17 July 2012
The Great Day dawns with beautiful sunshine. Lovely it is when the cloudy lens dissolves, and the power of the sun is green, blue and gold. Think of all the WONDERFUL THINGS which may happen from this day crossing Uranus, Moon, Pluto, Mars.
I dreamt about Ramana. This is an EXCEEDINGLY RARE event, only happened twice before, I think. He wanted to learn how to draw an eye, or write about it, so I offered him mine to study. I closed my eyes and was aware of my left eye like a blind vesica bud, swimming in my head. It is where it tends to ache. He examined, and began to massage my skull around the eye, and both temples, finding healing pressure-points. He drew me to follow him, and I trusted him absolutely, in his hands, and went wherever he pulled or pushed my skull, like a dancing partner blindfold, around the room: his long, probing, supple fingers. I didn’t stumble. When he’d finished I opened my eyes, and he wasn’t “Ramana” as such, he was a tall guy in a leather jacket with some others, but the non-dual Sage was in him, visible through the contemporary stress of facial expressions.
A Kabbalist Portrait
To a group meditation last night, in the evening. What theme does he choose, in the middle of the Grand Cross? He chose Time! Isn’t that interesting. In some ways, it is the same as my writing on the speed of light, which I am preparing to blog; so that’s a signal to complete it later today – a co-hearance.
As usual I was tired and find it hard to concentrate, and as soon as he touches Beriah I fall asleep. I go into a deep soft relax … maybe even into silence … while struggling to keep awake and hear the words. I lose the bit between ascending to the planets and Lord Thou Art God. But something lodges here, where the shield is not. So here goes.
It is three hundred years ago … isn’t that interesting, someone said last week, that the tipping point’s visible impact might emerge three hundred years from now… We are by the River Thames, looking across the water to Greenwich, and the Observatory on its hill. Greenwich longitude is where time begins – by general commonwealth agreement and convenience: the rotation of the day – the degrees of circumference begin and end here. So I am at an agreed point of the turning sphere. “I”. 1. (Or 0).
And it is evening, the sun is setting. London life is smaller, darker, smellier, much more dangerous and more restricted – except for the intelligentsia across the river, in the Observatory: fat cats, the toffs. The tide is out, so all the gravel banks are exposed, covered with the litter, garbage, weapons and sewage of 18th century London, and no boat traffic is coming up-river. Along the bank are huts and wharves and warehouses, higgledy piggledy, mostly built of wood; with loaders, prostitutes and alleyways of crime. Above, the evening sky is a pearl, the stars beginning to come out. Streets are dark and fire-lit, flickering. The pollution on the ground is extensive: the air pollution is nil. The stars shine almost untwinkling, vast in number, like big round jewels, and we are always looking at them, fascinated by what they measure, pattern and portend: the Light above a pitch dark city: its cosmic laser pattern. Sometimes, on a moonless night, the countryside is as dark as the city, and you have to grope your way by touch. The blind become sensitive.
Perhaps in our present day, the whole atmospheric envelope carries trapped photons from the cities, so it is very rarely, truly dark. Photons interacting, emit more particles and their photon “energy release”. There is much saturation. Afterwards, G spoke of the black hole in the Milky Way whose billions of light years’ density conceals, or veils the heart of the galaxy through Sagittarius; if it didn’t, our nights would all be ablaze as Full Moon in the Alps.
Now we are watching Time, in our place by the river. Strange to realise, that Time is the act of watching, and staying here, as the heavens move across the field. Time has no television, news, gossip or distraction. Time is the Watcher. Apart from the Watcher, there is no time. On the whole I dislike Time, I am restless, I want something to do. But now this moment: feel Time, be Time, breathe Time, be here. My vacuum is filled with being: the passing of the night through London – God’s lanterns in the sky; the pleroma of emptying. Time is fullness. Mindfullness.
As a London inhabitant of the early 18th century, my inner sense of being is so rich that I experience more to stand and stare; not everyone hurries. It is usual, to see many who rest, who wait between employments, who are. We sleep and wake and dream by the fireside, and by the waters. During the 20th century, we submitted to the dictatorship of the media en masse, and have become much restricted. The modern mindset requires incessant, unholy stimulation, and blocks out the stars. Thus, the message we get from all sides, political, geophysical, social, ecological, scientific … lacks data. It is like gazing at one piece of glass, picked up from the ground: belief.
Around the horizon, the stars are invisible, packed together so densely along that plane, that they form a haze. I realise, there is no darkness. There are so many stars, that in my depth vision they meld together; indeed, each aerial atom is itself a star, an interaction of Light: it throbs everywhere.
As the night advances, the river tide turns, and the sea moves from the left, from the infinite arm of my subconscious. The river water, gleaming a little in the starlight between its murky banks, lit here and there by fires and moving torches, swells and spreads, gradually covering the gravel flats; it spreads and fills amoebically, the slow power of the waters as it fills. The river is wide, and when there is fog, you can’t see the opposite bank; so it passes me as the sea, mysterious to itself, like shadows on the wall of Plato’s cave: a mist. Time un-named, un-aimed, rises and fills, rises and fills. In Greenwich they have a grandfather clock, a pendulum … tick tock … tick tock … a beating heart. Between the slowing ticks and tocks, the gap builds to a sneeze of no time. Mind the gap!
The river is filling, and cold it gleams and gurgles, carrying vessels, carrying the goods from the sea, carrying merchandise, curiosity and politics from far countries whose borders are unimaginable: the creative collective-subconscious debris and discovery. And as it fills, so I seem to rise with Life and Interest; even so I enter the Observatory on the hill, and look through the lens. The lens brings to me close the stars. It telescopes time, space and history. It is an hour-glass. It reveals an interlacing Pattern I live among, and am, which is quite other than the seamy novel on the ground. I ride, and am, a net of jewels, of an unbounded Order; and it contains as vividly the sounds and smells of dark old London and the chilly Thames and my small soul, as it does Itself; all, All is the Atom.
Thus as it were, with one flick of comet’s tail, I ride and survey the Solar System: surveying Time.
Time is a petalled flower of different circumferences; of curves of gravity to the centrifugal edge as it gains mass and becomes centripetal. Time is this conversational conversion, back and forth through the rim of the wheels – the Sri Chakra Yantra. Everything moves away from, and back into itself, at the Speed of Light, which alone is constant.
Time has different size “watches” or spherical shapes around the Sun. Mercury’s time is a few months; Earth’s time is a year – Mars, two years, Jupiter twelve: Saturn 29. Pluto’s wrist watch is 240 years or thereabouts. Imagine that great Circle of Now!
Time is a host of segments, parabolas and crescents, great and small; of bites from the Big Apple.
As I ride among the stars and perceive the harmonics of Kepler’s Chalice, Time’s arc of Now is unimaginable, inconceivable. It threads galaxies like daisies by their stalks; it embraces the Doppler shift and the in and out breath of Kalpas; yet still it rests within my soul, because I am made of atoms and am the Atom. I began the whole thing! and it has no beginning. It never began. It has no end. The I vanishes. There Is. There are the eyes. I AM THAT I AM: the burning bush spoke. Lord, thou art God. Lord, Thou art God. Lord, thou art god.
ADONAI I adore thee. Thou art I am. TAT TVAM ASI.
And still the ships with their lanterns travel up the heaving cold breast of the river, steaming a bit with the night. And from the east, from whence they come, the sky has opened, and dawn brightens, as dim as the day; it swells and advances ever from the east, like the tidal river against the land’s nocturnal stream. And open your eyes, back into this room, this current portion of the time. Well? That should be interesting. What did you see?
Greenwich Observatory moved to the south coast, when London’s light-interference became too strong, and eventually to the highest desert in South America.
Most of what we believe, is led by the blind. Detachment, altitude and depth is generous to the smallest detail in the Bigger Picture. With detachment arrives insight and compassion, as the blind eye is healed. In any circumstance, any fog, it is our privilege to be, and to see the Cosmos. All it needs is a strong reminder.
The Grand Cross in today’s heavens, is a potentially violent configuration in many views or frames; yet in its essence is the intersection of T S Eliot’s “occupation for the Saint”. It is for us, a portrait of time and of awakening. In Exodus, the Children of Moses crossed the Red Sea from bondage to Mount Sinai, the promised land. On the Tree of Life, this story is: Yesod, the bondage or self-image. Then Temperance, the probational path of honesty to Tifareth, the promised land. Crossing Temperance, is a bridge: Hod to Netzach, the path of Awakening (the Tarot’s Tower.). In the Tree’s Queen scale colours, this path is coloured red: the path of Mars: the Red Sea!
A Cross is the most ancient of symbols, meaning “the mark”. At the crossroads, ways open; trees are planted – even kisses and chromosomes, as lovers meet. In masonry, the cross is the perfect builder’s balance with Level, Square and Plumb; in the Tao’s t’ai chi movement, the Cross is the everlasting fluidity of Yin and Yang at the dantien. At the crossroads, when we are lost, we ask the way, and get into conversation. The Cross is the sun rising or setting over the sea, creating a vertical path of gold through the horizon. As a rigid symbol, the cross is high-tension brittle and destroys; as a fluid interplay of horizontal and vertical planes, the cross is a beautiful tall ship under sail: keel and crows-nest.
Let us form a vessel: the Tree of Life, in alchemy Queen-scale colours
It is good to trust whatever our individual cross happens to be, and dance with it. Under a Grand Cross in the skies, small movements are wise; movements of minimal adjustment: the navigator’s wheel at home. The big projects unfold later, as the tension opens and releases. Across the spine of an open book … read the lines.
Mobius strip – a quantum view of our Universe. Join the ends of a strip of paper, making a half-twist. Now cut the doughnut in half, all around the circumference: it becomes a figure of eight – OM HREEM. Repeat with the new long, circular , twisted strip … ad infinitum. Prana flows in these linked figures of eight from the Source and through the web of the universe in every ray of awareness.
The figure of eight unbrokenly circles itself
Every ancient symbol, from DNA caduceus to l’argot – the Gothic Art or Argos patois of the temple builders – has within it, the cross. Then the cross in our skies, linking the old Mayan calendar to the “new” Great Sphere of Time, through an hourglass neck, the pressure … has every conceivable future. It forms a figure of eight: a mobius strip: an infinity. Our destiny is writ far wider than today’s spectacles.
first-person specs – as I put life’s tunnel on my nose, who comes to meet me but my Friend?.
Polar alignment with small shifts of axis, is the centering of our spine: the centre of gravity. When it is out of line, it hurts; when it comes home it rests, and Life goes on. The movement in and out of this … is beauty.
Curve of gravity
He draws the bow ACROSS the strings: Itzhak Perlman, 1986
Yantra in the Wood
Tree Spirit, & some very old Pebbles from the Scilly Isles
My adventure invites fellow travellers. I am a poet, an artist and a seer. I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.
This blog is a vehicle to promote my published work – The Sacred India Tarot (with Rohit Arya, Yogi Impressions Books) and The Dreamer in the Dream – a collection of short stories (0 Books) – along with many other creations in house.
I write, illustrate, design and print my books. Watch this space.