her curiosity, she stretched herself as far as she dared from her window. Too far. Suddenly she was falling, falling. It seemed as if she would fall forever. She fell so far that when she turned to look above her, the airy palace which was all that she had known already had been lost to view beyond the Northern Lights. She fell even farther, until at last she felt a watery stirring beneath her. Suddenly a great wave seemed to rear itself up to meet her, and in the next moment she plunged into a vast ocean. 

Half-submerged in the ocean, buffeted by the huge waves, she drifted for long centuries, feeling at last the mysterious stirrings of life within her. No longer the Daughter of the Air, she had now become the Mother of the Waters, who eventually would form the land so that all creatures would have a place to flourish, both in the seas and on dry land. In time she would give birth, and her son would be the great Finnish hero Vainamöinen, whose father was the wild wind and the waves, and who himself would play his own part in further creating the world and singing new life into existence.

The daughter comes before the mother – because the daughter becomes the mother. It is the story of our generations. A young girl grows to womanhood and has children of her own. What makes this story from the Kalevala ‘mythic’ is that the daughter apparently had no mother to begin her life. She simply was. Perhaps there is a sense in which this, however mythic it might seem, could also be true.

We carry ourselves forward in time, through the passing years. In his poem ‘The Rainbow’, William Wordsworth famously declared that ‘the child is father of the man’, meaning that we as children, in our upbringing, and in the values which are instilled into us, bring these values into our own adult lives. The child is also the mother of the woman, and it is this awareness which needs to guide us in the care and upbringing of our own children. We as mothers might not always give birth to mighty heroes such as Vainamöinen, but we as parents - and as children – always have the chance to be heroes in some way if that is what is needed of us.

Painting Ilmatar by Joseph Alanen

Tiamat’s Tears

“In the beginning…” These opening words of the Old Testament have a ringing familiarity, perhaps even to those who might seldom visit a church. But the human imagination allows for many ‘beginnings’, and each culture and belief creates its own beginning appropriate to itself. So…

In the beginning there was only Tiamat. Tiamat, the mother of all which will be, out of whose celestial womb all life will flow, fills all of space. She is the primordial salt ocean, and the rising and falling of her fertile waves are but the outward signs of the momentous acts of creation which are even now taking place beneath her surface, in the dark depths of the cosmos. At first it is as if there is only a vast nothing, a void without form. Then gradually, gradually, small flashes appear. At first they are only scattered sparks, shining briefly at random. Then come more and more, until the darkness is pierced by countless stars.

But Tiamat knows that more is needed: something to complement her own salt body. From her void emerges her husband Apsu. Her husband is also of water, but his waters are sweet. His waters are freshwater. It is this mingling of saltwater and freshwater which produces the potential for all the other gods to emerge. But in the eons to come a great sacrifice will be needed if the world itself – our world – is to be created.

The gods, who are Tiamat’s own creation, rise up and rebel against Apsu. Apsu is slain, and Tiamat, in her attempts to win justice for her lost husband, is herself torn in two. Out of this rending, this great separation, dry land at last emerges. Tiamat’s defeat and sacrifice have made it possible for life on earth to begin – and so for us to exist.

This particular ‘beginning’ myth of Tiamat is from Mesopotamia. In it we recognize many key elements of such stories: the creating Great Mother, the ‘alchemical wedding’ of opposing but complementary forces, the resulting struggle, and the need for sacrifice to drive things forward if further creative goals are to be achieved. Sacrifice is of course also at the heart of the Christian story, and it is the idea of sacrifice in such stories which also contains within it the promise of redemption. And what is redemption but an act of sacrifice with a further purpose? Tiamat’s sacrifice was needed to create the separation of land and sea, and so allow life on land to flourish.

But is there perhaps a further meaning that we can draw from the myth of Tiamat? Why was Tiamat specifically the salt ocean? Men wage war, and women weep. Strife and struggle are mingled with the salt tears of those who are left to mourn, and those who are left are the wives and the mothers who remain to grieve. Our mother is the earth, whose freshwater rivers that are the remains of Apsu always flow to be reunited with his beloved ocean. And our mother is also that ocean, containing the salt tears of Tiamat who, as mothers do, knows both the pains of sacrifice and the sweetness of redemption.   

Painting by David Bergen

INVOCATION: Hildegard von Bingen ~ Anonymous 4

In June of 2013 I posted my Invocation, which I wrote both as a prayer and a blessing for all women who are oppressed, in whatever form that oppression might take. Since then the Invocation also has been accepted for and now appears on the World Prayers website. Now my husband David has realised the Invocation as a video, featuring his painting of our dear daughter-in-law Anneke. The video is set to the haunting music of the 12th-century mystic Hildegard von Bingen, as sung in plainchant by the quartet of women’s voices Anonymous 4. In creating his video, David’s wish and intention has been the same as my own: to allow the Invocation to be released further into the world so that its words may do the work for which I intended them.  

Invocation on Sophia’s Mirror: Invocation

Invocation on the World Prayers website: World Prayers

The Children of the Light

Music fills the infinite between two souls. 
~ Rabindranath Tagore

There is a universal language which expresses itself in music, symbols and images. This cosmic muse does not in the first instance address herself to the mind, but mainly to the awakening human soul. She is like a messenger who brings beauty into the world - an urge that in someone awakens the urge to create something which touches the heart of the other. With this language the Light expresses itself in the material, and then the person creates something that was not there before - not yet present in the material world.

The French author and philosopher Victor Hugo stated: "Music expresses what cannot be said in words - and about which can hardly be kept silent." In the same spirit Rudolph Steiner describes this universal language of the soul when he says: "What the soul sets foot on her initiation path one cannot ‘experience’ - but one can sing it or compose it.”

This language of the soul may be used by those who wish to reconnect us with the Great Light from which we originate, from which we ourselves well forth. The creative ones amongst us articulate this language already as poetry, as music. A primary function of music is that of intermediary: time and again this cosmic muse activates longing - and the existence of longing.

It has been said that the children of the Light, in the end of days, will play a perfect piece of music before their Creator. When this time is upon us they will perform all themes in perfect harmony, for they will have understood the meaning of the Light, and each will know the function of the other wholeheartedly, as they themselves will be known by others. But even before that time music can be a portal for the happiness and peace within us to shine through.

Painting Angel by Edward Burne-Jones

The Mystery of the Cathedrals

The architects of the great medieval cathedrals and their builders are unknown to us. Their achievements remain, and have become a part of our cultural heritage – and these buildings still fulfill their original functions. Their airy soaring spaces continue to provide a haven of peace and contemplation, whatever the beliefs or non-beliefs of those who visit them.

The builders of Russian Orthodox churches refined their interiors still further. During the building process rows of earthenware pots were cemented into the walls high up near the roof, with the exposed necks of the pots still visible. This feature, unique to these churches, is what provides the enhanced echo when an orthodox choir sings, giving the voices an ethereal resonance entirely appropriate to the music itself. We feel swept aloft by this music, with the entire building becoming itself a vast musical instrument of – literally – architectural proportions.

Such cathedrals would once have dominated the skyline, even in the centre of a city. With some exceptions such as the cathedral of Chartres standing in the open French countryside, and with its magnificent labyrinth set into the floor, such city cathedrals, as we well know, are now overshadowed by the towering commercial buildings that now surround them: a telling-enough statement of the way in which economic concerns have come to dominate spiritual matters in our present day and age.

And what of the churches of today? Why, with their determinedly modern designs, do they not seem to offer the same spiritual experience as the cathedrals of past centuries? The personality of the individual respective architects is what seems to impose itself upon us, rather than the anonymity of the medieval architects who placed themselves and their creativity in the service of a higher ideal. But there is more to it than this, of course – a lot more.

A whole body of knowledge which involved knowledge of sacred proportions went into the building of such medieval masterpieces in stone. This knowledge was itself inherited from the ancients. The builders of Greek temples, and even the unknown builders of the Egyptian pyramids, used this same knowledge and these same proportions when building their own structures. These proportions have an astonishing universality, and also can be found in nature, from the human body to sea shells and the seed patterns in sunflower heads.

The cathedrals, perhaps unconsciously, connect us to this sacred knowledge. When we are in such a space we feel the ‘rightness’ of its presence, even though we might not be openly aware that it is there, and present all around us. For these unknown architects, it provided an attempt to create the ‘holy city’ – the perfect architecture of the heavens – here on Earth. Even though this way of thinking has been lost to (or perhaps ignored by) today’s architects, we all of us still have the chance to attempt to build such a cathedral within ourselves, to create such an inner sacred space, and so allow ourselves to connect with the beautiful mysteries and call heaven down to Earth within us.

Wells Cathedral by Albert Goodwin

Many Pockets of Light

Our chaotic world is full of unpredictability, rife with strife and man's inhumanity. And yet there are many pockets of light, of compassion, of many beings who are conscious enough that the inner light within is able to shine through and touch others around them. They are the ones who are creating our new world that is based upon compassion, gentleness, and the sacredness of life. Even in the darkest heart there burns an eternal light that is filled with goodness. The transformation of humanity, of consciousness, is not only for the light bearers but for all, including those that perpetrate the darkness. 

When we show courage in face of fear we spread our light to others. When we express our belief or faith that we are eternal and we cannot be overcome by what the world does to us, that we are much more than the limited and transitory physical form we inhabit, much more than death or annihilation, we radiate our light to others. There is an unconscious acknowledgment that resonates in people around us when we "show our soul" that we are magnificent, powerful and eternal. 

We let our soul light shine and radiate out not by trying to be "good" and acting out those ideals we think are positive but by allowing the intrinsic nature of our inner being to be, unfettered by judgment or opinions. As the world is going through change and transformation we are also undergoing transformation on a individual scale. Our individual transformation becomes a light to those around us, and in turn to those around them, and the power of this ripple effect expands outward and transforms the greater world. 

The Light of the Year

Child of silver, child of white

sunrise pale and sunset amber

lace from the dew of a thousand dawns

woven by the meadow’s slumber.

In your hands a precious light

to step the pathway’s coming year

with all that time and light adorns.

For all that happens on the path

By you is blessed and meaningful

whether for me is bliss or wrath

and whether clear or not-so-clear.

One thing only I would ask:

release your treasure gradually

through sunsets’ gold and seasons’ turning

so the pathway I may see

in a perfect twelve-month burning.

Painting by Gaston la Touche

Christmas Greeting

I wish all my readers great joy in the stillness of Christmas

to hearten and enlighten your New Year.

*

Painting The Shepherds by George de la Tour 

The Sister Stars

How high we are here;

seated somewhere

between the stars

and the sleeping town below.

See: we are so high

that we have but to reach out

to touch the moon’s bright face

as it rises to greet us from the horizon.

See: we are so high

that we need only to listen carefully

to hear the murmured whisperings

of the gods above

as they chart the tide of the affairs of men

asleep and unknowing in the world below.

See: we are so high

that we count ourselves

as sisters to the stars.

Continuing their journeys

our sister stars are unaware

that their wanderings, their very courses,

are traced out by us.

For nothing can happen in the heavens

unless we three decide that it will.

The truth is: the gods are helpless,

unable to act without our instructions

(although they do not know this,

and imagine that their schemes

are all their own).

And so we three sit here quietly

through the blue Arabian night,

making the decisions of gods,

naming new constellations:

here: the leopard,

with glowing twin-sun eyes,

there: the stooping falcon,

wings stretched between galaxies,

and there: the heroine,

riding a winged sphinx

to stars yet more distant than her own:

all creatures of our night-watch fantasy.

But even these things are pastimes,

pleasantries, mere diversions.

For our true purpose

Is to search until we find one star,

and one star only

among our myriad sister stars.

Somewhere, if only we can find it,

shines a star that will save the world.

and that is the star

which we will call down to earth.

Painting: Arabian Nights by Jean-Joseph Benjamin-Constant