Praise for the light in a new born baby’s eyes. Praise for the song of a blackbird at dawn. Praise for the thrum of Tibetan throat singing. (Buddhist monks in their maroon robes, prayer flags fluttering in the wind)
Twenty years ago they came to a beach near here scattering the sand from their mandala into the sea. At their feet a little blue eyed boy, living in the moment, gathered the sand into his bucket.
The Rinpoche laughed a deep full bellied rolling sound and the sea washed around both the boy and the monk.
Praise for the moment the memory Praise for the song of the blackbird at dawn. Praise for the light.
Trapped, caged. Left for dead. Relegated to the forgotten realms the human wild self withers.
Eons past the human mind came into awareness of itself out in the natural world where wild animals roam free.
The indigenous people remember. They know the ways to live in tune and harmony with the wild Earth songs
Encultured now the modern human lives behind walls – physical, mental and emotional. Cut off and oblivious, removed from the plight of others beyond the walls, taking whatever they want, never stopping to count the cost, ignoring the warning signs, the wild is endangered everywhere, within and without.
From deep in the human being the call comes, Remember now, before it is too late. Embrace the wild self, turn to the forgetting to remembrance – the Earth is our home. Humans are part of nature
FROM MY UPCOMING ECO NOVEL:
A woman wearing a headdress of coloured feathers took to the podium. ‘We, the indigenous people of the Earth have not forgotten,’ she said in a voice that rose to the rafters and echoed round the room, strong and proud. ‘We know that when we humans lay waste the Earth we despoil our home. When we cut down the trees we kill our elders. When we hurt the animals we harm our brothers and sisters.’
She spoke then of her island home sunk now beneath the sea. Her voice grew soft as she talked of the grief of her people as they crowded onto boats and fled their ancestral land. They had no idea where they were going or if they’d ever set foot on solid ground again. All they had were the few belongings they clung to. The birds, plants and animals they loved as friends were left behind. All perished now. All gone.
Her voice dropped to a whisper then ceased altogether. A silence settled over the room like a prayer, a requiem for those kindred spirits that had departed the Earth forever.
Deep in my DNA in my white folk celtic roots All Hallows Eve lives. The ghosts of the past walk.
Shadow land Australia – Black folk on TV tell the true history. Remember, they say, you stole our land, you took our children, you killed our warriors.
November dawning. Southern summer skies, light, bright and clear. Magpies warble – black and white on the breeze.
Is it Samhain or is it Beltane? Maybe it’s both. Or none.
Here in this ancient land the rainbow serpent writhes, Bunjil the eagle screeches while Mother Mary weeps.
Global warming, climate change, it’s one world now. The old Gods stir. The Goddesses awake.
Kali, Pele, Eris and Freya, the Seven Sisters in the heavens, all speak with one voice. Work to heal the Earth – the deep, dark wounds, psychic and physical – or cower now in fear. This is the time the ancients foretold. Karmic retribution begins.
– The Rainbow Serpent is the aboriginal creator being in central Australia. Bunjil the Eagle is the creator being for the part of Australia I live in. He sometimes takes the form of an eagle. The Seven Sisters Aboriginal Dreaming Story is connected to the Pleiades star cluster https://indigenu.com.au/the-seven-sisters-story/
I wrote this wacky poem last year but never posted it. It dates from the time when conspiracy theorists were going on about waking up. The haiku was written some years – it came from an experience of waking up (this time literally – from a night’s sleep) and hearing a voice in my head saying ‘on a quantum level everything is energy’.
Waking up from waking up I discover there is no fixed point to hold onto and say hey yeah – this is it, I am finally enlightened, I am fully awake now for sure. Instead, or so it seems to me, it’s all evolving consciousness. Even, so they say, the cosmos itself is expanding/evolving.
So waking up from waking up seeing where I was before – that place I thought was so awake is just another pitstop on the way and there’s always somewhere higher, somewhere clearer somewhere lighter to be.
In the late 90s I went through a rough patch. Luck was not on my side and my options were limited.
Walking down the street one day, seeing the cigarette butts in the gutter and counting the coins in my pocket, the words ‘Look for Beauty’ came into my mind. Surprised, I raised my eyes to see the triangular gable of a house jutting into a clear blue sky. The beauty of the form pierced the gloom in my mind.
And so it went, day after day from then on I looked for beauty in that poor, ugly racist town hovering on the brink of doom. Somewhere, somehow my luck turned and I found a way out of there riding on a wave of beauty.
Since then I’ve heard others say those words. It is as if they were in the air that day. I cannot say for sure, but perhaps I was just one of many to pluck them from the ether. All I can tell now is that they are words of power. Say them often enough, follow their dictates and your world shifts on its axis. Beauty lights your heart.
Opening to joy, seeing beauty on the path the world births anew.
Mt Warning on the far north coast of New South Wales is the first place on the Australian mainland to receive the morning sun. It is currently closed to visitors.
Lost and afraid, wandering the bardos, seeking out a name, searching for an anchor.
Mt, Warning, Captain Cook declared, when he beheld the dawn’s first light on Wollumbin, the cloud catcher. The kookaburras laughed mercilessly.
Do not climb the sacred mountain the tribal elders cried. The tourists paid no mind. The ancient spirits thundered. Storms raged. Lightning struck the craggy peak and the tree sentinels fell. The tourist paths were closed. The entrance gate locked.
Across the country the elders spoke. You mob have take much; our children, our stories, our names, our dignity. Go find your own salvation. We cannot save you from yourselves.
What name now does the mountain have? I no longer live beside that presence, that anchor of the caldera, yet I still feel its power.
Mt Warning/Wollumbin, dreaming spirit, crystal clear yet shrouded. Mists obscuring the heights the cloud catcher greets the dawn.
Here in the bardos in this time of transition when the known paths have closed and names have lost their resonance, the light on the peak illuminates the darkness.
On the day of the equinox we had an earthquake in south eastern Australia. Earthquakes are extremely rare in here. This one measured 5.9 magnitude and made my house shake even though I live 300k away from the epicentre.
The earthquake happened at 9.15 am. It took me a moment to work out what was happening but as soon as I did ran outside. We are lockdown here and no one else was about. I think the neighbours were all still asleep.
When I calmed down I came back inside and make a collage in my journal.
Equinox morning the ground quakes beneath my feet – reality shifting
Shifting my focus, releasing old thought patterns, I seek out balance
Deep in the forest an ancient presence whispers – open to the new
This week on Earthweal Ingrid asks us to consider ways in which we might find our way of the labyrinth of the Anthropocene.
The way in is the way out. Change starts with thoughts. Descartes and the Enlightenment – all those great minds devising the mind/body split, the human/nature division.
The industrial revolution came soon after. Profit driven mass production birthing the capitalist mindset then whoopee and hey presto, fast forward two hundred years globalisation has enslaved our minds. Consume, consume, consume, exploit, extract, abuse. Don’t think of the environment. Humans are separate from nature.
The way in is the way out. Change starts with thoughts. If we change our way of thinking our world view shifts. With humans as part of nature human/non-human interbeing co-creates new outcomes for all.
Feeling the joy, dancing in the green world. Labyrinthine ways unfolding, magical passages of dappled light. New ways of thinking opening new neural pathways. The heart/mind connection illuminates the way forward.
I bought a crystal recently that came from the Ganesh Himal mountain range – an arm of the Himalayas that runs down from Tibet to Nepal. The crystals there are found at 3,500 feet. They are hand mined by Sherpas who can only stay up for there for one day. It takes them three days to walk out with the crystals packed into woven baskets they carry on their backs.
I bought the crystal because I was so overwhelmed by the world. I wanted to tap into pure spiritual energies and figured crystals from the highest mountains on earth might well carry a high frequency vibration. I also bought a beautiful stone that is mined at the base of K2, the second highest mountain on the planet. K2 stones are composed of granite dotted with inclusions of brightest blue azurite.
The first time I used these stones in meditation (by placing them on my third eye while I was lying down) I kept getting visuals of jagged snow capped mountains with plumes of white snow billowing out across a clear blue sky. Since then my meditations have been less visual and more about energetic infusions of light. After one meditation I opened my eyes to see the crystals on my bedroom window sill gleaming so brightly I had to shift my line of vision. Outside the sky above my house was as blue as the azurite on the k2 stone.
What does it mean to come into the light in this time of darkness?
How does it change things to hold in the mind and feel in the heart, purity and peace, while outside in the world all hell breaks loose?
The mystics say we are souls bound to a human body. Only through struggle can we find the light within. Up on the highest mountains the air is rarefied. No one can stay for long. Yet it’s there in the heights that the light is at its brightest.
My grandfather was a man of slowness. One golden summer evening, the light gentle and caressing, I saw him returning from the fields, a scythe across his shoulder, a Quaker stillness at his core.
My great grandmother slow stitched the coverlet on my childhood bed. I remember stroking the stitches, so fine in their exactitude. Outside the world was speeding up – mid century modern in full swing.
A lifetime ago. The modern is now post, meanings have deconstructed, and truth’s become relative. – the world teeters on the brink.
Beyond my room, a restless wind tossing through the treetops. My ancestors, simple handspun folk, lived through wars, the Spanish flu, the Great Depression. Their voices come to me on the wind, – there is time, there is always time.