Tag Archives: sun

… Sun-charging the Scarab …

P1070817 smallerYears ago, a friend (thank you Shaz) gifted me a 6 cm long Scarab (Scarabaeus sacer) made of green-speckled black onyx. The object, as it sat on a windowsill among other tokens, curiously nudged my imagination the other day.

I intuitively put the Scarab in a glass bowl with water and placed it outside under the sun.

from livescience.com

from livescience.com

 

 

Dung beetles (Kafka’s Mistkäfer) fascinate me. They gather dung into orbs many times their own weight and drag them to a dug-out hollow as provision, but also as brood chambers into which the female deposits an egg. Once hatched, the larva feeds on the dung surrounding it. Here is a brilliant and cool TED Talk by Marcus Byrne about the amazing dance of the dung beetle: http://www.ted.com/talks/marcus_byrne_the_dance_of_the_dung_beetle

No wonder the ancient Egyptians made Khepri into a solar deity that rolls the sun each evening across the horizon, carries it through the other world, and returns with the star’s glory next day. Ra – the rising sun – was often depicted as a beetle-headed man.

P1070823 smallerThe onyx of my Scarab is Leo’s astrological gem stone, associated with grounding energy and a firm heart, another motive to charge the Scarab’s regenerative meaning for me. As the sun warmed the water in the glass bowl, tiny, oscillating air bubbles formed, which made the scarab seem alive and breathing.

Of course, none of this means anything whatsoever, apart from my wishful investment, a fancyful projection I won’t scrutinize and happily indulge in.

Turns out the environment agrees. In my garden, a highway for cats of all breeds and hues, sleek, bushy, black, white, grey, marmalade and surreally marked, one ginger tom seems in need of healing. On his daily round he has become totally addicted to drinking water from the bowl, greedily, in long slurps.

And today my blackbird friends re-appeared to partake of the holy beatle’s sun charged water. You may allow yourself a humoured smile, though what else is there but to cheer at the powerful symbol invested with the meaning of regeneration in the small universe of my garden?

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… marginalia of bodies …

moon's swing door

moon’s swing door

the white rock sails adored –

silent swing door to sanctuaries

imagined beyond where

each being claims its mystery

un-evidenced

 

 

winged by unknown purpose

spirit seeks shelter

tumbling through cells

to the orb of a home –

embodied in you and me spirit mimics

nature’s mirrors moments after now

though once inner vision unfolds

our dreams are branded …

framed by the one eye

supreme to all eyes …

sun’s furnace illuming draperies

history sanctioned

seemingly evidenced

but for the singular breath

of insight needling between

obvious fabrics to thread

intense tales of beauty …

sample of my occasional art, 1998

sample of my occasional art, 1998

 

The poem was inspired by June’s full moon.

Places accumulate impressions, snippets of reality that draw us forever into experiences from different directions and points in time. The one place we carry with us – OUR BODY – remembers what reason does not. While the intellect sorts memories into virtual boxes and slaps on the tag ‘facts,’ the body, animated by each breath, deeply informs our singular perception, helps us to adjust the past, refine the relationship with ourselves and others in the present, and opens a new wavelength and vision towards the future.

 

The experience you have within yourself of your separate identity, to allow right and wrong to be re-defined by you, your singular contribution, is where evolution really happens. You, by becoming yourself, can open a new wavelength. What you reflect immediately influences your environment, people close and far away.’

Fazal Inayat-Khan, notes from an attended lecture, 1989

‘Spirit without soul has no vessel – soul without spirit has no direction.’ Roberto Assagioli

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… gossamer bridges and palaces …

I’m a terrible hypocrite. I can’t stand spiders in the house, but I adore them in my garden, where their bridges and palaces are now quivering everywhere, only visible against the sun or by the rare leaf suspended in mid-air … exquisite.

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A leaf floating free

From stem and branch – inholding

The ever-tree myth

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Once more nature translates its lore to the soil, carrying patterns of relationships to new settings.

We do the same, daily and all year round, translating our experiences to ourselves and others … our cells, bodies and minds continuously changing, never the same, despite appearances.

I wish for grace in waiting, the hibernating towards re-membering afresh the cyclic occurring wholeness in new formations.

And I wish for the patience and good humour of my tiny Buddha.

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… dappled light – a vital joy …

Cello bridge two orbs surge and ebb

as gold-white-silver-and-blue

flicker through the mesh

of vapour and dust

and amid clouds and branches

needle shadow lace

through myths and hollows

in dappled light on solids

… visible pointers

Shadow on door - Copyto deep-breathing space

within – the fulcrum from whence

unfolds everything

*    *    *

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I found a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-89) – ‘Pied Beauty’ – more musical and sophisticated than my Haiku attempt,and with sincerity of devotion I can’t muster. Enjoy …

Glory be to God for dappled things–
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced–fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise Him.

*    *    *

My thoughts on dappled light are a spin-off from an exchange of comments with my on-line friend Joe Linker who asked:   ‘Framing – How much light to reveal? Shuttering – How much darkness to avoid?’

Imacon Color Scanner

Here a scene from a stormy day in Rye with optimal exposure.

Analogue photography provides brilliant metaphors. No matter how interesting the chosen frame, shutter speed is vital. Too much light will turn the negative dense and dark, bringing bleached-out definitions to the positive print. Too little light produces a thin, transparent negative, resulting in a hard or soggy positive where subtleties of tone are lost. The amount of light is regulated by shutter speed.

In writing this is equivalent to the balance of rhythm, sound and shape of words drawing you into the frame.       I’ll keep practising 🙂

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… the vagaries of days …

My dream sinks to a timeless world the instant I open my eyes and take in the first impressions of the day – a shimmering spider web clings to the corner of the skylight, defined in the early sunbeam – a mosquito hovers drunkenly above my laptop. I recall a similar tiny vampire savouring the taste of my blood during my last day in Darwin; did it converse with this one across the oceans by morphic resonance? P1060804 - lower

Almost two weeks have passed since my return. I miss the Aussie company, and mornings at the pool under the palm roof.

Time is fitting hesitantly into habitual chunks. My body tweaks itself into smaller spaces, and tasks resume their orderly sequence. Breakfast oats don’t land in the coffee filter, and my head no longer collides with the chiming bells hanging next to the kitchen sink. Still, having inhaled another kind of dust for a while, an aura of mystery pervades my familiar environment, and routines are shifting, like I scoff at lists, allowing unimportant stuff to be just that, unimportant.

As the sun pours into the house through the garden door, I step outside. A bright orange hot air balloon almost shaves the branches of the high beech. Another follows, with noisy lettering, not as cheerful as the Virgin one with its clear brand. There being no boundaries to the sky, I’ve the visceral sensation of wanting to shrink and become invisible, musing how privacy and solitude are becoming an issue – there’s only in-back and no out-back left in England.

P1060820 - lower A poem stirs, wants out, but mail demands attention. I share my disorientation with friends. Ideas chatter and juggle into new frames, a changed perception of ‘home.’ What’s home other than moving with the experiences that carry us onwards?

I glance at the patch of Phlox waving from the lush green beyond the window and then distract myself from the screen by trimming a miniature Japonica tree into shape. My blackbird friend comes close enough for us to have a conversation.

I make time for a two hour stint of editing ‘Shapers,’ the sequel to my first novel. Moments of laughter – relishing my writing is surely a good sign, until the next stab of doubt – will anyone be interested in my scribbles? The solution is to keep writing, and trust readers will be pulled into my opus and enjoy the adventure.

Another shot of coffee before today’s therapy sessions begin – undivided attention to process, listening to stories. When silences linger in the devoted space, spirits assemble – we are a crowd of presences meditating on meaning, or the lack of it.

P1060831 - lower Though it was not exactly my birthday, I hosted a small garden party last Saturday, celebrating togetherness with friend. I managed to outwit Sunday’s Hurricane Bertha, which, in my corner, merely brought blustery wind and rain. Clouds parted in time to reveal the brilliant super moon.

Preparing for reading in bed, I catch a tiny movement – a huge spider. Totally irrational, but there’s a wrong time and place for spiders in my house … at night, next to my bed, and it’s a matter of scale. The scenario of a huge spider crawling over my skin plays havoc with my imagination. No time to get a glass and chuck the creature out. I’ve light in my maisonette, but take a torch for good measure, and wait. In a while the monster comes for me from its hiding place among books – full attack! While it baffles me that the sure crunch of a spider’s demise can in such instant bring me satisfaction, it’s also sobering to realise how discordant timing is neither good nor bad, it just is.

P1060834 - smallerGiven the vagaries of experiences each day brings, the only control given to us seems to be pliancy. As I write this, a rainbow flows across a cloud.

‘The same wind that uproots trees
makes the grass shine.
The lordly wind loves the weakness
and the lowness of grasses.
Never brag of being strong.
The axe doesn’t worry how thick the branches are.
It cuts them to pieces. But not the leaves.
It leaves the leaves alone.’
Rumi, The Essential Rumi

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… global vision & synchronicity …

Moroc, Marrakech Riad roof, golden vision - low     Less than 80 years ago, across the world, only about 200 televisions sets were in use. Today, a simulated reality confronts us with our collective mind. A click away, we sample the zeitgeist and witness some disturbing trends, like the continuous robbery of world resources.

How do we filter the mass of information? Do we shout treason when we see the failure of economic systems that allow 1 % of the population to own 40 % of global wealth, or when we discover that certain corporations privatise water –  even rainwater  –  in underdeveloped countries? Traversing from one patch of light to another, do we make connections that apply to our scope of action? Or, lacking a meaningful context, are we hypnotised by this enlarged mega-screen, the global vision of a world that can mirror our inner fragmented states  –  a world where every viewpoint exists simultaneously, that over-exposes so-called reality and blinds us? Are we ourselves living inside the screen-myth, as extras, freed into bits, a reservoir of data?

As writers, what in-forms us, what material do we disseminate? And what is it that makes choices, switches from one networks of influence to another? What guides us through the data jungle? Are there perceptions beyond our wilful personalities that determine, agencies that operate through us from beyond time and space? I’m weary of the term God. For me this agency is a consciousness composed of past, present and future intelligences, a light-wave that echoes different signals according to the receptivity and needs of each animated vessel. Humans can be dense, but a calm mind recognises clear signals of this wave, since they chime with a joyous feeling of connectedness, a larger symphony, maybe even the sense of a destined purpose.

In my experience, this consciousness operates through synchronicity. There exist conceptual similarities between the behaviour of sub-atomic particles and archetypal images, (C G Jung and Wolfgang Pauli discussed such similarities in the context of synchronicity), a striking link between mind and matter that has been largely ignored. It implies that mind and matter connect, relate, mirror each other, and reciprocate. The process is given life in the realm of the psyche as imagination, not structured by time and space, but through layers of meaning illuminated by consciousness. Psyche is the changing room between cosmos and pneuma.

Moroc, Marrakech, Riad roof, shadow - lowJung thought of archetypes not as fixed, but as changing predispositions, universal patterns inherent in the human psyche, images that comprise our collective past and future unconscious. A pattern stirred into activity by an emotionally charged event in our lives, brings home related experiences, often through meaningful coincidences in a non-linear and a-causal way.

Such synchronicities draw on a deeper life-sap, as if an eternal intelligence were at work.

David Bohm proposed that subatomic particles remain in contact with one another regardless of the distance separating them, and that their separateness is an illusion. Here a facet of his thinking – a short first part of a 5 part series  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGyDVF8GrLk                                                                                              A great and humble man I greatly admire. He has beautiful hands  🙂

A dream, for example, can attract an outer event, a meaningful coincidence, that powerfully substantiates a message from the unconscious, often accompanied by a numinous quality. In my own life, synchronistic events have challenged my narrow reasoning at certain crossroads towards seemingly irrational decisions. Exploring a hunch, while not attaching to the outcome, often clarifies a situation for me. Consequently, I respect the unconscious, and heed my intuitions.

‘The universe does not exist, out there, independent of all acts of observation. Instead, it is in some strange sense a participatory universe.’ – John Wheeler

Just as scientist are branching out from traditional imperatives that divide the world into subjects and objects, so we all, presented with a global vision, must modify some of the archetypal imperatives, images and ideas that have outlived their use, and look for symbols that carry a fresh mystery.

Moroc, Plage Blanche sunset - low

While sun and moon are forever formative and feed our imagination, they are no more our only lights.

With new associations from science come fresh symbols and exciting probabilities, in that we can question assumptions about time and progress, about the relationship between matter and mind, about our view of social units, and even the meaning we give to gender.

‘It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards’. The White Queen says to Alice.

*    *    *

Many of my posts here touch upon similar themes, but maybe pattern-which-connect in particular: https://courseofmirrors.wordpress.com/2012/05/25/pattern-which-connects/

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… solitude …

Weather-defying, I had my first Pimms with ice cubes this year, imagining warmth, sun, swinging in my hammock under apple blossoms, listening to birds, walking barefoot and having friends round to watch the sun go down and the moon come up. The Brits are fed up with the rain. More than darkening the sun, clouds also obstruct the brighter aspects of the mind. Signals from the noosphere get muffled, or so it seems. There remains solitude, a tranquil space where questions arise, and thoughts have space to dream and play without being overstimulated. Allow your children periods of solitude and they will come to value it later in life.

I mulled over a question these last days, not for the first time. And an answer came, an angel whispered it into my ear while I slept – if all incarnated beings living on this planet were enlightened at the same time, the whole developmental cycle of the psyche would collapse, and consciousness would expand into a new matrix all over again. I’m making no claim to truth, angels can’t always be trusted. But the message seems to be – all is well-tuned as it is.

This is what solitude does to me – I get answers that beg more questions, like, what about multiverses? My body lives in this house in England that is at times difficult to maintain, but my mind also has another house, an interior house, free from mundane pressures, a house that exists in a dimension invisible to the physical eye … built from bricks of meaning rather than clay.

Here to the Noosphere, an interesting concept:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noosphere

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the mysterious object, part three

… Memories awakened, of a time when it was possible to gaze straight at the venerable light-giver without being blinded … in the dark sky, shone the light-giver’s mirror image, pale and beautiful, shimmering, and stirring a deep longing in those who witnessed the phenomenon. The gentle orb puzzled minds, since it changed shape from night to night and periodically disappeared, only to re-emerge, gradually waxing from a sliver to gentle fullness. Some saw in the orb another divinity; others rejected this, not wanting to betray their bright and bountiful divinity. The two kinds of worshippers did not see eye to eye. More secretive circles formed, and stories spread. Ever now and then a night-walker claimed having been touched by the silver light, though was unable to explain what possible benefit there was in being touched by this new mystery? Incredulous stories spread, which were laughed at by the now established beneficiaries of ingenuity and industry, and the few night-walkers who sincerely tried to share their experience were regarded with suspicion and ostracised.

Let us relate just one incident, as told by witnesses, to give you a sense of the mystery. One night, or so it goes, a group of seekers gathered on a flat rock above a deep pool of water to watch the full silver globe in the sky. To their surprise, a perfect replica of their beloved object appeared in the still water of the rock pool, beautiful, beyond words. Everyone present gasped. One young woman who resembled her great, great grandmother, Lila, the famous light-seeker, was ecstatic with joy. ‘This is it,’ she exclaimed, and jumped from the rock’s ledge right into the glowing reflection.

The silver scattered and rippled out into circle upon circles on the water. The others looked on in astonishment as the soft light gathered itself back once more into round brilliance. Night’s divinity re-assembled its fullness, still quivering with the gentle, undulating movement of the water. There was no sign of the young woman.

To break the tension, all started talking at once, expressing in so many words and shouts what they thought they had witnessed. With the noise going on they did not hear the footsteps. Quietly, from the darkness around them, the young woman reappeared. Her skin gleamed and glittered, as if she had absorbed some of the mysterious light. Her friends inundated her with questions as to what happened, ‘What was it? No answers came, she had lost speech. Her silent gesture however firmly impressed itself in each men and women standing there on the rock and seeded in their memories forever more. The seeker pressed her right hand to her heart. She had many silent followers, as had many like her from there-on after.

~ the end ~

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the mysterious object, part 2

They teamed up. One seeker reached out towards the light while another stood opposite, waiting to catch the object. The trick failed, of course. The light simply passed out of reach sideways. Next the idea came to form a circle and to slowly close in on the light. These events were set up with great attention to detail. Groups formed to practice the ritual, hoping for the big moment. However, as could be guessed, the instant all hands reached out …  the orb floated upwards, just beyond the longest arms. Societies of light-seekers formed. They had fun working together, though a number of groups developed strict rules and complex theories about the light. To differentiate themselves from the now commonplace light-seeker, they called themselves truth-seekers.

Over time, the mysterious bright object moved higher and people grew taller, their limbs stretched and their spines straightened, all because of their deep longing to touch the light. Plants, too, reached upwards. Shrubs became trees and people climbed the trees as soon as the glowing object popped over the horizon. The cycle of its appearance could now be counted upon. Once the orb passed higher than the highest tree, the most innovative, and therefore the richest of the communities, employed the lesser endowed folk to fell trees and build tower-like wooden structures. Before the approximate time of the light’s arrival, the builders had to leave the structures, while the owners climbed the towers to await their chance. But no matter how daringly the height of towers progressed, the wonderful orb of light floated consistently out of reach – higher and higher it moved, growing in size, and increasingly warming the planet. New animal species appeared, and new plant, some of which were farmed and produced rich crops.

The towers found more mundane uses. Other curiosities were invented, all with the aim to get closer to the mystery. The glowing object was now the guiding principle in peoples’ lives, a new divinity, replacing all others. The divinity was adored so much people avoided darkness. The span of days brought riches, and was obviously good, while the span of nights reminded people of their dim past and aroused fear. Whatever could not be seen clearly became suspect. Persistently, activities were focussed on understanding the light and finding ways to somehow touch it and partake of its power.

People who ventured into the nights were considered odd and generally mistrusted. However, one such night, had you been there, you would have witnessed a most marvellous event, and you would have heard cries of joy and astonishment resounding over plains and hills …

Continued: https://courseofmirrors.wordpress.com/2011/05/21/the-mysterious-object-part-three/

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the mysterious object, part 1

My paper-clearing war continues. A delightful SHORT STORY surfaced, written many years ago. A little editing and presto. Enjoy the installments …

*    *    *    *

Once upon a time, not far from here, a planet was veiled in semi-darkness, and the stature of man, woman and child was crouched and bent. Their diet was meagre, consisting of crushed insects and raw plants. And for warmth they huddled close in their caves or grass huts. What gave them pleasure was ironwood, the rarest of plants, valued for its warmth-giving qualities when chewed. Those gifted in finding the plant were called light-seekers.

One such light-seeker, a young woman called Lila, was renowned as an ironwood huntress. She would disappear from her settlement for many sleep-cycles, driven by the promise of yet another encounter with the red glow of ironwood, her reward alone, since the glow vanished once the plant was broken. Even so, there was honour in bringing home the plant – the community would celebrate with a feast of warmth and good cheer.

Our story begins when Lila had been hunting for three sleep-cycles without her usual success. She sat and bemoaned her bad luck when she was overcome with awe at the sudden appearance of a bright object, no bigger than the head of a newborn. As if teasing her, the object drifted almost within her reach. The glow of ironwood paled in comparison to this astounding light. Colours sprang up all-round. Insects were drawn to the warmth, their tiny bodies shimmering. Lila gazed in wonder at her hands, which were doused in gold. Yearning to touch the mysterious object, she crouched carefully towards it, but the light receded, and each time Lila advanced, it receded a little more. Often times she lurched forward – only to grasp air. Lila spent her entire strength chasing the small orb, stumbling along, oblivious to all but the brightness ahead. Whichever way she turned, the glow was before her, always just out of reach.

When Lila was discovered by the people of her settlement, her condition aroused much interest, since she was sharing her strange experience in delirium. Words so spoken were held to come from divinities, embodied by water, plants and insects, powerful spirits known to visit people in their dreams. So it was that the light-seeker’s revelation spread instantly throughout the tribes, and great portents of meaning was attached to the glowing object. Everyone was convinced it really existed. And sure enough, soon people begun to see the orb, and in turn felt compelled to touch it. They fared no better than Lila, yet their desire remained, undiminished.

Eventually some clever minds devised coordinated methods … to be continued.

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