Sketches of Father Maximilian Kolbe

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I am preparing a new post – my diary while painting Father Kolbe in 1983.  I pruned it right down, but it is still a big document.  So here first are a few newly discovered online photos of him;  and then my old working sketches of him which I rounded up.

The diary of the creative process is interesting, because it demonstrates Father Kolbe’s impact on a circle of life.   It will be published here soon.

I found this photo just now on a site called The Ever Blessed.  It heads an article titled Saint Maximilian Kolbe, and loving Mary too much.  The access now to online images and archives is a marvel …  from the research toil and trek of 30 years ago!

An early sketch … not quite there.

 This  photo is one which I would like to have used for my painting.  It is from “Brothers of Life”. It shows – like the top photo – his profile, forehead and bone structure.  He was a spiritual soldier, a gifted inventor, and a media pioneer.  He founded a global printing press on pennies from heaven, built a town called Niepekalanov – city of God – and travelled as a missionary for several years in Japan.  Working with Buddhist and Shinto sages, he grew the beard.  The Franciscans are clean shaven, but are allowed to grow a beard on missions abroad.

I don’t have the order the sketches were done in, but I think this was an early one too.  Getting warmer!   Working with him was a conversation.

Another one …  feeling my way towards.  I had at the most half a dozen old snap shots in two library books.  The contact develops day by day, with the imagination’s antennae.


Here is Bruce Heitz painting St Max Kolbe – copyright 2003 by KolbeNet.   I like this portrait!   Beautiful.  It speaks … and the artist looks up, and outward;  the brush, the touch, the coming to life.  They were having a chat, and someone came in.

This sketch “connects” to the painting I was nearly ready to do.   When I worked as a portraitist, there came a point during sittings – live or from photographs/research – which I called “the connection”.   Something altered in the space between us.  Something came down, entered and cohered.   From that moment I knew the painting – whatever the difficulties – had taken over and would do itself.  It came to meet.  The subconscious gets the message, and delivers.  It is a spark of love, and then the labour.

Drawn up into a 
dark cave whose glory drop by drop 
the rain through aeons carved, 
as stalagmite to stalactite 
   my soul evolves
from floor to point of meeting. 
Let us draw time, 
draw together this space. 

My flame drinks wick;  in watered rock 
   my mirrored twin appears ...

I may have quoted this in my earlier post Drawings of Timothy West at the Red Hedgehog, but it serves here as well.

As he loved her so much, here is a copy of a Botticelli Mother of Christ, done when I was about seven years old.   As children we enter the temple of the blessed, and are not constrained.



After Maximilian Kolbe’s return to Poland, he worked ever harder at his press and newspaper circulation, though suffering from TB.  The Nazis arrested him because he refused to collaborate, and sent him to Auschwitz.   At a random roll-call to the starvation bunker, he stepped forward and offered himself in place of a younger man who had a family.  The guard agreed.   In the starvation bunker, Kolbe helped hundreds of persons to die in a state of grace.  He uplifted them, and kept them singing.  Everybody could hear it. Weeks later, he was the only one remaining alive, and he was put to death.  The man he saved, survived the camp and told the tale.

  You can see Kolbe’s portrait behind them.


This, and the drawings that follow, were jotted down in a small notepad, on a visit to The Universe headquarters in Farringdon.  They found the photos for me.  Kolbe was quite well documented, as it was the year after his canonization.

On bike.  Father Kolbe is recognised as one of the community of Saints, not only for the way he died, but for the way he inspired and uplifted others all his life, and continues to do so;  and for his spiritual depth.   Intellectually, he was a “renaissance man”, a polymath.  As an inventor, he was practical and “hands-on”.   So strong is his spirit, that his physical frame was a passing show.  Thus he continues to work within us, and to counsel.

 Another old photo …

… and a drawing …


… and the painting.  I shall get this professionally photographed, so that the detail around the Miraculous Medal and his rosary is clear.   Another photo of it is in my earlier post (15 June) Portrait Gallery One: Father Kolbe, Princess Alice & Others.

When I painted the rosary beads, it felt like a little galaxy:

“I would like to paint the reverse side of the Miraculous Medal – the “M” and the two hearts – very delicately above his right shoulder, as Kolbe is a Knight to Our Lady.  In an odd way, the rosary is his “sword”, especially the angles of the crucifix and the medal, which give “body” to his disappearing left arm.  He helped me place them, and the beads, which can float around them like a galaxy of angels.  I was astonished how well it turned out. 

“My original concept of him had more of a smile – the smiling face of God – but there is here the merest hint of a smile, as martyrdom and realism is in his face, and this is how he emerged.  I shall be able to soften the lines from nose to mouth, just a little, in the coming weeks.  His hand has become a gardener’s hand, rather like Father Alan’s.  From a distance it is strong, but close up the draughtsmanship is weak, especially the little finger.  The form of this hand relies on the effect of light on it.  It is supposed to be a completely unassuming hand, such as St Francis might have had.  I left in a fortuitous shadow of stigmata.  I emphasized the pleats and folds of his habit beneath the girdle, and did a little bit to the creases at his left elbow … and was enjoying Beethoven very much.”

from journal, November 1983

Painting Maximilian Kolbe was my initiation to a way which began to break ground a few years later.  My writings at that time, note a threshold, a watershed from which a river flows.



And …

“Prayer is not better when it gives consolation, but rather when it exacts greater fidelity to return to what you’re doing.”

“God gives us this white ladder and wills that we use it, to scale the heights to come into his presence.  This is only poetic imagery:  the reality is incomparably more beautiful.”

“To arouse that love for the Immaculata, therefore, by enkindling it in one’s own heart, to communicate this fire to those who live close to us, to set on fire with this love all souls and each one in particular—those who live now and those who will live in the future, to make this flame burst forth ever more intensely and without restrictions in ourselves and all over the earth: such is our purpose. Everything else is just a means.”

St Maximilian Kolbe 1894-1941



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.

A Woman playing a Piano; and a Child of art

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A few days ago, I found a search-phrase on my dashboard – for the late Vera Moore, a pianist born in New Zealand.  This post goes out to persons who may have known, studied with, or been interested in her.

Vera Moore circa 1965  (ja 1973)

See also my later post (3 December 2012), Music Lessons with Vera Moore, which follows on, from this one.

The link – – includes a video-clip from 1984, of Vera Moore’s student Pierre-Alain Volondat.

As I began to prepare this post, what should I discover today, but another U Tube link  (for French speakers!):


“Pianiste originaire de Nouvelle-Zélande, Vera Moore acquit une réputation internationale dans les années 1920-1930, et fut la compagne du sculpteur Constantin Brancusi. Voici le premier récit consacré à la pianiste.  

ISBN : 978-2-296-96644-4 • mai 2012 • 78 pages – Category: Travel & Events

– So a little book was published about her, just three months ago.


As it happens, in March – after my mother visited – I was moved to assemble my own memories of Vera Moore, and to find out if she was online … maybe aligning with a new response towards her … the antennae curve.

Here is the lane where Vera lived, near Paris … “a wall, very high, with a small narrow door.  It is here.  The door opens to an inner garden …”

From the video clip in 1984:  “When I go back to France, it is to work with my Maitre, because the time has not yet come, for me to have mastered fully the tradition:  but I will.   These traditions (of piano playing) are so sacred, that I have sometimes the impression (or fear) lest I let it down.  … My Maitre is always with me and will be always with me.  This cannot die.

-But she is very old?  You have to think of that? –

“She is very young, yet very old.  We are in constant communication.”

The young man arriving for a lesson, is her student Pierre-Alain Volondat.  I did the drawing from the video clip on the myspace link (see above).  So many impressions came flooding back – when I used to walk along that wall to the little door, with the day’s groceries.   I was sixteen.


Reviewed from my Diary (1965) – “The Invisible Technique”

“…  She is an old friend of my grandparents.  She loved Brancusi the sculptor, and they had a son, John.  John lives in the cottage in her garden with his wife Maryse, and he and Vera argue.  She is, through all her scatty aggravations and disorder, beautiful.  Her eyes are peat-brown, soft and bright, she has a round snub nose and she dyes her long grey hair a reddish tint.  She’s very old, in her sixties, and she had a rough time in life;  she lives in poverty, and things are chaotic.

“But she is rare.  She is a true artist.  The true artists, however enclosed their field, evoke another world.  Perhaps it is their scarcity.

“That evening she played to an invited audience in the long, L-shaped, oak beamed music room.  She pulled out an un-ironed linen dress, said to me with mischievous radiance, “this will do?” and put it on.   It was creased and crumpled all over.   Her broken wrist was in a sling and she limped across the room in her down-at-heel court shoes, with her handbag and sat down.   The lamp was on her other side.  She and the piano, silhouetted into one dark, fluid shape, communed with one another.  Vera and her music flow like a river.  The surroundings melt away, as they fuse.  For Vera IS music:  a prodigy.  The creation of Bach, Beethoven and Debussy, is her being.

“She carries the perfume with her, of just this field.  I never met anyone as beautiful as she.  She misunderstands things all the time and infuriates me;  her franglais French is terrible;  she glows with sympathy.  That must be why I like writing long letters to her.

“The sympathy glowing through her soul, has narrow boundaries.  She has prejudices, many hatreds.  Her war time in the Resistance wounded her, and most people “are not human beings.”  To those whom she does trust, she reveals her true self.  Her pre-war world is ignorant of the world outside.; she is flawed, she has no interest in the human sea.  She has a universal beauty, the wholeness of a leaf.

“When I first met her at Kettles Yard in Cambridge, she asked me to play.  She was giving a concert there.  The family legend about Vera Moore as a teacher, was frightening and volatile.  They said “She’ll scream at you, she’ll push your hands off the keys!”  But she put me at my ease.  She said it’s the music which matters, not the mistakes;  her voice rippled, and she smiled.  So I played, and I enjoyed myself – to a musician from the core, who understands the magic of being free.  When I listened to her practicing, I was spell-bound;  she felt along the keys, the bones of what she would play that night.  Later on, she forgot to take her books and music back to the Garden House hotel where she was staying with Helen Sutherland.  I ran through the dusky, lamp lit frosty streets of Cambridge, to give them to her.  She smelled so delicious in her foxy fur coat with her shabby shoes and bright brown eyes, and she invited me to come and stay with her in her house near Paris.  I fell in love with her.  I met Helen Sutherland too – that is another story.


“When I went to stay with Vera in Jouy en Josas (between Paris and Versailles), I learned more about her problems.  But this makes me love her even more, and eager to see her again.  She taught me to play Chopin’s Berceuse and Debussy’s Cathedrale Engloutie.  A music lesson with her, lasts a lifetime.  It is tenderness and touch.

Brahms/Vera Moore by Winifred Nicholson c.1930



Constantin Brancusi

FROM AN ARTICLE in Tabloid Libertatea:  Constantin Brancusi’s son is discovered in France: He’s 77 and the only child of the great artist!

“John Moore, now 77, is the only heir the great artist Constantin Brancusi (1876-1957) had. He inherited his father not in the genius for art but in the passion for photography. Never recognized officially by the titan born at Hobita, Gorj County, Moore currently lives in France, near Paris, with the still living memory of the time he worked as photographer with famous cabaret Crazy Horse. Tabloid Libertatea exclusively learned the unknown story of the only child Brancusi had in his 81 years of life.

The result of a love affair with Vera Moore, his former secretary and a highly appreciated pianist 80 years ago, John Moore was never recognized as a son by the great artist.

 “Born in New Zealand, Vera Moore met Brancusi when she was 34, in 1930 at a London concert, through a common friend, Jim Ede.. Their personal affair, kept hidden from the public, resulted in a child, born September 15, 1934, when Vera was 38 and Brancusi was 58.

Concerned only with the artistic side of his life, Brancusi however never acknowledged John as his natural heir.

“Since the very beginning, John was named after his mother, taking after his father in only one regard: passion for photography, which was Brancusi’s second passion after sculpture. An extensive article in Reporter Objectif, in August 1972, which includes the only picture of John Moore (see below), details how he got close to this form of art.

All the pictures taken by him and published by the magazine have the Crazy Horse Cabaret as topic, the place where Brancusi’s only child worked for several years, being close friends with the place’s creator Alain Bernardin.

“54 years after the death of his famous father, John Moore lives just as discreetly in France, at Jouy en Josas, very close to Paris.

“First reports about Brancusi having a son emerged in 1978, when Le Monde ran a story about Vera Moore:  “Today, she refuses to speak about herself. She had a 15-year relationship with Brancusi. They had a son.  She doesn’t talk about it.”

John Moore photographe

 In 2005, Doina Lemny, a leading researcher into the sculptor’s life, revealed the name of his son in her book, titled “Constantin Brancusi”: “With pianist Vera Moore he has a son, John Moore, whom Brancusi will never recognize. However, Vera isn’t upset with this.”


John was a pioneer of image manipulation in the darkroom, using colour filters and “accidental” effects.  I remember his sculptural excitement with light – the dancing girls at the Crazy Horse Saloon.  It contrasted wonderfully, his mother’s world.

 “… This made me the first photographer to experiment with the magnificent colour-separation process, in a precise and scientific way … working with Alain Bernardin, a photographer’s art would  place the receptive viewer at such an angle – (this quote is condensed from John’s French in Reporter Objectif 1972) … to let his imagination go into what is communicated creatively … Alain Bernardin’s erotic sophistication was a desire for perfection, admitting nothing vulgar or mediocre.”


June 1987  “Invisible Technique” … My Last Meeting with John and Vera

… We packed and left the hotel and took a train to the Moores, having just enough francs thank God, to get there.

The familiar route from long ago – the trees, the smell of the epicerie – opened out along the lane.  Behind the wall, John and Sonya live now in the larger house where Vera was – she has John’s old cottage – they have filled the house with John’s photography, Sonya’s paintings, her three or four sons, her mother visiting, an exchange student, and all their self sufficient building and framing work. The paintings are quite erotic – saucy delicate ideas.  The creative atmosphere hasn’t changed a bit in 20 years – as scruffy and hand-to-mouth as ever, with a larger turnover of cash.   John struggles with his mother’s hospital bills, as she refused to allow herself to be examined for medical insurance in the past, and now she is too old.

Vera too was self sufficient – her entire cottage a death trap – a cats cradle of time-and-motion circumnavigatory solutions to the problem of getting out of bed, and defense against burglars;  it is a wonder she didn’t break her hip indoors, but out in the garden.  She will be bionic, as this is the second hip to be replaced,  She is as obstinate as ever.  Sonya speaks very fondly of her, and John’s mellowed about her, I think.  He’s lost weight;  his hair is white, and he has Vera’s eyes.  The assertive personality of what Vera used to speak of as “the Child of Art” – comes forth, an artist now in his own right.   John Moore Photographe made it on his own terms.  He is very intense, and I would find him uncomfortable, after a while.  But he has developed a most attractive social manner, and bends over backwards with courtesy to strangers.  He suppresses suspicion, feels vulnerable and wants to do things right.   He does all his own building, scavenging and improvising, as does Sonya also.  They seem happy together, and are enduring the shambles of Sonya’s ex-husband trying to get custody of the boys.  Sonya is slim and dark, Spanish Catholic, American reared, my age.  Her manner and sound are rather like John’s first wife Maryse.  John made a crucifix for Sonya by melting down some of his gold teeth.

We all discussed our various avenues of artistic expression.  For John, womens’ faces are an intense blank on the map – his lens captures a vibrance just short of aggression, for an imaginative viewer to write his own script.  Encounters are sparked with the known and the unknown.  He says that for him, as a photographer, a woman’s body frames her facial expression.  He is very articulate and slightly scary.

After this the sink blocked, and there followed a long saga for us all, through the making-ends-meet plumbing, and the removal of an ocean of grease.

Marisa (my ten year old daughter) and the boys broke ice with a game of Monopoly, and went off to play in a park across the road.  There was quiche for lunch.  Then off to Vera in her rehabilitation clinic in the afternoon, Marisa and myself with John and the youngest boy, in John Moore’s truck, which he has to start by putting wires together.

Vera hasn’t changed either, except she is smaller and thinner.  The half dyed hair:  the same delicate fragrance, high insistent voice, and utterly lovable eyes and smile – she is 91 years old! and VERY DEAF.   She brings tears to my eyes.  She felt very happy to see me after all this time, and to hold my hand, pressing it with her speech, with strong pianist finger tips, clawed a little by arthritis.   She still plays.   Sonya says it’s lovely, and showed me a drawing of her.   Vera talked away like a brook and told me all about a pupil of hers who has an astonishing gift, and is receiving wonderful notices about his sonority and expression, and about his teacher – his Maitre – herself.   She dug around in a bunch of envelopes and letters in her lap among the bed-sheets, for the relevant literature.  After some ten minutes of this, I felt a little worried her son couldn’t get a word in.   I managed to close the discussion with our agreement that French piano teaching is a little inclined to nut-cracking, and Tobias Mathay is better, and Vera seemed satisfied that I have retained all the Principles she taught me twenty years ago.   I wished we could go on and on.  I will write to her.  She gave Marisa a big welcome also – my child.   We brought her the remainder of Fred Barschak’s red roses, and she loves roses, and said I shouldn’t have, and John and I fussed around looking for a vase.

I’m an artist, and all artists are impossible people. They go on and on, talking about whatever they are doing, just like Vera and John Moore.  I recognize in them both, my familiar and intense barrage, and Vera herself being now so deaf, is more infuriating than ever.  We are all nutcases, it’s good to be in company.

I always found John Moore disturbingly attractive.  In 1969 I thought “Mr V” (Marisa’s father-to-be) looked like him.  I also recognize in him the familiar interaction of overriding artistic pressure and egotism, with the carefully cultivated self effacing courtesy whenever he has to ask somebody for something – for which the French language and all its polite cadences, is such a perfect vehicle:   the rage and the tamer.   On my visit, I perceived him, Vera and Brancusi his father (who he says, gave away all his wealth and great works, so that his descendents wouldn’t be troubled with tax problems) – recalling the way Vera brought John up in Occupied France (scavenging for scraps and rotten veg) as a sacred trust to Brancusi who wouldn’t acknowledge him. John was “the child of Art”.   John now heads this triangle with his own personally-forged expression, through all the fights he and Vera used to have.   Their egos were at loggerheads.  On my first visit, back in the 1960s, this was painful to witness.

John is a sculptor with his life – he carves and joins.   He sees and evaluates things photographically, with the blink of an eye or shutter.  His females (Sonya is a highly intelligent example, with her own independence and strong working hands) are dark.  They are lissome, quiet-spoken and visually malleable.  Sonya experiences her painting sculpturally, she sometimes adds twigs and bits of flotsam to it.   They both, like me, enjoy Yin and Yang ambiguities across the unprejudiced visual map.

They keep stacks and stacks of fruit crates scavenged by John, around the garden, for firewood.  The garden is still a well kept summery oasis a l’anglaise, with crazy pavings through the grass and flowers.  It contains a garage, a deluge of a workshop, and a bicycle shed built by John in 24 hours flat.   He enjoys rigging up poles and wood.  Chaos is kept just operational – just until “Memi’s” fragrant mayhem with her peat-brown eyes and flow of artistic requirement, is back in their midst … ?

“This is thought to be a portrait of Vera Moore, who was a close friend of Winifred Nicholson from the 1920s. Vera Moore was a New Zealand born pianist, as well as the partner of Constantin Brancusi. She was also a close friend of the collector Helen Sutherland, who greatly admired her ‘heavenly’ playing and wrote: ‘Vera Moore is lovely when she plays – it is sculpture I think – the strange almost bland unseeing eyes and head of sculpture and inward life somehow. Another friend of mine said she looked as if she had just been told a lovely secret when she played'” –  (quoted in V. Corbett, A Rhythm, A Rite, A Ceremony: Helen Sutherland at Cockley Moor, Penrith,1996, p. 56).”


14 March 2012 – A Door through the Wall to the Inner Life

The reckless fruit is a road.   I was talking, not long ago, to an old rocker about the rhythm & blues 1960’s scene.   Yesterday I transcribed from my notebook all the things he had said;  then I turned a page … I “turned to the left” through a hole in the wall – when I found the Myspace link to the young student (see beginning of this post) – and there’s an inner garden of souls and their own on-stage knot, who carry on regardless.   Life is so much back to back – the thinnest of membranes between the rooms of time.

In one of Ronnie Bond’s songs to the Key of F – his beloved – the soul is turning home.

Getting off the train at Chaville and climbing up the flights of steps to the lane, I walk along that rustic French wall till I arrive at the door

The archival love affair is magic;   then it passes, as the coming wave replaces it.   It throws up images from the deep, like this garden wall.  To one side the world’s traffic and reckless fruits go by, and on the other side the inner life;  a door opens in the mystery shield, to a disciple with his music case.

Meeting Vera again, I learn more of her. After the war, the outer world no longer made any sense to her.  She grew a protecting boundary, to retreat behind – she obtained, she was given, the house;  behind the wall she raised her son who breathes a robust life into that delicate chaos;  the wall shields him and his womenfolk.   This family enriched my whole life formatively, they are my background.

When a child is born “of art”, he arrives into himself, unfathered.  He regenerates his mother’s shelter, in the effort to establish his own.

I imagine Vera also before the war, an essential flavour of Jim my grandfather’s inner world.  She is being painted by Winifred Nicholson, in her “art gown”.   I wonder how she looked – her power and grace.   She released beauty even when she was “very old” (in her sixties!), putting on weight with brittle bones, trailing old clothes which were given to her, and being “infuriating”.   What a reserve the woman had, to keep her 15 year commitment to Brancusi, and then their son, secret, secluded from the world.   In those days, only the truly bohemian could survive the stigma of single parenthood.


When I saw them again in 1966, on my way back from La Coume in the Pyrenees, Vera, John and Maryse were locked in a domestic-emotional armaggedon behind that flowering wall – the child Thomas in between.  They fuelled their heart breaking tale, developing it earnestly day by day, as we all do, and confided it to their helpless visitors.

The door to the inner life opens.  The student passes first through the emotional tension field, caught in it like a fly.

But time comes, the student goes directly to his teacher.   The door to the inner life opens and she smiles in her shabby dress, and ripples a little.   And they go to the big raftered music room.   Like Liszt, Vera could make any piano breathe, no matter how out of tune (she couldn’t afford the piano tuner).   The student on the U Tube, (who she may have spoken of to me, at her bedside in 1987) developed a passion for tuning his instrument even as he played it.   Pianists – as I know – are strange persons.   I recall Vera’s regal authority as a musician.  She would take your hand and press her small bent fingers into it as she spoke, looking into your eyes – the touch, and finger tutelage.

On my first visit to her – I was 16, and my family had briefed me about Brancusi – she gave a soiree to some American visitors, and the conversation touched Brancusi and someone made a brash remark about the money his children should inherit from him …   “Ah, but,” tinkled Vera, giving me her sideways delicious look, like a fellow conspirator: “you see, Brancusi never married!”   I remember the tone of her voice –  her shy secret and her admiration.   Nothing mattered more than art.   She was too unworldly to bother about his tight fist – if such a thought ever occurred to her.  For any great artist or sculptor, their oeuvre is a commodity, a wealth in bulk to manage, an obstinacy to dispose of.  The attitude is obsessive and irrational.   Vera’s unworldliness made the world a suspicious and hostile element.   Yet: she offered a musical gem and looked up from it, sharing an intimate secret – her charm.

The other day I re-invoked Liszt doing this, and that is the link …  (through my mother’s visit yesterday) –   to Vera – (we looked at her picture on my wall) … to remember and to connect with her again!

The mischievous flowering qualities in the Maestri, are the key.  When the Maestro looks up from the key, he or she shares the unifying beauty for ever.   Vera loved me as I loved her, because we love That.   The gesture is universal:  an Archangel’s trumpet to the little child:  the special tune.

I just realized a curious thing.  I too bore a child from “an artist”, and she grew up without the father, she has my family name.   I, like Vera, am a single parent.  The way we touch and love and disappear through each other in the archive of life, is a looking-glass land.

And another thing:  a few days after I visited the R&B man and wrote down his memories and danced to his jukebox, his beautiful pad burnt down – a fag end in the waste paper basket – nearly all his old life was destroyed, including the Wurlitzer juke boxes and the poor old dog who was about to be put to sleep.   But he was heavily insured, and had got restless in the old frame.  He flew from the ashes like a phoenix and built his new palace in Primrose Hill where he thrives.   This episode hides within the turning of a page.  From akashic space between the lines,  thematic progressions flower and are reborn.

I found and read Vera’s letters – they are warm and crisp, not rambly.  As I suspected, I sent her with mine, sketches of horses and the wild night life …  wanting to shock her.


            Old Letters

Jouy en Josas, summer 1965

Dear Jane,

What a lovely letter you wrote, & with those two fascinating drawings I seem to be sitting in a café looking out on Life in England!   I was also glad to get the p.c. & to know you arrived home safely.  I have an awful confession to make.  Soon after you left, I put my hand right down into my rain coat pocket, further down than it had ever been before, and found right in the farthest and darkest point at the very bottom – nearly into the hem –  THE KEY!!!!  What will you say to me – … – I deserve the very worst, & cannot even begin to apologise when I think how awful I was about it.  The 10 fr. note has not turned up, but I now begin to think I must have put that somewhere else too.  So it is most likely YOURS too – the one you sent.  Oh dear, you couldn’t have me in a worse position, but as long as you’ll forgive me, I’ll survive this time.

I gave your letter to Anne Marie who looked v. pleased.  She came and looked at me giving Joel his lesson – & Joel made a sign (v. masterful) for her to go out.  She came again (saying nothing at all) & so I asked her to go out again as Joel couldn’t concentrate.  So we were left in peace, while all sorts of wonderful smells came out of the kitchen, & went on so long, I thought something had happened as no one came to say dinner was ready – (my watch is broken – I dropped it).  Then all of a sudden Madame C. burst in in a frightful rage to ask us if we were never going to stop – it was 10 o’ clock, Anne Marie and her father had dined & gone to bed, & poor Madame C. had been keeping things hot for the last hour.   Joel … immediately said he wd eat NOTHING – I said also – nothing – However Madame put delicious fish with caper sauce on the table, & salad, & strawberries & ice cream – and we all finally did full justice to it, to the last spoon full!  She insisted on driving me home – hauled out of the dark back of the car 2 boxes of plants for the garden as well – (Anne Marie had been sent in to tell us dinner was ready – & had said nothing – fortunately she had gone to bed – she would have caught it from her mother!)

 Next time, you must write in French. Glad the piano teacher was not too bad, & that dinners at school are so much better. Try to do the relaxation exercises every day.  Do you know the Berceuse by heart yet?   Much love from Vera.

 PS Philippe Ganter had a great success – Mme Paul played her v. best.  Grisons did not come.  There were about 25 people.  Mme Halff has a … girl wants to exchange with English girl.  The family v. nice, live (O well) in the S of France.  Do you happen to know someone?   As for the 10fr – it arrived during a slump and was one of those miracles!  You were right – but I was vexed …


Jouy en Josas, Thursday 25 July 1965

 Dear Jane,

Just as I was preparing at last to write to you, I saw some letters pushed through the hole in the gate and lo! one was yours, wh. greatly interested me.  Good news of your further musical development.  It’s everything to be a good listener.   Also about Annapurna – what fun! 

It’s useless trying to describe music in words – just waste of time – Shakespeare never did it, tho’ he must have been deeply moved by it all.  There’ve been some good articles in The Listener lately.  What do you think about the one about Dante’s History in July 15, and the Devon farmers wh. just preceded it?  and Denis Matthews on Mozart – very good, I thought.

It was lovely seeing Jim and Helen who I think enjoyed their stay in Phebe’s flat.  Phebe is here on and off (rather off than on) and as I have no help (all the f. de ménage en vacances) I am rather wallowing in oceans of cooking, cleaning, washing – I emerge occasionally to touch the piano or to read a nice letter from afar – but otherwise my nose is continually at the grindstone.  So please forgive short letter wh.. comes all the same with happy & loving remembrances and to Mary (who wrote me a long letter wh.. I thank her) and to your father and the family, (not forgetting the fat slug of a cat!!  Your ever affectionate V.M.

I loved the drawing of horses – it is beautiful.  The Cafeteria pleases me  (less?)  I don’t like your friends’ hair!

Practice SLOWLY the difficult bars, each hand separately. You’ll be surprised how the problems disappear!


Jouy en Josas, Yvelines (no more S. et O.)  21 May 1966

Dear Jane,

What a nice letter you sent me, the best yet, and I do thank you for so kindly & sweetly continuing to write to such an old silent screw as I am.  I followed with great interest your musical ups (& downs), & rejoiced in yr. success – followed you to the Scilly Isles, (what is the beautiful public garden the Halffs are always talking about there?) to Wales & bathing, walking, riding – and now you are returning to France!   It all sounds fascinating, & I hope you will spare us a few days going & coming.  I wonder if the school will be near Prades where Casals holds his musical festival.

Here all is well, & my arm is rapidly mending.  The garden is a dream, every imaginable flower in bud just ready to burst out tomorrow – Sunday.

I liked yr. letter because you told me so much in such a short space.  It was splendid.

We all send our love to you & to your Mother & Father & Q & S & much love to your own self.  Yours ever, Vera Moore.  

Thank you for the drawings wh. I studied with care.  I loved the great fine galloping stormy horses for Christmas.

.Prometheus & Bechstein at Kettles Yard: (A Way of Life by Jim Ede)


Jouy en Josas, 8 May 1968

 Dearest Jane,

So glad to have yr. happy letter.  We are still here.  No-one comes even to look at our lovely house & the garden has never been so inviting & gay.  Agents say there is nothing doing anywhere just now.  “Things is bad!!” 

I imagine your frenzy at the beauty of Florence.  I saw it when I was about yr. age, & was so overcome that I had a fever, & still ran about all the little streets in heat of August – wh.. was terrible – but the heavenly feeling of at last reaching civilization has never left me.  I know that hole in the Parthenon – I spent my nights & days beside it.  It is the most wonderful feeling one can ever have, I think.

Don’t be discouraged & wanting to fly off – stick to what you want to do, even if it doesn’t turn out as you want it to.  Enclosed (newspaper cutting) may inspire you to think of the U.S. wh.. seems to have something of everything in every way.  Tom is well;  John is starting to be a photographer, tho’ until we have sold the house or something else, he cannot buy the materials he needs.  He is much better, tho’ not well yet.  Maryse as usual the beautiful mainstay of the family – she even feeds me what little gets left twice a day in the kitchen!  …  pupils.   Let me know what you do!  Tom and I may be going to the Bavarian mountains in July & August.  V. much love, ever – V.


Jouy en Josas, 22 Aout 1968

Dearest Jane,

Where are you?  Not in Geneva it seems, from where you sent me that exciting p.c. all bright lights before, & somber mountains behind! 

Jim & Helen came for 3 – 4 magic hours to sit in our garden which was looking most lovely. –  Yesterday tho’, in a sort of spite – the poor old but for once heavily laden & most beautifully leaning-low apple tree dropped an enormous branch – at least half of itself – over the well – crash!   A moment before I was underneath it watering the rose by the well & picking up fallen fruit.  This spring the old walnut did the same thing, crash went the enormous branch, which half covered the end of Maryse’s part of the garden.  Perhaps they are protesting at our idea of selling the house!  John who is better but can never apparently be ‘well’ is helping & overseeing the painting & doing up of the house.  Then when I have a little place in Paris, you must come over & have that fun we have always promised ourselves.  My wrist has mended well, but it is not quite so adaptable as before.  However I gave with Mme Paul my first little concert at Montcel on the 15 Aug. to a summer school of Americans staying there – two lovely Mozart Sonatas (Nos 12 and 13 in my Augeners Ed) with the … Bach in E maj in between.

Thomas is growing up & may be going to school at the “Rentree”.   He never ceases talking now, but will not try to speak in English – his great joy at the moment is blackberrying.

I went for 10 days to the Bavarian Alps where Nicole spends her holidays.  She had arrived a week before me & had immediately fallen ill with an attack of bronchitis & couldn’t walk.  So I sat in the sun & yearningly looked at the mountains without once going up.  From her letters she seems better, but can perhaps never come back to live in Paris again. 

Francisco has been moved to Frankfurt-on-Main for 2 yrs.  He came back on business last week, & came to see me in a magnificent Alfa-Romeo car, dark blue with red linings, & says he has found a flat with 3 rooms & has bought a new Steinway grand just exactly like mine!  He seems well & happy.

I had a p.c. this week from Anne Marie and Joel Cadiou from Brighton!!  Did you happen to see them?  I hardly ever see them now.  The whole family is always working, & at night I cannot go out.  I hope yr. mother & father & all the family are well.   Love to you & all, V.                        (I still have intact that … of chip potatoes!)


I learned among other things from Vera Moore, how to cook French food.  Back home, I educated my rustic family with dressed salads and veal escaloppes in mushrooms, cream and sherry. She showed me the the “billets-doux” she received from Francisco and her other admirers.   She adored young men.   My family sent me to Vera for piano study, and to improve my French, and to give her some much needed cash.  Each day she sent me down the long steps to Chaville with the shopping list (“ .. look, here’s fifty thousand francs …” –  the old currency was being devalued.).

I loved this chore.  Each day I learned thrilling new words in the epicerie and the boulangerie; and soaked up the Gallic courtesies like a sponge.  By the end of a fortnight, my school French was almost native.   Vera chattered very bad French en grande dame, with her seamless English accent.


Neville Marriner & Alfred Brendel JA 1986


Vera Moore to Dale Roberts –  quoting Brancusi:

“The arts have never existed by themselves (outside of folklore); they have always been a prerogative of the religious, and every time religion has been in decline, art has fallen into virtuousity.  To make art which is truly independent, one must be God to create it, a king to order it, and a slave to realize it.”



And through a further Door, Brancusi … An impression from the 1930s

“When I first went to see Brancusi, I felt that all the elements were there collected in his studio, almost as though it were nature’s workshop.  There I found air and light, and the poise and rhythm of his carvings.  It was really a collection of studios in a little courtyard;  I pulled a string outside the door, and a hammer hit upon a disc of brass within, making a lovely echoing sound.  When Brancusi opened the door, it was still vibrating.  ‘People bring me music while they wait,’  he said.  The only dark thing in all that world was Brancusi’s eyes, they were like wet pebbles in the sand, everything else was finely powdered over, his grey hair and beard, his face, his clothes, the tall columns of eternal movement, the ‘light’.

“It was one of many visits, and I never lost the sense of living energy it was to be there.   Brancusi seemed to talk more with his eyes than with his mouth, and he kept watching my enjoyment.  He would lift the covers from those shining brasses, the ‘light’ would start revolving on its plate of clear reflection ; … and all the time some new object would come upon my wonder;  forms of carved wood lying at hazard , or seemingly so;  for nothing was at hazard in that studio, since all was part of one vision …  the carvings all about became one, and I was in that unity.”

Jim Ede, A Way of Life, 1984



“Thank you for the most beautiful flower, and I also owe you a word in reply to your charming letter after your last visit.  I explained to Vera that I wanted to make a poem in reply – et voila!  The mountain has given birth to a mouse.”

Brancusi to Jim Ede, 22 December 1933



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.


Sacred India Tarot Archive Creation of The Sun card: Surya

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Creation of Tarot 19, Surya, by Rohit Arya and Jane Adams

The full series is at; also on Sacred India Tarot facebook


Rohit’s Notes – October 2002

I’m sending you an article and a somewhat unusual depiction of Surya in the chariot with a seven faced horse, rather than seven horses.  If you choose to depict Surya as you have done before, then that would be fine with me too.  If he is shown standing, then he should be clearly depicted as wearing knee length boots and, curious detail, copper gloves!  Don’t ask me why, but that is always the case in the classical sculptures.

I would prefer a depiction of a Sun Chariot moving in outer space and illumining it, rather than the typical pastoral landscape version of most tarot packs.


The Sun, Arcanum 19 – from Jane’s Hermetic Tarot deck 1991


Rohit’s Article:  Surya – the Eye of the World

“Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling!”

Walt Whitman

Worship of the sun is one of mankind’s oldest beliefs, and perhaps in many ways one of the most sensible.  For the sun is the literal source of life.

All energy conversions – whether in plants, animal or in fuel sources – are after all, utilizing the rays of the sun at a few removes.  Life would come to an end without photosynthesis, and what is that but drawing nourishment for the world from the sun?  400 million years from now, we are slated to fall back into the decaying star that our planet burst out of aeons ago, though by then mankind will have to learn to find another source of life, perhaps under other stars.  Till now, the sun is indispensable, and has been instinctively reverenced as such.  The Pueblo Hopi Indians have a daily ritual which they claim nourishes the sun and keeps it, and by implication, the world alive.  Anthropologists have indulgently regarded it as a charming oddity, instead of the intrinsically wise awareness that it manifests.  They know where Life comes from only too well;  they merely focus on a preliminary stage in its unfolding sequence.

Sun wheel 

In India the Sun is still worshipped on a daily basis by at least tens of millions of people, and that would be a conservative estimate.  The chanting of mantras to greet the dawn is one of the really genuine ancient living traditions of the world.

The sun god, called Surya, has risen and fallen in prominence over the centuries, but his worship has not dwindled even though his stature has.  From Vedic times onwards, Surya has always been worshipped.  In the Vedas he is the chief source of light and warmth and wisdom, though he is often co-mingled with Aditya and Savitri in a manner that does not resolve itself until many centuries later.  As mythology developed, the great Vedic gods were declared to be sons of Aditi, wife of Kasyapa, and they were collectively known as the Adityas.  It is a name that is applied almost exclusively to Surya today, and is a very popular name for males.  Savitri has now become an exclusively female name, though in the Vedas it originally meant the invisible, hence spiritual aspect of the sun.  This is analogous to the concept of Helios, the invisible sun in Greek myth.  Others say Savitri is the sun at full blaze and Surya the sun which rises and sets.  Clearly, this interpretation has fallen out of favour.

(Jane comments:  I am reminded of the Osiris Isis cycle/relationship in elder Egypt.  The cultures have their distinct stories, but arise from humanity’s common root:  the worship of the Risen.)

keren-su detail

The most sacred mantra in all Hinduism, the GAYATRI, is addressed to the Sun, Vivifier, “the One who enlightens and stimulates the Understanding.”

There is no great body of myth as such, associated with the sun.  It is almost as if Surya is such a visible and even hotly tangible presence, that there is no need to nourish the imagination with word pictures and long tales.  The Vedic Hymns are full of descriptions of his appearance, but they are more enthusiastic exclamations at the brilliant beauty of the sun, than anything else.  It is as though they were not blinded but drunk on light, bedazzled with illumination.

"The All seeing Eye, revealed by his beams 
gleaming like brilliant flames, to nation after nation, 
with speed beyond mortal understanding, O Savitr, 
you create the light, and with it you illumine 
the entire universe."

Konark Temple

The sun is golden haired, golden limbed and, interesting touch, golden tongued.  His eyes are golden orbs through which he regards the world and gives him his name – Loka-chakshuh, the Eye of the World.  If these names sound like titles from a Robert Jordan fantasy epic, that cannot be helped.  The mythical imagination always runs in predictable grooves, no matter if it is 2000BC or 2000AD.

This is the ref. Jane used for the next two drawings of Surya Graha Jyotish in 1998


Surya rides across the sky in a golden chariot drawn by seven white horses, personifications of the days of the week.  The solar chariot is the oldest hypothesis to explain the apparent movement of the sun across the sky.  The wheels of his chariot naturally have twelve spokes for the obvious reasons.  His charioteer is an interesting personage called Aruna.  This worthy is translucent, and is an undifferentiated mass of flesh under the waist;  sitting down on the job is about all he can do, but that is perfect for his task.

 When the dawn breaks, personified as a beautiful woman called Ushas (see Sacred India Tarot Archive, the Creation of the Star) Surya is supposed to give chase to her.   His light shines through the translucent body of Aruna and that is why we have the Red Sun, Rohita, visible in the morning.

The rays of the sun are described as the many arms of Surya reaching out to bless every corner of the universe and infusing the realms of the gods with energy.

Surya Graha Jyotish 1

In later mythology, Surya is demoted somewhat.  He is now a still powerful god, but less than the Trinity.  This by the way, was not reflected in popular belief.  The cult of Surya grew steadily until it had rivaled any of the gods, and it reached a magnificent peak between the ninth and thirteenth centuries.  The most beautiful temples in India were built for his worship, a roll call of spectacular workmanship – the jewel like wonder at Modhera, the awesome Konark, the totally ruined temple of Martand, the little one at Osian and perhaps many more lost forever to iconoclastic fervour.

It is as though the creative energies of India had a high in northern India with Sun temples, and then sank in exhaustion.  Strangely enough, the Suryavanshi Rajput warrior clans of Rajasthan, claiming descent from the sun, never built a single temple for him.  They worshipped other gods, even though they were very proud of such noble descent.  Go figure!

Surya-Sun at Konark

Iconographic representation of Surya too, reached pretty high standards.  Three eyes, four hands holding water lilies, supposed to be the flower that longs for the dawn, are standard.  The sun is supposed to rise from, indeed be born of, the cosmic waters;  so the lilies are convenient symbolic shorthand.  He is the only Indian god known to be always wearing knee length boots and in some cases distinct metal (copper) gloves.  The boots are an invariable rule in his sculpture as is the atibhanga posture, the immobile erect stance of perfection, the god who is the cosmic pillar and support of the universe.

Surya graha jyotish 2

It is therefore an appalling development that somewhere from the 14th century onwards, a superstition developed that to make Surya ikons, is to invite the curse of leprosy!  In such ways do traditions turn upon themselves when they become decrepit.  Surya was actually once the LORD OF HEALING, a function the Solar gods, the Ashwinis, took over from him, and he ended up feared, as a bringer of disease.  There are no more active temples of Surya left either, except as an adjunct to some more popular deity.


The Ashwins, the Solar healing twins – a very rare representation.  See Pages of Staves, later in the Minor Arcana


One of the widely diffused later myths, seemingly crafted to explain his decline while the other gods rose in favour, has Surya married to Sanjana, daughter of the Cosmic craftsman Vishvakarma.  The marriage is very happy, but Sanjana cannot bear her husband when he shines in full glory.  One day she makes the mistake of closing her eyes and averting her head from this intolerable illumination and the normally gentle Surya almost becomes a supernova.

He curses his wife to bear the god of death, Yama, for having averted her gaze from the giver of life, and for being variable and inconstant in her opinions, to bear a twin girl Yamuna, a river that never maintains its limits – constantly shifting itself.   Fortunately they already have a brilliant son, Manu, who is to become the proto-Adam of the next cycle of creation; and he helps them to reconcile later.  Sanjana is too hurt by his behaviour to easily reconcile, so she leaves her husband in possession of her Shadow, a simulacrum called Chaaya, while she goes to the forest to perform penance and bring Surya’s blaze down. She hides in the form of a Solar Mare.  When Surya finds out, he joins her as a stallion or Ashwa.  The results of this equestrian wooing are supposed to be the Ashwini Kumara, from Ashwa or horse.

(This is a later attempt to bring all the solar gods into one coherent narrative, but the Ashwinis were independent gods in the Vedas.  See our article on them, later in this series.)

Vishvakarma decides to help his daughter, and puts Surya on his great lathe and cuts away an eighth of his effulgence.  This fiery power was redistributed among the other gods, primarily as weapons.  Vishnu got a discus, Siva his trident, Skanda his spear, and so on.  The shifting power structures amongst the gods, and their collectively assimilating the Surya cult, are clearly visible here.  Also notable is the remarkable symbolism of death being the son of the giver of life.  No sooner does life come into being, than death has marked it down.

Sacred India Tarot 13:  Yama

The fiery power was distributed to other gods as weapons

In later myths, Surya sinks even further into insignificance.  In the Ramayana he is the father of Sugriva, the Monkey prince, and can do nothing to prevent his persecution at the hands of his brother.  In the Mahabharatha he is the father of the tragic figure Karna, and again can do nothing to ease the harsh destiny of his son.  It’s a long way down for the god described in the Vedas as the Great All-Knowing Lord.

The many names of Surya somehow still pulsate with power when the panegyrics to the other gods fade into staleness.

He is Dinakara, Day-maker;  Vivasat the Radiant One;  Karma-shakshi, witness of the deeds of men;  Mihira, He who waters the earth (by drawing up moisture so that clouds may form);  Savitri the Nourisher of gods and men;  and best of all, Savitr, the Impeller towards the good Light.

One cannot help feeling that somehow India lost more than beautiful temples when his worship collapsed;  an entire subculture of great vitality and creative energy went with it.  It was, by the evidence available till now, about the only faith in India that did not go emotionally overboard or assimilate so many bizarre aspects of behaviour and belief that make modern sensibilities squeamish.  The Light was sufficient unto itself, and there was no evil thereof.

It is a belief that would be reiterated in another time and place by an artist from another culture.  Many centuries later, as England’s great painter, Turner, lay dying after a lifetime of painting the light, he stated his life’s discovery and faith in four words:

“The sun is God.”


Jane’s Notes, August 2012

Our emails and images for this card seem to have got lost.  My October 2002 journal is busy with Kabbalist/alchemical practice and imagery.  I was learning to build a ‘body of light’.

However, I find again some paragraphs of interest, from the time I was drawing SURYA.  My reason for including my recorded meditations in this series, is: not only are they part of the creative process:  they ANCHORED the art-work of the card, energetically.   They arose spontaneously; they are in its future.   It is an opportunity to reveal this strata of the work.  A visual thinker may follow and make associations.  A verbal thinker will naturally relate more to the teaching, mythology and ideas associated with the card.

Sacred India Tarot:  Surya – the Sun


Jane’s Notes, 30 October –   2002

"If I'd thought about it, I never would have done it, 
I guess I would have let it slide. 
If I'd lived my life by what others were thinkin', 
the heart inside me would have died. 
But I was just too stubborn 
to ever be governed by enforced insanity - 
someone had to reach for the risin' star, I guess it was up to me."

Bob Dylan

..“…on the Tuesday I drew a seal.  The thoughtform during Michaelmas was the Seal of the Soul, and what I had learned with the seals in my sunbody immersed in moonwater on the Coastal Path.   (See SITA Archive, Creation of the Star, Ushas) …

“… Before getting up this morning, I saw in the deep water under my ship, the anchor chain let down and resting in coils on the sand.  It was golden.  Everything was golden around the galleon on the bottom.  I could not make out objects other than seed-like forms or coin-like forms; but it had this sense of goldenness and clarity.

“If the anchor chain is loose, it means there is further to descend.  I recognized this, when visualizing the place like an inner Sun to sink down into.

“Let there be a well of sunlight.  Let the anchor softly drop down through the well (there is a sunflower), to the end of its chain through the strata of darkness.  Don’t expect to see things, for this is very deep;  but there is a hint of rainbow tints or precious stones – the metals of the wise.  Where is this sensed, physically?  Behind the neck, between upper shoulders:  the Path of Awe and deliverance of my teacher.  I am under the sand and in my teacher’s living loving quiet.  I slipped down the stem and into my teacher.  Where am I in his subtle body? – in the stomach – he tastes me, I am his food of the world.  The inner organs which are hidden from sight, are of glorious and startling colours.

“Our vision must go through the colours, it must come from behind their prism, as the pure light of their Source: Self-enquiry.  In Jacobs Ladder, Heaven and Earth interface through Consciousness.  The place of meeting is embodied.

“How is the anchor chain now?  Does it hang straight, in whatever element?  Straight it hangs, with the anchor at the end, golden like a pendulum.  The art of dowsing is in space;  to eradicate any tendency to dis-ease;  the penetration into ‘living with ease in oneself’ which is spirituality.

“Harmony here in the stomach is where tensions dissolve.  Here too, the fountain breath works the diaphragm – the alchemic bellows.  Last night, an acid attack (from drinking orange juice) woke me, bolting up into windpipe, foul fiery taste, ate 3 alkaline pills and it gradually dispersed.  Nearly every night there is a surface break of shadow from the deep, in some form of small shock.

“As we’re busy in this region, the ship isn’t sailing anywhere at present;  a time for those on board to make and mend.  The anchor is in bedrock, but because the Sun took it down, it may by Sunlight as easily be raised.

“A spontaneous visualization is a combined operation – my teacher’s, as much as my own.  We ascend and descend into each other, both, and in it is my teacher’s own agenda, beyond my sight.  Light, like an egg, has a natural tendency to nest in the dark.  It is a vast egg, a pearl.  If planted into the stomach, light naturally passes into the ‘black dragon’ where the transformation happens in ‘chyle’ (the Royal Art of Alchemy.)   So they had to blast up a bit of bile first, out of the way!

sunflower photo

“Sunflower.  My lunar face is dark, and around it are the corona petals of my teacher.  His light is too bright to see, so mine is placed before it.  Admitting my darkness, I see around it the Fire of His Beauty, his lions’ mane.  Find ways of looking in an inward mirror, and being still.  See through a glass darkly, without talk.  He is there, all around.  What does he whisper to me?  A kind of vibration like “Or…..”, a word told me, 12 years ago in Troy’s psychic reading.

Or … arose because of an ancient insight of the esoteric O and A sounds – the long, open vowels.   I hear it deeply sung, like Troy sang it to me, deep voice like a chant.  Or … , sunflower, crown, sword-and-scales.

This old man in grassy field with dark-brown beret, is the shining of the face from behind the dark-brown Sunflower centre.  He says jo napot kivanok – “have a good day”/Hungarian.  Look at those a’s and o’s!   The best way to check out Or … is to say it, vibrate it, and see if anything happens.  Like the sunflower growing by B’s house, it feels like one of those small cosmic prompts which so amuse the angelics, and take decades to catch on;  but then catch a moment.  It needs only to move the light just a little.

“Or … is of course a French word for gold, and an Italian word for Now, and the hour.  It is also the ores of the wisdom metals and in earth.  In Hungarian it means just a row of something – row of chairs etc.

“Or … is a Druidic northern Europe sound, and a golden vibration.  My inner eye saw a little pyramid of amber, and Troy (psychic) was led at once to underground trees and the carboniferous golden river of their sap.  He resonated it for me.  In that realm is sunlight, like under the sea, like Archangel Michael, like in the golden web of the water Peter and I looked into.

“Troy said, about sound:  ‘Sound is the pulsation of each planet at their vibratory level – direct connection of those qualities pulses through the law of sounds/science.  Certain sounds can, by the law of attraction, create the alternative reality on the other side, which is equal in sound and measure, to come back into your life.  Thus, we make a sound, we create it to be pulled and drawn into our lives to come. 

‘’Does pain necessarily have to be the doorway to further joy, or could joy be the quality of manifestation that creates yet further joy to be magnetized at this point of functioning, where quality will attract life?  (We need not be now) so much at the point of our beginnings, where pain attracted the opposite.  We swing in the opposites often, at the beginning of our life.’”


This is, in western terms, a mantra yoga, and it is interesting to find it linked here to the Solar vibration:  to Surya, and to the Gayatri mantra which Rohit led off with.

Contrasts also are highlighted:  the light and the dark:  the equilibrium which is maturity, the full expression of our solar self.

I also noted, at another time:  Serenity, simplicity, radiance in all directions, the power of the child-like.  In India, the Sun can be also a scorching destructive force, and some jyotish astrologers see him as a malefic.  The seven horses are the days of the week.  Note the chariot wheel and the Yantra on his heart.  He needs no weapons.

Waite and BOTA

In the Waite tarot deck, the Sun is depicted as a child leading a horse.  The resonance with the Vedic equine symbolism is of interest here.

In the BOTA deck the Sun shines down on a pair of children – baby adepts – within a protective stone wall, with sunflowers.  This is the alchemical process beginning to ripen and evolve, and it is called “The Collecting Intelligence.”  Alchemy abounds with the symbolism of cooking, slow ovens and hatching, like under the hens’ breast.  The mysterious work of the Sun is from within, changing everything. The Sun card is benevolent in every direction.

Sun Wheel 1:  the Sun is for us both day and night


A Poem in "Sharing Expressions", 2005

benevolent source of light 
life giver 
well-spring of comfort and warmth, 
healers of aches, of pain of soul, 
silver lining of dark clouds 
today we give thanks 
for your great blessings 
for your bright shining 
which colours and illuminates our world 
for the bird's song 
that mirrors your glory 
and for your gentle radiance 
rising from the depth of the night 
each new morning 
unfolding nature and humans 
to their full splendour 
we give thanks for the sun.
                              Christi Becker



Rohit Arya

Rohit Arya is an Author, Yogi and Polymath. He has written the first book on Vaastu to be published in the West, {translated into five languages} the first book on tarot to be published in India, co-authored a book on fire sacrifice, and is the creator of The Sacred India Tarot {82 card deck and book}. He has also written A Gathering of Gods. He is  a corporate trainer, a mythologist and vibrant speaker as well as an arts critic and cultural commentator. Rohit is also a Lineage Master in the Eight Spiritual Breaths system of Yoga


Jane Adams

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.

For “Z”

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Going off the grid and into the interior … here’s my picture story, Z, as I am inspired by yours.  Paintings and sketches done in 1999/00:

Forest Medicine ’99


Vortex ’99


polarity:  anaconda and fish ’99



‘Are you still there?’

– a situation in the dark (’99)



A demand  …

as happens with a loved & difficult one, or from the interior or beyond



Torch light in coal seam ’99.

They want to light up what is dark between them



Mirror arctic wolf ’00

A book called Women who Run with the Wolves  by Clarissa Pinkola Estes … and there is another book too, The Cosmic Serpent by Jeremy Narby



Welly boots ’99.

To the heart of the matter:  protective gear – but not stomp over it like the blue-meanies in the Yellow Submarine!



she and coal ’99

How jagged it feels. Carboniferous treasure – fire glows – the Self – karma-shadows burning out



young love & mum ’99.  

Oh that river and its stones again, & bundle!


“Let it crack you open …” ’99

Like a geologist, gentle tap



Heart strings  ’99



the Fool and the Lamb at  night, with angels  ’88

A tabernacle, pegged in a dimension he is “lost in” – loses his mystic head –  and she at home in, like a goddess.  The pulses to each side are angels.



Tree Spirit, paw print ’88




The wise hunter waits, and the shy creatures of the forest appear, and come to him



Scallywags, ’00

Go well.  Be well.  Go well




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.

Parc y Meirw: The Field of the Dead

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Coastal Path 1991 Series – Part Three

This is a large post, which has been some time waiting.  It arose from within my  Coastal Path terrain.  It was a channeling.  It remained my major milestone, because after writing it all down, I found myself in a different place from when I began.  With it came some understanding with Ramana Maharshi’s astrology.   See also (river water, stone, nodes) my 18 July post “Portraits & Poems of Eclipse for Ramesh – a Revision

(1)  A Meditation on Eclipse

(2)  Ramana Maharshi’s Horoscope:  eclipse, darshan and mutual reception


(1) ON ECLIPSE August 1991

IT IS about 9.30 on an August evening in Pembrokeshire, South Wales, and darkness has gathered.  There is not time to reach the top of Carn Enoc, whose tump stands proud upon the dark round breast of the hill above me.  Carn Enoc is a rocky tumulus marking the central or half way point of the St Davids-to-Cardigan ley-line, and very very old.  Tonight I have to return to London.  My tent and belongings are stashed at a friendly snack-bar at the Harbour station in Fishguard, and this is my final expedition, pedaling up the dark Gwaun Valley – where they still keep the old calender: deep fissures in the landscape, unchanging –  to the open hillside.  The legs have had enough.  The bike lies on the grass by the hedge, for I have at last found an ancient site to “travel home about”!  A row of four giant standing stones broods along the hedge, two of them marking the gate posts.

This is the Stone Row of Parc y Meirw, the FIELD OF THE DEAD.

(The portal.  In the background, far left, are Fishguard Harbour and the distant hill near Pyllderi and Strumble Head.  Photo from

The sky has that strange radiance of early night that shimmers somewhere between violet and green, and the Moon has risen over the tense and sleeping field of grass, dazzling white and gold.  She is in her first Quarter at the end of Scorpio, so she is one-half of a seed.  “Harvest Moon!” I quote, as I greet each silent stone.

Two months later … October 1991

My guide-book, the Pembrokeshire Explorer, tells me that this row of stones is an astronomic tool for predicting solar and lunar eclipses, which it does with pin-point sensitivity.  It lines up with the summit of Mount Leinster 91 miles away over the sea in the Irish Wicklow hills.  When the Moon setting appears to slip down the righthand side of Mount Leinster, there will next day be here in South Wales a solar eclipse if it is near New moon, or a lunar eclipse if Full.

The priests who exercised this knowledge measured many other phenomena of the world.  It seems to me, this line of stones is positioned in precise angular relationship also to the tumuli on the hill of Enoc, for the fruit of other observations.

Enoch in the Old Testament was He who walked with God.  “And he was not, for the Lord took him.”  The Celtic version of this name is Enoc, or “cone” backwards.  Here’s a co-ordinate for inner reflection, because much Hermetic power is lodged in these syllables.  The stone circles in this country are felt to be contemporaneous with the Pyramids.   Their builders, as those in Egypt, tapped fields of magnetic energy in Earth, focused stellar and luminary observation with the infinite reach of the human spirit, and guarded these openings of the oracular sciences with rings of negative ions to keep away unwary fools.  For they worked in fields outside time.  The bulk of their activity is invisible in the temporal and historical context.   It enabled them to See.

If you are a druid or seer, and you step through the portal into the field of your profession, no outsider can perceive your tools or what they invoke;  because you enter the ‘standing’ current of the electro-magnetic field.  And if you are, say, an ancient Atlantean, you are wise to leave no tangible trace of your knowledge, for the structure of the atom is potentially lethal to those who are merely curious or hungry for power.  You enter the field of operations where Time is not.  The work is an intimate relationship with the local climate, as with planets of the Solar universe which encircle their nucleus.  When each phase of this work is done, you “close down:” to ensure no unlawful spillage.  You keep away trespassers with rings of repellent power – it sends them to sleep.

It is thought that the magi of ancient times practiced a technology which integrated static electricity with  the prana or breath of Oriental teaching.  With it they could influence the relative weight of quarried stone, so as to transport its mass to a sacred site.  The laser focus of the spirit, entering the heart of the electro-magnetic field, can alter and manipulate its relative densities.  The prana is vital cosmic current, as intercepted by each individual organism.  That is to say, the prana breathes the individual, not the other way round.  My outbreath is the inhalation of cosmic prana;  and when I breathe in, the ALL exhales into me and gives me life.   Thus JHVH breathed out into clay to form ADAM:  this word means Earth.

And so I seem to see these great stones transported substantially – though with token physical effort and organization – upon a cushion of this vital prana or cosmic breath, like a modern hovercraft, or a floating raft of logs to roll it down the river.  Dark blue stones from the Preseli Hills near here were transported to Wiltshire, to build Stone Henge.

Various experiments have demonstrated that a person in a state of deep concentration becomes physically less dense – that is, actually lighter.  If he or she sits in a chair, four friends with a spontaneous concert of will, can easily raise him up with their fingertips – this I have tried, and seen for myself.  The relationship between gravity and the vital current is less predictable than it seems.  A meditator rises.  Isn’t it astonishing how lightly our physical body can be taken upstairs, a pair of lovers flip positions,  a gesture flow like water through an arm, a dancer through one small equilibrating movement?  Only the molecular substance of flesh, fluid, muscle, is inert – or death to the dance within the atom.

The forgotten yet simple skill could enter the dense gravitational field of stone, and let “I’ become its vital sub-atomic current;  here we have a concentration of material which, when conscious, changes its weight.  The stone may be made to move with the living coordinate.

Dattatreya, the Guru of Nature, the elements, and every day  

So also, we have sculpture, the forms and presences of the gods.  We have the Gothic cathedrals of the Templars, in which mass converts to light.  The density, the groundweight of the flying buttresses to each side, maintains the opening of the ogive or soaring arch, taut as a musical string.  Feel the vault of Chartres, how it opens upward like the bud of a flower.  The buttresses and pillars are guylines.  They peg its soaring tabernacle to earth.  The Masonic science of the arch does not lean-to upon itself.  It keeps the art of light, of birth, just opening outward, like the bud, like fingertips in prayer which touch.  The gravitational pull is inverted:  stone is pulled heavenwards, like the way our spine lifts in the Alexander technique.  And so you go in, and you open your eyes from the ground.

This is an example of how the gross weight of stone converts to consciousness – a temple which cannot decay or fall.  The cathedrals were built along the same principles as the stone circles – using pegs and lengths of string to mark out interlacing circles and their vesica pisces.  The Master gave the architect a sacred blueprint.  Solomon’s wisdom entered the rock.

 Seven branch Star

Old tales around more ancient stone circles are told:  at Rollright, some of the stones from the circle of silence “travel” down to the stream at dead of night, to drink.  Water and stone.  Moses struck the rock with his staff of authority (priesthood, the meaning of Aaron) and the water of life came forth.  This water is consciousness.  The staff is the Rod.  During the initiation of Moses, JHVH said to him “What is that in your hand?”  Moses replied, “a rod”.  And JHVH said “Cast it upon the ground.”  So he cast it on the ground, and it became a serpent, and Moses fled from it.  But JHVH said to Moses “Put out your hand and take it by the tail.”  So he put out his hand and caught it, and it became a ROD in his hand.

Polarity –  triple staff/caduceus

 The rod, in Tarot (a spelling of Torah, the Law) sprouts and becomes the Suit of Wands.

 Polarity – Mercury, staff, mandorla

The Serpent power or kundalini, of Yoga, is likewise the vital current through Earth’s ley-lines or subtle conduits.  It runs through the meridians of acupuncture in ancient medicine.  It is called in many cultures, the Dragon which encircles and defends the gold or the Grail, and has to be tamed and subdued.  Every site of sacred power, every mound, tower or ring of stones along a ley-line, is an outlet of the Dragon.  Legends of the saints who did battle with Dragons, are tales of those who were learning to master their own raw unconscious.  They learned to spear the visionary ego at every outlet of sacred science.

(The root of this word “science”, is knowledge.  Self knowledge.  When dogmatic, it becomes an organised religion, whatever the white coat it wears may believe.)

Polarity – Nodal ourobouros

 The same Serpent power is the ascending and descending Node of the Moon.   At these antipodeal points north and south of the Equator, the lunar orbit around Earth intersects Earth’s orbit around the Sun.  The Nodes are known as the Dragons Head (north of equator) and Tail (south).   Their position on the ecliptic moves clockwise or “retrograde” around the zodiac, taking just over eighteen-and-a-half years to complete a full circle.  The Serpent in a circle devours its own tail.  If you are able to take your Dragon by the tail – the tension which is coiled up in old habits and reaction – and let that river of power straighten … you flow with your Dragon’s Head or ascending Node, to create new fields of reality.  You may be used like Moses, as an instrument.  Your destiny may materialize in or as a tide of history.  Or, to use another analogy, an old wound may heal.  The healer’s art, like the priestly chrism or power, taps into this Nodal electricity.

In yoga, the serpent – encompassing a dimension beyond that discussed – is coiled at the base of the subtle spine at the root chakra, like a wheel.   She is led to rise, straighten and open through five intermediary chakras or wheels up the subtle spine, to the “wheel” of the thousand petalled Lotus at the Crown.  The Eastern snake is thus charmed up through seven  chakras of the body.  The coiled serpent at the base of the spine – our plant stem – is the root, deep in dark earth.  When it is purified and naturally uncoils like a fern in spring, the “white” current flows without impediment, like a laser beam.


The word chakra means “wheel”.  The chakras are waves which emanate concentrically from their subtle centre.  Karma – the inertia-momentum of action – is similarly a centrifugal coagulation of an impulse around itself.  The impulse traveling outward cools, forming the ego, I-story or crust of the world.  The hub of the wheel is motionless, around which all spins, all radiates, all consolidates and changes.  The hub of the wheel is its heart, its secret fire – magma in the roots and veins of Earth.

Solar eclipse takes place when the New Moon is conjunct to the Sun along a precise alignment of lunar and terrestrial orbital paths.   The Moon’s disk which is normally effaced during this moment in the greater light, then moves across the face of the Sun, cutting off its light.  For a short time, a small portion on the day-time hemisphere of Earth then experiences partial or total eclipse – darkness.

Rahu northnode 2. ( For earlier version of these two drawings, see my post “Sacred India Tarot :  Creation of Chandra the Moon, 18 August”)

Lunar eclipse happens when the Full Moon is in opposition to the Sun along a precise alignment of lunar and terrestrial orbital paths.  The Moon is then exactly the other side of the Earth.  The Dragon as Earth’s own shadow eats or extinguishes the light of the illumined full Moon at night.

 Ketu northnode 2

To our “two eyes” of Earth, the indescribable vast discrepancy in the actual size and distance between the two lights, appears as two “pennies” the same size in the sky … whose periods regulate our life.   Isis and Osiris, in long ago Egypt, portray the cycles and the phases of the light, as Earth’s axis tilts around the sun.

Only an act of inward imagination can begin to differentiate the star – its size, depth and unending radiant centre – from the mirror of its cool earthbound satellite.  Our coinage is the surface or apparent measure of things.  The root of the Sanskrit word maya is ma – to measure:  the skill or art of measuring the immeasurable, thus an impossible feat.

Light is our protection.  When the light is eaten up by an approaching shadow, a hole or opening of darkness is created in the psyche.  At this time, some signal enters through a blind eye and takes root.  It seems the magnetic field of Earth is particularly vulnerable or sensitive at these fluid points where the planes of our sun and moon may merge.  It loses during eclipse, a screen.  An unpredictable cosmic current or ray may enter this nodal channel, engendering a clairvoyance of darkness or of unknown quantity.  And so, open to sinister interpretation, the eclipse would often portend flood, invasion or plague.


Eclipse may equally prophesy the coming – like a thief in the night – of a saviour or Kingdom of righteousness.  Light has a subtle and furtive way of creeping up on the disciple.  The zen method disorients his three-dimensional habit or view of the world by means of koans or mental paradox – “to hear the sound of one hand clapping”.  Wisdom does come like a thief in the night.  It is not a parade of visions or anything to boast about.  Wisdom removes vainglory.

An accurate prediction of an eclipse issues a warning to citizens and farmers and kings to see to their psychic and physical defenses and make sure there is some reserve in the granary.  But an initiate receives a visiting card – an increment of Reality abiding beyond the known co-ordinates of space and time.

Orbits 1988

 An image of this arises as I write –  a convexity which is actually a concavity.  Something which appears to be solid, yields infinite and vertiginous space.  A wall of darkness is a channel.  The river may be read to flow in both or all directions.  The planes of the worlds dissolve.  The matrix of reality fragments, like torn shreds of paper on which a story is written.  And through the floating and faded static of those white shreds with black signs, appears the unknown field of yet some Being other.  Time on a clock ticks regularly.  But sometimes it seems each tick stops around itself.  Then everything bursts into a slow motion sneeze.  There is no end.  No beginning:  and thus no progression.  The shreds of white paper with the pattern of the writing breaking apart, were a molecular skin or surface to watery element immeasurably deep, and this molecular lattice is flaking away …  like the skin of a snake.

Chronos in rings and DNA, 1988

 Snake.  Water and Stone.

Look into the eyes and stillness of the snake.

Look into a river flowing by.

The strange solid fluence of the water is a wall of itself.

What is this, but a flow of stone?

 kundalini shakti, 1988

The nature of flowing water is a very great mystery to me, looking into it, placing my hand down into it.  The whole river, the wall of it cold, metallic, sings every shining living contour of stone over stones.

The song and substance never ends and never begins.

Yet everything can be dropped into it.

A path of gravity or falling object, cross-sections one instant of Time through the wholeness of the river which is timeless – the fourth dimension.  Our world, our story, our vortex, is a minuscule fraction of the river, an instant.

Lovers at Buckland Filleigh

River through woodland.  River through countries.

River, dark and secret, dark brown is the river, golden is the sand;  and put your ear to the ground.

Where does the snake “really” begin or end?

You cannot say, for the snake is not his head or tail, but the ripple along all his atoms over the earth.

Now take him by the tail.  How that ripple writhes the whiplash, body and soul!

Yet I AM the body of this snake, straight and true, for I wrestled the Angel, and became the source.

I am then always, all ways.

To use an old expression, we flip as “Heads and Tails” for destiny, the currency of sun and moon on the back of our hand which is earth.  The Dragon describes a circle of 18.6 years around the zodiacal ecliptic.  At his tail south of equator, he depletes his vital force;  and at his head north of equator in the antipodeal or complementary zodiac sign, he restores it.  Head to tail is a flow of nectar nourished by the earth:  union.  The Dragon’s Head is “turned towards” the sun or source-light.  The Tail is empowered by the akasic residues or past-life memory – that is, reflected or lunar light.

Dinosaur egg

In the old lore, the Dragon bites and eats up the Sun and Moon.  This dragon of the earth is a black hole in the sky.  And they must make much noise with the beating of drums and shouting and dancing, to frighten him away and let the maidenly lights come free.  When there is no eclipse, the plane of Moon’s terriestrial orbit tilts across Earth’s solar orbit.  Where the planes intersect is called the Node, north and south of the equator.

At a time of potential eclipse, the lunar orbit merges and comes to rest upon that of Earth’s own journey around the Sun.  Sun, Moon and Earth lie then along one identical plane.  The teaching seems to be of non-differentiation:  Unicity:  the underlying circling of all things.  Those things which are different have melted or emerged into those which are the same thing.  The resonance of the worlds is one note upon a string.  But like the monitor of a failed heart, it registers no blip, no pulse.


This, to the life of the personal mind, which thrives on the differences of all notes, orbital planes and operatics in relation to one another, is DEATH.  It is anathema.  It is very frightening.  The sky is livid.  We don’t want this unity, this expiry, this harmony of silence.  So we must sing and dance and put on the electrodes, perform an intensive-care of disturbance and distraction, wake it up, get it moving, jolt.  Frighten away that intensely transcendent and all enveloping existence consciousness, inimical to the local livelihood of life.  Move the electric spark.  Move it.

And the body re-emerges and fights on.

Yes:  for our light is our life’s wavelength, its spark of warmth and sentience.  Earth is the blanket which shrouds the light;  the shadow of Earth.


Out here in the Field of the Dead, upon the whitened grass, the Node where orbital planes cross and incite eachother, is the Dragon’s quiver:  the friction of ascending and descending current.  So also do violent ascending currents of warm air colliding with banked droplets of water release thunder and lightning, opening the heavens.  In an aeon of falling rain in our planet’s “pre-history”, here’s a glimpse of the origin of life.  Organic life comes forth in the rub of it, a spark of Genesis into the clay.

O angel

Rainbows.  Consider now rainbows, how they are made;  the crock at the end of the rainbow, ungrasped.  Clay is the vessel.  Gold grows there through the coloured prism of rain and sun.  So long as we seek it over there, so long it lightly laughs and mirages us.

Snake.  Water.  Stone.

Stone is the metal of living Earth, polarized to her magnetic field.

When a homeopathic remedy or essence is repeatedly diluted, its molecular substance dissolves to an atomic potency – like the dissolution of the I-thought into the Self.  Ramana Maharshi said:  “All know that the drop merges into the ocean, but few know that the ocean merges into the drop.”

So it is with the magnetic property of stone.  The blood of stone is her metallic vein; an ore extracted from Earth has a measurable pulse or current.  But in stone as a whole, non specialized, the current is diluted to quintessence – to a subtle trace.

The soul of humankind might enter the soul of Stone, if attuned to the quanta of its auric field.  There could be a fluid exchange of relative densities for certain concentrated purposes.  I somehow feel this is so, and is a forgotten art.  From the core of stone’s atomic lattice, there emanates like a flower’s scent, a wave.  Like the blood of a snake the heart of stone becomes warm in sunlight, and seems to pulsate like an egg.  This intuits throughout our subatomic world an unobstructed intercourse of all things – a potency.  Eclipse of Sun or Moon in the Field of the Dead, is a key to this understanding.  It affects subliminally the polar bias in the stone.  The worlds, the elements, may enter one another at this time.  “Oh, ye are Men of Stone!”

Loaves and Fishes

Water conducts electricity.  If you are damp the shock is greater.  Water conducts the current between the lights, male and female.  The Snake is a coil of copper wire.  The copper-serpent has minimal resistance to the flow of ions or current.  It is coiled tightly around a magnet to amplify the positive and negative polarity, and generate power.  It coils around the rock.  An electro magnetic wave is like a concentric ripple traveling through water into which a pebble or leaf is dropped;  like rings of time around the golden core of a tree.   Travelling in every direction from source, a round-wave harnessed into a two-way cable or filament manifests as heat, as sound …  or as a body (with all our history!)  In the vein, that wave registers the pulsation of the poles.  It spirals through transformers condensing the charge.  The “resistor” is thrown into high relief and specialization in a series of interactions.  Voltage channeled along a high-tension conduit is converted into available gross energy, such as speech.  (See my 21 August post, Odds and Logs, near the drawing of Dakshinamurti.)

Electro magnet ’88

Yet I sense that the power which has not been harnessed, but quietly emanates and flowers is, though subtle, infinitely greater.  It  encountered no “resistors” to slow it down into manifestation.  It has no sheath, cable or garment.  The multiple conduits in the biological, mental and industrialized world are of a very different order from the emanation pure in Spirit.  But it requires a refined and purified perception to realize this.

The stone is still and compact, a composition of space.  The atomic lattice is dense, and yet infinitely spacious:  it is.  It has a primordial emanation.

It is like one who sits very quiet, very awake, very still.  At Eclipse.

In esoteric parlance, evolutionary souls form an astral “copper serpent” or subtle collective body – a powerful tool or symbol of redemption.  Moses revealed it through the Rod to the children of Israel.  Jesus – JHShVH – surrendered himself on a cross of four elements – JHVH – and was resurrected from the tomb of rock, through this medium.  It comes to the aid of awakening between incarnations, and thus between all the lines of life;  and every time our thought falls silent.  There are and have been always bodhisattvas who offer or train their body to channel the Copper-serpent.  They gave to it their vital force, not mere lip-service or worship.   They recognize the cross, the lamb of God and the tomb which opened like a mother’s thighs, as the process here and how, spiritually and psychologically, unfolds.

Copper is the metal which is ruled by Venus.  In the highest spectrum, this is Love.


 In the Beginning … (granite rocks from St Agnes, Isles of Scilly) 

So here I stand at night in this Field of Death.

I am opening to sky and tall grey stones, and dance a little because I am happy or moved, but otherwise unaware that such a stream of ideas is storing itself to later flow through my recall of being here, when I start to write it down.

I register my surroundings, the Moon in the clear sky, a possible relation of the site to Carn Enoc itself, and the vague hearsay that this line of Stones was used to measure the eclipse.  That is all.  This sounded interesting, and drew me here to get a feel of it.  I have no idea what I am investigating, if anything;  I am simply pleased to be here, it was a tiring bike ride up the Gwaun valley, and perhaps “they” will tell me something if I am quiet for a few moments and put my ear to them, each one.

The Pembrokeshire Explorer mentions an old folk tale of the Ladi Wen – the White Lady.  She wandered white about these fields at night.  For thousands of years it was enough to know that she would kill any fool who strayed near the plain grey giants.  “She wanders far and wide in her monthly journeying about the sky;  wayward, she returns to her original resting place only once every 18.6 years.”

The great stones rise like sentinels from a banked hedge.  There are four of them, and they are rather curiously squared-off.  I did not stay for very long, but I put my ear to three of them for a moment.  The place is remote, with a narrow lane running by the field.  Before farmland tamed and desensitized it, this could have been a place of power that strings of generations might shun.  The contour is broad and bleak.  The half-moon sheds a Scorpionic witch’s intensity over the entranced field.  The slopes fall away into the steep dark dells of the Gwaun valley where (I’m told) they still keep the old Roman calender.  And the eye is drawn upwards and along the skyline to the stark tumulus of Carn Enoc about a mile away.

“Enoch walked with God;  and he was not, for God took him.”  (Genesis Chapter 5)

Then Enoch (whom some say is Thoth, the  higher Mind of Egypt) dissolved into the plane of God.  His hill here is used to measure the eclipse.

 A Capricorn glyph – a hermetic Divinity




“One who sits very quiet, awake and still. At eclipse.”

“His face is like the face of water, always changing, yet always the same. It is amazing how swiftly it moves from gentleness to rock-like grandeur, from laughter to compassion.  So complete does each successive aspect live, that one feels it is not one man’s face, but the face of mankind.”

Arthur Osborne

(See “Visit  to Arunachala 1993”, 22 June 2012 post)

17 October 1991

I did not know, during my visit to the Field of the Dead – (the Book of Unity?) – that I was about to hear a lesson about the solar and lunar ecliptic plane particularly relevant to my discovery of the teaching.  After I got back to London, I found out that when Ramana Maharshi was born, his Sun and Moon, in Capricorn and Cancer respectively, lay along the lunar Nodes.

This looked most interesting, and was further emphasized by his axis of Will or Midheaven in the same place.  I was enchanted to see this, being a new devotee, and myself a solar Capricorn and lunar Cancer.

I’m slow to comprehend things, and only today – more than a month later – the penny drops.  I have not investigated the geometry of eclipse before.  But as I wrote all this yesterday, (see previous pages) I vaguely remembered seeing something.  On a hunch I got out Ramana’s horoscope, to check.

(This is of course, a western or “tropical” chart – Earth’s orbit around the sun, within the Solar System – and identified with seasonal archetypes.  The Indian Jyotish zodiac is projected upon the actual constellations and their archetypes, outside the Solar System.  Due to precession of the equinox over the last few thousand years,  a 26-degree gap widens.  In Jyotish, Ramana is  in Sagittarius, with his planets placed accordingly.  In practice, the two systems differ in emphasis and cultural nuance, but the character reading adds up to the same.  It is like two sides of the same leaf, which appear different.)


I saw, in the light of what I had just discovered and learned, that in his astrological map there is no differentiation between the plane of the lunar orbit and that of the sun.  His birth (during the annual festival of the Sight of Shiva on 30 December at 1 am 1879) took place at a time when ALL THREE PLANES OF CONSCIOUSNESS – the Trinity or tripura of Earth, Sun, Moon – were dissolved into One:  what he called the Self.

This is the divinity which lies – like the staff – along the Midheaven axis of his birth and realization.

Only a few of the major aspects are shown here.  There is a remarkable beauty in the Venus/Mars opposition.  Venus and Mars-with-Pluto are in each other’s signs.  This is called a Mutual Receptivity, and as they are in the signs where they are weak (antipodeal to the signs which they rule), conventional astrologers shake their heads.  But who was Ramana?   Was the way he abandoned his family and married the Hill, auspicious? – particularly in the Indian culture, where each generation of a family risks the curse of an unproductive sadhu?   But look – the precision of the interplay suggests the intensity of Ramana’s darshan, his expressive eyes, and the Siva Ardhanarishvara – a vibrant marriage of male and female – in his silent presence.

No music could express it better.  See Arthur Osborne’s description of his facial features, on the previous page.  Libra – the sign inviting reconciliation, relationship-of-opposites and harmony – rises.  The Midheaven axis and lunar nodes with Sun and Moon, passes through Capricorn and Cancer, the polarity of the Family of Man:  old age and the child.  There is an archetypal theme of nativity.  The light is seeded in the darkest hour of night, at the lowest point of the year.  As the moment of alignment to the ecliptic plane passes its peak, this child of exceptional promise is born.

 Siva Ardhanisvara – Lord whose half is Woman:  copyright (c)The Sacred India Tarot by Rohit Arya & Jane Adams, Yogi Impressions Books, 2011


The Moon when Ramana was born, was full, and about to wane.  When they were carrying Shiva into the temple in the darkest hour of night, the little boy was born nearby.  At that moment, with 21 degrees Libra rising (western tropical astrology), the root and flower of the Midheaven melted into those merged lunar and solar planes.  Whether or not the moon itself came into earth’s shadow at that time, the ecliptic planes were unified, quiet and still.  The realization flooded the boy at age sixteen, with an intense encounter and journey through the field of the dead – the death of the personal mind into a pure, unpersoned livingness of “I,  I” everywhere.  He lay down on the floor in deadly fear, and “died” in full consciousness, remaining awake and aware.

Young Ramana

 On another occasion, about sixteen years later in 1912, a devotee was with him.  They were returning to Virupaksha Cave on the hill Arunachala after a bath.  Near a place called Tortoise Rock, death again  dissolved all the planes:

“The landscape in front of me disappeared as a bright white curtain was drawn across my vision and shut it out.  I could distinctly see the gradual process.  There was a stage when  I could still see a part of the landscape clearly while the rest was covered by the advancing curtain.  It was like drawing a slide across one’s view in a stereoscope.  I stopped walking  lest I should fall.  When it cleared, I walked on.  When darkness and faintness came over me a second time, I leaned against a rock until it cleared.  The third time it happened, I felt it safer to sit, so I sat down near the rock.  Then  the bright white curtain completely shut off my vision, the head was swimming and the circulation and breathing stopped.  The skin turned a livid blue.  It was the regular death hue, and it got darker and darker.  Vasudeva Sastri took me to be dead and held me in his arms and began to weep aloud and lament my death.

 “I could distinctly feel his clasp and his shivering, and hear his words of lamentation, and understand their meaning.  I also saw the discoloration of my skin and felt the stoppage of circulation and breathing, and the increased chilliness of the extremities of this body.  My usual current of awareness still continued.  I was not in the least afraid, and felt no sadness at the condition of the body.  I had sat down near the rock in my usual posture and closed my eyes, and was not leaning against the rock.   The body, left without circulation or respiration, still maintained that position.  This state continued for some ten or fifteen minutes.  Then a shock passed suddenly through the body and circulation revived with tremendous force, and breathing also, and the body perspired from every pore.  The colour of life reappeared on the skin.  I then opened my eyes and got up and said ‘Let’s go.’  We reached Virupaksha Cave without any further trouble.  This was the only fit I had in which both circulation and respiration stopped.”

 “Ramana Maharshi and the Path of Self knowledge”, by Arthur Osborne

 After this happened, in his thirty-third year – (and malnourishment could have been a contributing factor, but the soul’s response was pre-emptive) – Ramana Maharshi began to enter the physical world fully, to speak, to cook, to build, to bind notebooks and to participate in the life and work of his devotees.  His sahaja Samadhi was by now in truth unchanging and unconditional.

AFTERWORD – Who is interested in eclipses?

When I was small, my mother woke me one night and carried me to a window to see an eclipse of the Moon.  “It is very beautiful,” I said. “Can I go back to bed now.”  In the morning, they talked of the eclipse.  I was very angry, why didn’t they wake me up and show me?   I had slept so deep, there was no trace of this event on my conscious mind.


Here is a picture I painted at school, of my family on holiday:



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.

In Touch: Art as Healing

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PS – this is updated – I added a paragraph this morning.


This year 2012 is a time of change, a change of time, a river crossing the road. Some of us swim with the tide at tipping point.  For many others, the pressures from the collective subconscious, nationally and individually, are unbearable.   Like labour, there is pain, push and pull, and the rush of birth.

We each know someone – including ourselves – who gets overwhelmed by violent mood swings, stress, depression and obsessive disorder.    Any small unkindness may hit a deeply embedded nerve “i-am-rubbish” and amplify it to a hurricane, taking life.

Prisoners of depression cannot reach out, and they feel stigmatized.   The fragile one needs not words, but the presence of a friend somewhere, to support her coming through the crisis.   Whom can we give – today – that sense of connection, the living thread, a phone call even?   The smallest bit makes the difference.

Life doesn’t stop;  so I have to blog-along-a-bit.

This sketchbook fell open, early this morning, when I was busy with Odds and Logs.  They have your story in them somewhere, and contain a healing sequence.   Some of them are drawn with the left hand.  They are among many hundreds of similar drawings during 1987 -1988, when I was rowing across my interior Atlantic.  Creative art is a quantum-packet of healing, transcending the artist, and making waves.

The pictures tell their own story;  words are minimal map references.


Quantock ponies 2009



He art



Sunflower and Paddle Steamer



looking at me



Line dance 1



Line dance 2



Learning to



Learning (2) – a painting done in 2007



Get Well Soon.  The little house to the right, is the soul.  I sent this, and the one after it, to my father when he fell dangerously ill after swimming in a French river.  It is an angel, but he calls it “Boy with Rabbit”.  During his convalescence, he said each breath became a precious gift.  It is like being born again.


Gan Eden … Adam, Eve, the tree and the ship of the soul.



Ode.  This is moon talk, soul talk.



Navigation:  the Fool (creative play) and the Lamb (emotional baggage).  Hey-hey!



Flower, a despair of Painters.

In The Dawn of Magic (also published as The Morning of the Magicians), Jacques Pauwels and Louis Berger celebrated suggestively, a certain alchemical wildflower.  They said she was saxifrage, and every painter failed – like the princes who tried to climb up a glass mountain to the bride.  What could it be that makes the painters despair?   Why should I be like them?  I heard a sort of music around her, and drew what I saw in my mind’s eye.



flower the Despair of painters 1988

A painting done perhaps the following year.  I wiped my dirty palette from the previous painting across the canvas, and that was my landscape.  I outlined the found geologies and polished them a little.  The Flower floats up to me from a pegged-down Violet Crystal, and near the Crystal, a little green man seems to fly her as a kite.  Or he might be a painter, trying too hard.   I didn’t draw him – he was just a splash of paint.  But you might see something entirely different.   What do you see?

Smeared paint with knife or brush turned into fishes, the fish of my dreams, swimming through.


The Elephant’s Child

When my mind raced, I would go outdoors for a walk around the block, slow, conscious and curious, like an elephant or a four year old, and notice things.   To peg the mental dynamo to body tempo, earths and slows it right down.   I used to have a chatter in my head all day long.   I discovered that when I look out of the window and hear each word, at the actual tempo of speech, it gets too bored to endure itself, and collapses.

Walk the talk to calm it down, and not get carried away!   To yourself … or to someone who hears … say each word.   Soon you may not want to say any more.

Tie the tempi of the mental centre to the moving centre (the body), and learn to dance.  Mindstuff moves like lightning, much faster than real life.   That is where all the trouble starts.



Quantock heather path after rain

The point, with these drawings for self healing, towards world healing, is that anyone can do it.   Drawing goes wrong when we try to do it too fast, like the grownups – then we are out of touch with it.    I slowed right down, and learned to draw  the feeling slowly, using my whole arm’s movement in that space, letting my body move like a child, a path, not knowing what the line might do, or where it might go, but believing in it.  Sometimes I drew with my eyes closed, then looked.   It was liberating.  It is liberating to find and feel what is true to myself, and stick to that.   It is liberating to dance, to take a stroll with charcoal and the line.

There might be a bit more to this, in the morning.


22 August

It is now tomorrow morning, and as I thought, there is a bit more.   Souls move off the grid and into the medicine forest.

But “In Touch” was written towards all persons who get depressively suicidal.  My cher ami told me another;  the black girl up the road called him again and again at the weekend, and at last he went, and he saw her through, sat with her, jollied her out of trying it again.  We discussed suicidal feelings for a while.  He is a very firm person.

I am a river and I find my valley.  Other souls see my pebbles and Quantock paths.  Depression, locked in syndrome, is when nobody sees what you are and what you see.  There is no worse pain.

So perhaps with one depressed – can say, say to me what you see;  and see it too, without chatter.

This doesn’t turn the clock back for one who took her life;  or for those who love her;  but a sudden death – (I saw a guy on the Underground, just after I heard the news, he wore a SUDDEN DEATH tee-shirt and shades!) – a sudden death traps that fleeing soul in the tears and shock and guilt she leaves.  I – we – go on seeing what she sees, until she loosens and is able to move on.  As far as I know, and have always felt since childhood, death is no end, it is a gateway –  like birth, but into a consciousness whose continuity is not “on-the-line of life”.  The consciousness encircles it.   A lifetime is one detail in that sphere, a whorl, a dust-devil dancer, a moving-centre lost, wrapt within itself.   So perhaps what she feels more acutely than she can say, is the LOSS.   The being lost.

But a point of Life within a circle of Consciousness, is circumpunct, the ancient Solar symbol.

Seeing what another sees, is not explicit, for we are built open, and yet are private.   It is more, a willingness in the essence, to be open.  (I am always on the learning curve, with this.  I chip away at my conditioning.)

So go well, violet flower child, along your moorland paths and through the rain.   His love, your friend, is with you.  Let him live, for he carries your wild colour in his heart.

He carries your amethyst to whom he may next love, and their children.  Nothing ends.  It all flows on.


Having written this, a transpersonal pattern clears.  There is a meeting whose roads cannot quite move on through each other – a Karmic cul de sac.   Rising up, up above the Violet Crystal to the flower which is the Despair of painters, I see that she in her subconscious roll and pitch, gives him liberty.   See the picture.

The existential despair of a suicide, is not the full picture.  They are pressed to do it, and they exaggerate the prompt, because their boat rocks wildly.  But the full picture is the way all the pieces move around, together.  The sudden death is yet a gate for her to move through, and for him to go through into his new chapter.  He is a Capricorn, and the amethyst is his true grit.

Many souls feel suicidal in life’s spiky graph at this time.  Being touched, this is written towards all who are feeling this way, to try to companion them … a strong pulse of the violet healing radiance in the dew.  Don’t try to end it, because you can’t, ever.  Keep going.   Go well.


World Compass:  Go High, Deep, Far and Wide


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.

Odds and Logs

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This drawing again is appropriate …


Tidying papers and stuff yesterday, a constellation – postcards and pictures – formed a visual “story”.   By gravitation, a community of characters draw together for the tale … a winter’s tale.   What is it to be?

I plan to space out my posts a little .  I’d like to ease the pressure on readers’ emails, and to have more time to explore other blogs – they are treasure – but the new adventure, to receive as to give, flows in – from every direction, the river.  Responses meet my reservoir, and new picture stories happen.  Floating my paper boats into swift veins of the waters, one at a time, I follow others likewise, in the Worshipful Company of Bloggers!   As in R L Stevenson’s poem “Dark Brown is the River … Where go the Boats?” … they all come home, right here, today.   Wherever thou art, I am.

Give it all time.   Where is it going?   It knows.   “Tha’ knows …”

… my tiny fleck on this great river.

Fresh from re-exploring my Coastal Paths, I found these two old postcards, the lighthouse from my mother, the mudmaid from a friend …




 “Boat and Lighthouse”, by Martin Wiscombe, painted on driftwood

and “The Mudmaid” by Sue and Pete Hill – on the woodland walk at Heligan



 This man is called Bryan.  He loves to follow old trains.  He is a Friend of the Human Rights Aid Foundation.



And this is the late Valerie Brooks, whose posthumous portrait I drew for the Human Rights Aid Foundation – a devoted supporter of lost children during her lifetime.  H.R.A. is a charity dedicated to assisting displaced persons, children and communities all over the world.   If the children are our forgotten thoughts, be tender to each one.  Let them come through, to breathe …  to melt and fly.



Heart to heart talk – on a footpath in Arizona.   Sherlock Holmes used to reply, “I see what you see, but I notice what I see.”   There are as many cells in the brain as there are stars in all the galaxies, and more.   Until quite recently, maps of the brain included a very large vacancy – “Here be Dragons”, indeed.    The white-coats now believe that every atom of the intercranial space is consciousness and alive.   There is no vacuum.   That is progress.

As today’s story unfolds, an engineer arrived at this point to fix my printer, and we discussed Ramadan, Muslim burial ceremony, and the brain.  He said all souls at death, as at the gate of birth, meet Allah alike, and dressed in white.   A space is made in the coffin for the departed to sit up to receive the Judgment.  Then, my email PINGED! – and this arrived:


Brain cell, Universe.


River stone flow snake – this picture also, I show again.

I have three or four big posts in the pipeline, in particular the one about The Field of the Dead;  it concludes with Ramana Maharshi’s birthchart, who was born during full moon eclipse.  My backlog schedule is almost complete.  New themes arise as well, in response to feedback and situations.  The reservoir filled up my valley over many years.  Straight is the small gate for the waters to come through.



On  my windowsill in the morning – the Sun in the Stone.  The wise winged philosopher was a birthday gift in about 2003. The flecked granite behind him, is from a beach on St Agnes, Scilly.  Those giant round pebbles there, like dinosaurs’ eggs, begin to glow when the sun is setting.



Botticelli’s Aphrodite copy (1992).  She comes in from the Sea



Dakshinamurti, the sage of silence.  His statue sits in a niche, near Ramanasramam, south of Arunachala.  Ramana Maharshi referred to the Self as “the smallest of atoms, the biggest of big things.  The hail stone falls in the ocean.  It falls as a small drop.  At once it melts and becomes the ocean itself.  The source of the Self is a pin point.  When it is searched for, it disappears and only fullness remains.  Hence, the Self is called the ‘atom’.  We are like the icebergs floating in the ocean of ananda … Mouna (silence) is of four kinds:  silence of speech, silence of the eye, silence of the ear, and silence of the mind.  Only the last is pure silence.  The commentary of silence is the best … only silence is the eternal speech, the One word, the heart to heart talk.  Silence is the flow of electric current.  Speech is like obstructing the current for lighting and other purposes.  However much a jnani (wise one) might talk, he is still the silent One.  However much he might work, he is still the quiet One.  His voice is incorporeal.  His walk is not on the earth.  It is like measuring the sky with the sky.”



Pilgrims in the Ganga, on hampstead heath.   Ah!  how brave we are …



… and Aphrodite with Ares


I light a candle for Heather.  Heather, with our love,

and at first, our tears, go well.

Go well, and free.

Be well.



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. 

Belgian Beeches


Yod Heh, Stem & Yantra;  didgeridoo & poplar

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Greetings to our Belgian friends.

In 1999 I visited Mira de Coux in Brussels.  The poem sequence that follows is about the beeches in the forest south of the city.   Something in the soil and minerals there, makes them grow very tall.



Ceres and John

This poem is about THE CROSSING to Ostend: 

Religion cannot 
understand how God dies. 
It occupies itself alive
locking up the Mystery in a scroll 
of dogma, virgin birth and all. 

Ceres with St John
the second coming, feels 
the new born Child moving through her 
hush!  her finger to her lips. 

What brings 
to a verse I write, the bright 
yellowing fruit of limes last night 
crisply foliaged - my dream?

and crossing the channel to Ostend - 
waves swell, wrinkling 
fleets of galleon clouds like ships 
from horizon unto horizon unbound 

and vessels on the sea's breath 
vanish, white beaten gold 
midst gunmetal shadows, wind driven, 

and engines of the Sea Cat pulsate, 
splashed with salt, 
darkness of approaching rain, 
fleets of sails along the sky ... 

Later those same luscious limes 
recall my dream 
of stars in the Tree - 
for within the altar of Van Eyck 
in Ghent, there gleams 
their magnet to my soul. 

"Let us draw together ..."


Van Eyck Altarpiece detail:  hermits and limes in the trees

      The Beech Forest

When the brook 
begins to flow, 
a barque of impassioned words 

First there is no bark, 
there is the naked 
pipe of a silver soaring tree 
unspoken, silence. 

The standing flows 
the tap root of my soul 

JHVH:  4our Trees

        The Emerald Table at Chateau La Hulpe

"I speak no fiction, but only 
what s certain and most true." 

They took me to a Rosicrucean garden 
in October sunlight. 
I climbed a high Masonic stair 
of stone steps aslant to a sapphire 
gap of sky.  

The way dipped, then rose 
through treetops 
to a temple at the highest point 
crowned with a Zodiac star ... 

The stoppage of my thought with sky 
is the Grail. 

"What is below is like the above; 
and as above so below 
for the One Miraculous."


Cosmographic Volume

Like a bird whose feathers 
fall to sky, the Word 
arises still born. 

Like a parboiled partridge 
in pear tree, 
my plumes from quills release 
and it is simple to pluck me bare.  

"The father is the Sun, the mother the Moon. 
The inner child is carried 
in the belly of the wind 
and the Earth is its nurse."


Hierogamos Sun Moon conjunctio

Along the emerald meadow in La Hulpe, 
slender beech stems 
by sun's silver slant, extend 
nubile nobility of elven land 
to every side of sight, 

and pure strings chime psalms, 
the starry soil of fragrant wood - 

through organ pipes the diptych
of a medieval masterpiece - knights, 
angels, allegories quiver. 

never happened.

"It is the seed of all perfection 
throughout the universe. 
The power of it is realised 
when it is reduced to Earth."




There is a power in this Low Country soil. 
The trees are aristocrats. 
Denude of blemish or branch, their stems 
ascend, slender fleshy grey 
to the woodland sky like clouds. 
Aeolian strings await archangels' breath.

"Discriminate Earth from Fire
subtle from gross, acting with prudence, 
humility and discernment." 

"Ascend in your heart 
with Earth's wisdom to Heaven; 
then again descend to Earth, and unite 
the powers of Above and Below."

Let all ignorance 
and obscurity fly from you!"


Master R in London, circa 1745, 1760

By the hollowed root of forest giants, 
deep springs arise.
Though too close to Brussels for bears, 
they bear the mystic fairy tale 
- an illumined art gothique 
whose scented pillars sing underfoot 
old anthems, pungent leafy loam incensed.

     Ebony Goddess

"You shall find a greater strength 
than strength itself; 
for it masters any subtlety of thought 
and can penetrate every surface or solid." 

"Thus is formed the lily in the field. 
Hence the glory comes, here standing." 

"And so I am named 
Hermes Thrice Great, 
three parts of this whole wisdom 
here in 
the Sun's action, my Great Work."



August 2012

Our footsteps converge along the breaking tide up the sand.

Moving through the Maya-Aquarius relay-exchange of time – time is the baton? – honour the evolutionary revolution.   The old jersey worn so close to the chest is full of moth holes.   Something moves through here – a golden light.  The message of the river is to branch and receive and feed other rivers.  Rivers don’t divide into forks do they?   Rivers receive Tributaries.   Each tributary follows its underwritten destiny through the Ganga, to perfect.   The configuration of the mountain landscape holds geological history, time and places, at a glance.   All is well.


Window:  The big iron key is from a bunch we bought in Tiru market, in 1993



The Tree of Life as a formal garden  – an old drawing,1990



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.

Portrait Gallery (2) of Ramana & Devotees

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Ramana on a walk



… and when he was very old



… and when he was very young



… and rather frail with the Light that trembled in his lamp



… and along comes Robert



… and Catherine Ingram, whose Dharma Dialogues watch the storm in the clear sky.



This is another sketch of Annamalai Swami. (See my earlier post, Visit to Arunachala 1993)



… and here, Annamalai and Ramana are at work, building the Ashram.

Annamalai’s book Living by the Words of Bhagavan as told to David Godman, caused quite a stir, in 1994.  It describes, with a bricklayer’s honesty, the atmosphere of ferment around the sage, in those early days.   It brilliantly observes the psychology of Ashram – any Ashram – and contains some very beautiful teaching.

Now, some other builders:



Skanda and Ganapati – Ramana and Ganapati Muni play their mythological roles as spiritual brothers in Siva’s lap …


… and then enjoy themselves in the tank.

 Ganapati’s devotees called him “Nayana” – Little Father.  Ganapati Muni could breathe a mantra into a devotee’s whiskery ear, in such a way that it remained, unending, like the sea.  His Sanskrit poetry of Ramana’s teaching and early dialogues with devotees, became the “Ramana Gita”.



Kapali Shastri – the Muni’s student, a great Tantric scholar and scribe, who lived at Aurobindo’s Ashram, and journeyed to and fro – writes it all down



And here are the lineage holders – K Natesan and Vamadeva Shastri (David Frawley).

The late K Natesan translated and preserved the Muni’s Sanskrit poetry, many of these works still unpublished.  The heritage combines Self-enquiry, Vedic wisdom, Ayurvedic medicine, Jyotish (the astrology of Light), Aurobindo’s teaching, meditation and yoga –  in every branch of life.   The disciplines are interwoven and integral.  It was the Muni’s burning desire to re-awaken India’s Vedic heritage, to cast off the abuses much of it had fallen into.

Vamadeva Shastri studied with Natesan and with M.P.Pandit (whose teacher was Kapali Shastri) and brought it back to New Mexico.  It thrives in his translations of the Vedic Hymns and on – the American Institute of Vedic Studies.  He published many books on Yoga and the roots of Mantra and the Vedic civilization.   A western acharya – a rarity, as recognized by the wisdom holders in India – he is one of those who help to restore the Sanatana Dharma.  Taking root, the oak in the acorn seed takes its time to grow.    It is interesting how the  pioneering initiative is and has been reflected back, by a Westerner.   Ramana lived in a cave, but became known through the quintessential comedy of east and west, within the well of Self-enquiry.



Francis Lucille (2)

A French diplomat and musician:  his teacher was Jean Klein.  One day, the Gayatri Mantra opened the door …




Poonja (Papaji) traveled all over India as a yogi and stayed with Ramana.  He loved and played with Krishna also, round the other side of the Hill.  As he grew old, seekers from the west settled to him like bees to the flower.   In Lucknow, he took care of Osho’s children.   He said “Keep quiet” and “Let there be peace to all beings.”   With him, Catherine Ingram (above) released her Buddhist training into the meeting place of the Self.  The teaching is a flow of being, whatever the form.



Ramana drinks wisdom

And here is Ramana on a hot day.



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.

Sacred India Tarot Archive – Creation of Chandra, the Moon – card 18

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This has a “sub-plot”.  Gautam Sachdeva (the publisher) on his return from a pilgrimage to the Cathars in southern France, requested some information on Archangel Michael, which Jane provided (see below).

As Rohit calls card 18 “the bad boy of Indian mythology” it seems highly appropriate to match Chandra with the Guardian Angel!

In the western Tarot, the Moon card rules embodiment, cycles of cell renewal and repair through sleep;  and cycles also of our past lives.  It has a wave pattern, because the path of evolution proceeds in waves.   But the Moon is also associated to the personal ego.   Archangel Michael guards this domain and “the path of honesty” to the transpersonal Self.  So it is timely to insert an article about Michael, in the process.  As the correspondence following it shows, Gautam was getting some awakenings from his soul’s history.

Energetically speaking, our cross cultural enterprise is particularly rich, under the aura of Soma Chandra (nectar of the Moon).  Guides and archetypes of our journey unveil themselves, as the story goes on.



Chandra-soma, Jyotish – an early and more classic version of this deity.  He carries a lily and a mace, and the chariot wheels are Yantras or visual mantras.  The horses are the nectar from his lotus throne.


Arcanum 18, from Jane’s Hermetic deck


Verse by AJ/JA


Rohit Arya’s Notes:

“The available myths are sparse and few in number.  They seem to have been written by people who did not like this particular godform very much.  It would seem the ancient observers of the skies did not like this waxing and waning, regarding it as something sneaky in a celestial, and well worth watching with a wary eye.

“The important intervention of the Moon was noticing Rahu and Ketu (North and South Nodes/ecliptic) attempting to steal Amrita, the gods’ nectar of immortality, and warning Vishnu about it.  In return, he and the Sun got the unrelenting hostility of those malevolent beings who periodically attempt to swallow them whole – but they always emerge from the eclipse, because the attackers have only immortal heads, the bodies beneath them having been cut off.


Rahu Jyotish, the Moon’s North Node – his left hand holds Smar-hara Yantra, the remover of desire


Ketu Jyotish, the Moon’s South Node:  letting go.  The moon’s Nodes are the antipodeal points where Moon’s orbit around the earth crosses Earth’s orbit around the Sun.  When these are aligned, earth, sun, moon, as happens twice a year, there is during that fortnight, a lunar (full moon) eclipse and a solar (new moon) eclipse.


Rohit continues: 

“The most unpleasant myth about Chandra is when he forced himself upon Mamata(or Tara), the wife of his elder brother and guru Brihaspati (Jupiter), and made her pregnant.  The son so born from this rape was the planet Budha (Mercury).  It would seem that he used a mixture of charm and psychological dominance to keep the poor woman quiet, and only broke his silence when the child proved to be one of exceptional good fortune, which he was not going to miss out on, being the father.

“To make matters worse, he assembled an armada of allies to back his claim, mostly sages with jealous spite against Brihaspati, and all the denizens of the Dark side of hindu mythology  – Asuras, Danavas and so on.  An infuriated Siva attacked all of them, and even temporarily slew Chandra before restoring him to life, and having the crescent Moon a permanent ornament on his own forehead.  Chandra’s luck as always, saw him through, and he even got the child.

“This myth is a subconscious acknowledgement of the dark side of the moon in psychological terms – charm and beauty mixed up with deceit and willfulness, and a heedless disregard for consequences or the feelings of others.  Chandra was punished by being permanently excluded from heaven, and having to reside amongst the stars.

“However, the old texts say that ‘if a person is born under Soma or Chandra, he will have many friends, will possess elephants, horses and palanquins;  be honourable and powerful;  will live on excellent food, and rest on superb couches.’  Being in some versions born from the ocean, he is regarded as the brother of Lakshmi, goddess of fortune;  but she too is famously capricious and fickle in doling out good luck.  The Chandravanshi Rajputs claim to be a lunar race directly descended from the Moon.

“I would just suggest making the face not too pleasant, for the Moon is an ambivalent card as well as character, exceedingly charming but also capable of great misbehaviour and trouble making, as the myths are only too clear in informing us.  The misunderstandings, strife, confusions and doubts that assail us under the Moon card’s influence – it is not a totally positive card.

“..We have a paradox basically.  High honours and luck, as well as lechery and lunacy.  I had thought to avoid this by stressing the old Vedic god Soma aspect of the Moon, but even he had a problem in preferring his wife Rohini above the rest of his 33 wives, all sisters, and incurring the curse of his father-in-law – which explains the waxing and waning of the Moon.

“So it would seem that he is a deeply attractive and elegant form of god, riding the gazelle, but albeit dangerous and capable of springing a nasty surprise or two.  He is more like an old Sumerian god, capable of blessing and blighting – and both actions are driven by caprice alone.”



Jane’s Notes:

This analysis suggests the Moon’s paradoxical character, as masque of appearances, healing light, romance, persona and – in the cultural context – the leading entity in Indian astrology.


Correspondence:  Gautam – 11 October 2002

“Hi Jane, greetings from a really hot Bombay.  The weather is now 5 degrees over the usual.  Hopefully, things should start cooling down from November.

“Out of personal interest, I’m looking for any input on Archangel Michael.  Rohit was explaining to me how the Ace of Swords was a symbol of Michael.  Did you ever cover this subject, or do a related painting or the like?

“Yes, it’s amazing the Major Arcana are moving towards completion.  Do you suggest we do our corrections now, or wait till we proceed with the full deck?  I have printed out the cards to an actual size forma, and will mail you a set.  A long road ahead, but it’s been a great journey so far, thanks to yourself and Rohit.  It’s a miracle how the universe orchestrates things.   Have a good weekend – warm regards, Gautam.

“PS – do you have msn messenger?  This way we can chat real time, or get a webcam – even better!”


Archangel Michael ’92  “– after a reproduction of St Michael by Memlink, on a record sleeve of organ music by Messiaen


Correspondence:  Jane – October 2002

Dear Gautam and Rohit – Archangel Michael, in Kabbalah, is Captain of the Hosts between cosmic evil and cosmic good.  Behind and above him is the Lord’s Name, Adonai.  Under him is Sandalphon, Archangel of planet Earth.  Michael holds a central position in the Tree of Life – he is its consciousness or beauty – and is in touch with every other part of it.  In the western Tarot, he is depicted as the angel in Temperance, balancing the essences of alchemic fire and water.  He has one foot on the ground of his own world, and the other is dipped into a pool which is the ‘watery’ human psyche, or astral plane.

Michael rules the region to the south, the fire.  He carries a lance of flame.  His face like the sun, is too bright to behold.  He has a winged aura of gold and salmon pink.  He looks after musicians and all forms of music – this means the gandharvas too – and is especially benevolent to cats from tigers to tabbies, in the animal kingdom.

Here is my understanding:

Michael is also, in western iconography, the arch slayer of dragons.  This means the dragon or ley-line of earth – the subtle current through the meridians of body and psyche.  He is probably the patron of acupuncturists.  Everywhere at power spots or dolmens in southern England, are old shrines to Michael and Mary.  These are outcrops of the secret dragon fire, and they now have churches built on them, or old towers.

The mythological Michael slew dragons that pestered humanity;  but there is also a deeper meaning.  He represents the capacity to look directly into one’s own Shadow, or unresolved Serpent powers, to  tap their source and release them creatively – in other words, to master the inner daemons through awareness or Self-enquiry. The Knights of the Temple when building cathedrals of the Gothic Art, used this alchemic knowledge along ancient ‘dragon’ meridians in earth, to raise up mass (stone) into Light (the winged arch).  They harnessed Baphomet, the creative aspect of the Devil (Tarot card 15) to transform densities, and to temper the ascending and descending force:  evolution/involution.  Baphomet is a code word whose latin, read backwards, becomes Templi Omnium Hominum Pacis Abbas – Priest of the Temple of Peace for all Humanity.  They looked Baphomet in the eye.  They were Initiates and knew what they were doing, but their Order became wealthy and a threat to the Church, which accused them of worshipping Satan.  The Church witch-hunted and burned them all.

The Templars were an enigmatic order.  Many historians link them to the Crusades:  their vow to guard the routes of pilgrimage was variously interpreted.  After the Templars were destroyed, the Black Death ravaged Europe.  The Cathedrals – not all of which had been completed –  were regarded as sanctuaries.  The black death couldn’t enter – it flowed around them.  From the human compost of the black death was seeded and grew the flower which became the Renaissance.

The Cathedrals in France are each a star in the Virgo constellation as reflected in the ground.  Their positions on the map suggest this.  That is the link of Michael and Maria.   Michael is the guardian of the initiate – the celestial sky –  and Maria is the purity of the receiving ground.

The whole thing is much older than Christianity.  It was alive in ancient Egypt, with Osiris/Isis.  As the elder Egyptian and Vedic civilizations corresponded, it has Indian roots also.  In the new Cathedrals, in the Middle Ages, the Mysteries were celebrated;  the bishops led the sacred dances.  There were no statues or depictions of crucifixion inside them, because they stood for the Living or Resurrected Christ.   The magnificent carvings of the guardians are on the porches and exterior walls, like the crusted stone of a geode.   The interior space and sacred proportion raised the entering soul to a higher, deeper level.  The root is the shoot, both ways – deep foundations were needed to support the mass of stone in flight.  Thus we stand tall;  thus we turn within.   Such is Michael Archangel.   Light entered through a prism of specially prepared alchemic glass windows, illumining the interior with a rainbow colour spectrum.

(Research, The Mysteries of Chartres Cathedral by Louis Charpentier, published by Research Into Lost Knowledge Organization – RILKO – a fascinating book.)

Michael in the western Tarot Temperance, has a rainbow over him, to depict – like the Templars’ alchemic glass – the refracting of the One into seven tones of light.  In the Rider-Waite decks, this is a partially concealed secret; the rainbow is substituted by iris flowers; Iris was the goddess of the rainbow.   In my Hermetic deck illustration (see Mother Ganga in the Sacred India Tarot, and Anandaymayi Ma)  the rainbow materializes to irises by the Archangel’s feet, and a radiance around his crown.

In general, we see that Michael holds the balance of forces back and forth over long historical periods.  He is the guiding power behind humanity’s better nature, and is its greatest warrior.  But the faculty I associate with him is Patience.  Like a real warrior, he strikes us rightly at the right time.  He oversees excess and the aesthetic control of his fiery realm – as you can see, with his vessels of equilibrium.   This archetype in our lives, gives us long cycles to balance and hold in check.  Where this comes together with Mother Ganga in our present work, is the sense of always backing upstream to Source.   The holy river carries all destinies in her current from the sky.

(And in the present context, accompanying SITA 18, The Moon, this essay on Michael is another view on the embodiment process, which The Moon regulates.)


And re the Ace of Swords/your question:  Michael is often depicted carrying Sword and Scales.  In my understanding, the Ace of Swords refers to Destiny.  In my cultural context, and in Alfred Douglas’s interpretation, the Ace of Swords means ‘faculty of thought’.   This is a destructive card if reversed.  Power abused or mis-used, results in “restriction imposed by force or fear;  injustice;  the usurping of Divine authority by human willfulness.”

The Sword is in the deep past, for resolution.  Perhaps it is transpersonal, and means “destiny” … “Victory, the operation of irresistible force – the symbol of Divine justice and authority, the forging of strength in adversity – the faculty of thought.  This card indicates that all enterprises will succeed, despite apparently overwhelming odds.  The start of progress which cannot be halted or diverted.  Necessary change:  a breaking down in order that something better might be built.  Freedom resulting from the removal of restraints.” (Alfred Douglas)

It suggests the Executive of Divine authority, which Great Michael is.  He looks like the sun.  No power of darkness can withstand his gaze.  So your Ace of Swords may symbolize his way of action:  a single Sword held in stillness.

I did some work inspired by this in the past, and wrote a sort of book about it, still waiting to be typed – (now competed:  The Masters’ Eye 2011).   Interestingly, your email about Michael and Ace arrived just when I was writing again about Michael in my journal, as he came up in our Kabbalah group discussion.

I shall be resuming Moon, Sun etc, tomorrow.  Yes I think it a good idea to do all the detail adjustments when the Major Arcana are completed, and before we start the Minor.   SELF ENQUIRY got printed a fortnight ago – I don’t think I sent you a copy yet.  It contains Rohit’s article on Yama and David Frawley’s article on Kali, but not the illustrations!

Warm regards, Jane



Correspondence, Gautam Sachdeva -17 October 2002

“Hi Jane – well received.  Was almost like a thesis on the same – will absorb it all at the weekend.  Thanks a ton!   Gautam.”

Correspondence: Jane – 21 October 2002

“Dear Gautam, I’ve been a bit delayed last week, so I’m starting Moon this week instead.  I shall proceed as per my earlier drawing of Chandra, and Rohit’s instructions, but I’d also like a little of Rohit’s mythology.  How long is your website closed for?  Is it possible to send me a page on Chandra? Glad you got the Michael – did it come in the attachment?  I don’t know yet if the attachment is working on this address, as they’ve messed about with it recently.”



Chandra, Jyotish drawing  (in “Astrology of the Seers” by Vamadeva Shastri/ Frawley

Correspondence: Gautam – 21 October 2002

“Hi Jane – will send u an article.  I spoke with Rohit on the same.  I don’t think there is anything on on Chandra, though the site should be up by tomorrow.   Michael came through your private address.” 

“Rohit and I are brainstorming on a book about Krishna, in a very modern context – in the sense of how we can apply it to today’s man and living – he will prepare a concept note for the same – I will send it to you – I want it to be a small format book, something the size of ‘who moved my cheese’ – so it’s fast to read, easy to pick up, and good to gift.

“Want to be in on the same?  Could be a fun cross-cultural exercise, and may turn out to be really unique.  I guess you can decide once you see the concept note.  The closes I can think of is ‘Jesus CEO’, but of course we won’t follow that format.  Hope all else is well.  Warm regards, Gautam.”


Correspondence:  Gautam – 29 October 2002

Your article was fascinating.  I also shared it with my friend who recently traveled to Mont St Michel in France, dedicated to Michael.  The Ace of Swords is a card I regularly pull out in Tarot readings done by my mom or Rohit … and that is what prompted Rohit to mention to me that he felt there was some sort of connection.

“I also feel strongly connected with the Joan of Arc energy for some reason, and she too was guided by the Archangel.   So strange, all this … especially for one sitting in India!

“Thanks for the Self Enquiry received yesterday – Rohit is coming over today, and will show it to him.  Warm regards, Gautam.”


SITA 18:  Chandra Soma

Jane’s Notes (2010)

Acknowledging the suggested sibling link of Chandra and Lakshmi, in both these cards – 18 and 3 – a landscaped Sri Chakra Yantra represents the fortunate and wish fulfilling jewel which they capriciously bestow.

The Sri Chakra Yantra interweaves 5 descending female triangles (Shakti) with 4 ascending male triangles (Siva).  Their nuptial union sustains a centrifugal ripple-mandala pattern of 42 triangles, like the rings across a tree’s stem.  This map of the cosmos – a spider’s web of time – is invisibly projected from the central point or bindhu, and is what we handle and perceive.   The immortality of the exhaustless treasure is in the Now, around which all mythologies spin their histories.

In SITA card 3, Lakshmi the Empress gives birth to the creation.

In SITA card 18, Chandra seems to both invite and guard access to the creation.


SITA 3:  Lakshmi, the Empress

24 October 2002 – A Landscape, with Michael’s Signs, under Chandra

“…On the bridge over the little river, I washed the heavy clay from my sandals.  Small horses were in the field, loose, one of them shining silver white, like a unicorn.  The river is crystal clear and quiet over bright brown stones and silt.  Upstream was sky’s brightness reflected.  Nearer it becomes an azure blue – Beriah, the World of Creation.  Then there is the world of Forms to our eyes.  For a long time, we watched sunlight’s quivering fish scales on the ruffles of the wind, and their movement into and across each other – seeing the universal lace unchanging into vesica pisces, ever renewed and carrying little black holes or stars to be.  Where currents met, the dimension changed, the depth of lights in crossing leapt into the eye like a hologram, and blurred its sureness.   Then as Assiyah, the material World, we retrieved our feet and earth, grass and stone:  the bridge.  We flanked a bramble hedge and came upon the shy, ancient sunburst of St John the Baptist in Little Missenden:  a Saxon church.

“How sweet this air inside is, said Peter Brennan as we pushed open the door into the dark coffered silence of its ancient arches.  It is a cave.  On the walls they have found and cleaned medieval fresco fragments of St Christopher and the Child, the ordeals of St Catherine, and a celtic crucifixion.  We spent a long time in there.  I found a Challen baby-grand piano, unlocked and in perfect condition:  the first phrases of Beethoven’s Pathetique slow movement – the only thing I know by heart.  In the church it is so silent, in the embrace of its thick old walls you cannot hear the road.  It is very, very quiet and still.  We discovered in the altar alcove, wooden sculptures of the four Archangels, quite recently done.  One of them was hidden by a banner.  When I looked behind, there was Archangel Michael – but he carried in his right hand the Sword and in his left hand the Scales!  He holds the Sword upright, but in a curious way, by the blade.

“There were stain-glass windows painted in the 1930s by persons who know.  They had the Four Worlds, the unchanging procession of saints, the Word that all in heaven and earth must change, the carnage on earth that this entails – the window commemorated Dunkirk – Isaiah’s lions with lambs in the earthly paradise, and the Holy Jerusalem far above, depicted as cathedral towers and gothic spires.  In them a bell is drawn, the eternal bell whose note the Angel in Beriah sings in earth’s atoms.  The bell in the squat heavy tower struck throatily the hour of four, with a great thudding of the rope and pulley.   Peter read that one of these bells rang at Chaucer’s wedding – or his birth?   Think of it – a thousand years of that vibration it has stood, and stands.

“The pub was closed, but we admired the ducks on the river who mobbed us quackingly, hoping for scraps of steak and chips, and we found a little shop.  Peter bought two bacon pies, crisp and golden, to eat on our feet, and I bought two crunchies.  The great desire of these pies and crunchies is to become Kabbalists.  The great desire of Kabbalists is to let the Holy One eat us.  The Companions of the Light come on our walk and get cross like children if we go in the wrong direction.  So we climbed with great enjoyment for the pies and crunchies, a drove-road up over the fields, tunneled with alder, and through it the sinking sun flickered and splashed with pleasure in our pies, our eyes and crunchies.  Underfoot sparkled the olive, russet, indigo and earth confetti of fallen leaves aglow:  the cool smell of the ground and its small sharp stones.”


Arcanum Eighteen – an early interior journey looking up the Sefiroth of the Tree of Life.  In the Moon’s crescent are the enigmatic faces of our guides.   The path takes us through the gate of the body (two towers, the ends of a fence) into the landscape of our dreams at night.  Beyond yet from within it, rises the sun, our Self.

The pool here, is as the same as the one which the woman in the Star, card 17, gazes into.  We see with her the evolution of Life in all its forms.




Rohit Arya is an Author, Yogi and Polymath. He has written the first book on Vaastu to be published in the West, {translated into five languages} the first book on tarot to be published in India, co-authored a book on fire sacrifice, and is the creator of The Sacred India Tarot {82 card deck and book}. He has also written A Gathering of Gods. He is  a corporate trainer, a mythologist and vibrant speaker as well as an arts critic and cultural commentator. Rohit is also a Lineage Master in the Eight Spiritual Breaths system of Yoga


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.