The Anchor and Hope: Olympiad & Hackney Marsh

Islington tunnel:  from Mark Wordy’s photo stream

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I’ve been reading Patipada’s book of herself and Osho – Forever is not long enough – and am about to begin the other Osho book I have, it is called A Failed Guru.  But did he fail?  The Osho phenomenon is psychologically rich and fascinating –  he, a charismatic wisdom scholar, let a huge car he was driving, go out of control … for the worst to happen, and for their sadhana to grow.  I like the Osho people, the survivors, the characters, the workers.  O vanished, dissolved, crashed into his devotees, they are the thriving “debris”;  this is a teaching in itself.   I met Patipada in Sedona;  we liked each other (she liked everyone).

The BLISS some neo advaitins have, feels flimsy.  It doesn’t have a strong undercarriage, and it is vulnerable to inflation.  I don’t agree with the anti-ego objective.  We need to know our shape’s subconscious pressure, before we can let it go;  otherwise it knows us too … too well!  Those who subscribe to “no ego” get carried away into strange stuff like sitting ducks.  It is according to temperament and need, but also lovey dovey, and – you know?  The cult of personality gets in through the back door – all the wonderful gurus and each other.   I’ve been in it, and it isn’t my cup of tea.  I know it brings authentic and wonderful interior experiences of no thing-ness.  It is one way … at heart it is Sadhana.  Like any other way, when focused, it bends the Universe’s antennae towards it helpfully.

from  world’s worst camera phone.blogspot

Yesterday – inspired by finding my sketch of the Mrs B’s cycling along the canal – I got out my bike, pumped up the tyres, and rode to the Olympic park along the easterly canal tow-path from Camden Town.   The canal is London’s secret life, it curves through the grid.  It was wonderful!  The Olympic park is just the other side of Victoria Park, where I lay down on the grass for a rest, very wobbly knees – I haven’t ridden anywhere for at least a year.   The Buck House athletes-procession-Flypast formation flew over, on its way – a big noise, an arrow head.

I got to the Lea River and saw the big white stadium and “D’s favourite building” – (the red  corkscrew thing, he hates it) – all behind massive barricades and security cameras  – the park is wrapped in razor wire, and many old lanes and footways are blocked.   You can’t get in without a pass, for God knows how long.  It is strangely like a war – and yet it was an international release and warmth;  I went to soak up the vibes – the thunder and joy of the mass still echoes.  I rode along back stage:  behind the giant viewing screens, and behind the endless ugly admin boxes.  The canal/river snakes along beside it all, with its ineffable old east London character.  The outlook for the residents is a metal barricade – in place of construction site, diggers and waste land.   It takes time.

I haven’t been there for fifteen years or so;  it is all smartened up and getting affluent.  I saw some of the famous wild flowers behind the wire, banked along an access road.   Actually they look strange and not English at all – which of course they aren’t.  They are from the world over, the seeds massed, frozen, migrated and assembled all-together-now.   Their brilliant green foliage glows artificially here.  I wonder what these flowers will do next year – whether they find suitable nitrate fibres to make their home, or whether like the countries, they visit and depart.   The symbol vibrates.   The whole thing is rich to explore inwardly.  I was on the main ring road enclosing the O park – the O park is just a tangle of weird white architecture, steel and wire, with its back to you.

I thought of the people on the long russet paths inside, all summer: a friendship carnival.  The UK’s Libra ascendent was exactly aligned astrologically to the July grand cross.  In summation – for there are so many interior themes – the tension erupted a festival, to which the whole world was invited.

I already rode through a dense wood while route finding:  I took off from there along the Lea River proper, over the huge Hackney Marshes.  The river winds through tall plane and oak trees and many feathery young plantations.  The spaces filled with sky are huge and blowy, and there are playing fields.  This part is all old and the O park will gradually soften into it.   I got out my phone to see the time, and thought of D:  on cue he pinged a text “just to say i love you x.”   So I told him where I was.  Fantastic!  he said.  Riding a mile further north in the woody breeze – big silver tossed sky – I looked back and saw the stadium and the corkscrew in strangely rural setting.   I followed the river to where it becomes a canal/towpath again, and had an ale and bite-you-back crisps in a pub which was NOT the one I was looking for.   The one I was looking for (a second ale and old fashioned crisps) was further up the bank of the Lea River – an utterly other London universe where the picturesque housing tide comes to a sudden end on the water.

The pub/cottage is STILL THERE!  How did it survive the chain-saws?   It is called The Anchor and Hope.  It is patronized by desperate 1970s hippies like myself, who got left behind by the clock. We trickle out of the shabby waterfront bar and sit along the terrace in a convalescent way.  I remember those erratic old afternoons …  glass after glass of melancholic intensity.   All I can manage now is half a pint.  The wrinkly hobbit in shorts, pulling pints has a long pink nose, and is the weirdest and wispiest of us all.  Here on our backwater vessel, we scull slow dreamy circles, while the rough old world goes by.   On the water, communes of old boats and barges are moored in zig zag fashion;  a steep little street slides down to the edge from Stoke Newington in London somewhere:  the place is an asylum.

From there, I rode on another mile or two, past a leafy frum park, and finally turned back into London at Tottenham Hale for the long ride home.  Tottenham is where the enormous Lea reservoirs begin.  The tow path goes on and on alongside them, far up north.

The 2011 riots began in Tottenham.  I think I rode through the place.  I saw burns.  It is ironic that such a teemingly colourful district is in reality deprived, hungry, bored and angry.   Visiting life is not the same as living it.

Very tired by now … the long haul through Turnpike Lane and Hornsey, and pushing up Muswell Hill:  then left along the high old disused-railway path, from which you see, as from a balcony, the whole of east London … in the distance,  the stadium’s white spikes and festive corkscrew.  It is astonishing to cover the labyrinth, ant-like on my wheels.   Then Highgate, Kenwood, Whitestone Pond – London’s highest point – and downhill home, getting dark.

In earlier times, Hackney marshes had a heavy, neglected horizon.  It felt down and out and druggy.  Today the same is enlivened;  a current of regeneration flows subtly through it.   The Olympics were built on a poisoned chalice in the south.  All that toxic topsoil, derelict factories and electronic waste was peeled off, sieved, cleansed, put back and rebuilt into a cup of hope.  It is very new, and stiffly guarded.  But an elixir of life and interest now flows where the vein was blocked, and time will soften the edges and open it up to the wetlands.   I saw many ducks, swans and a weary heron.  A falcon hovered.

Poet & his daughter


1968 jazz



This charcoal drawing was done in1964, to The Kinks’ song “You Really Got me”.  




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.

Buttercookies (1)

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This is the story (in instalments of course) of two very dear friends, their hen sessions and their celebrations.  Their names are Mrs Bhattacharya and Mrs Bhattapanjali.  Their golden sister Mrs Buttercookie lives in the States and outshines them both.

So this is for you, Mrs B!

On a late autumn day – they are both getting on a bit – the Mrs B’s go walking on Hampstead Heath to discuss the tao in the masculine landscape.


Both of them are consoled and egged on by a certain old gentleman of Tiru with a raised eyebrow, kettle and a walking stick.   When they have a lot to say, the kettle steams.


Here they are, after a lengthy and successful session on the Menfolk.

The mens’ names are Bull and Snake, for astrological reasons.  In the black bag is all their stuff for recycling.

Here is the difficult business concerning the mens’ other ladyfolk, whose names are Bottle and Jigsaw-puzzle.  The Mrs B’s morph into Bird and Goat-fish (alias mermaid).


Here are the two friends, on an outing to the west of London.   The Lord of Canals is Siva.  This canal threads the  London area  from Lymehouse docks to Brentwood east of Richmond, and is its secret life.


However …

Womans’ work is never done.


The only and obvious solution, is to magick up … a suitable suitor for Jigsawpuzzle (alias Ms Hi-boots in deutschland)

and …

… an irresistible swain for Bottle, at present holidaying on a remote Scottish island, with fishing tackle and Snake in tow.  Bottle is always taking Snake away with her to tour abroad, while Mrs Bhattapanjali pines at home.

Both these Spells in the course of time, WORKED.  Jigsawpuzzle found her ideal therapist, so Bull was free to graze.  And Hamish was hooked, and moved in next door to Bottle, who never noticed the Snake who quietly slithered away…

But first there was the long, hard work …

… to get Bottle to fall in love with her heaven sent Solution.   Some persons cannot see the obvious when it stands right there in front of them.

As every connoisseur knows, true malt surpasses scotch …  it just takes more time.

At least, while Bottle is concentrating, the Snake can disappear discreetly up his holy mountain.


On a lighter note …

to welcome Mrs Bhattacharya back from her adventures with bovine Bull in deutschland, the Snake and the Fish-goat (alias Mrs Bhattapanjali) planted …

… a fine Virginia creeper in her garden, to thank her for sheltering them in her house.



Dear Buttercookie from the Deep South, this is not the best sketch of you, because done in rather a hurry …

 but you are “THE BEST” –  and you know where to find us!  Love from the Mrs B’s.


(to be continued)



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 Vision: the Valley and the Olympic Relay

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The ‘Brellas.  Metro cover, 30 August 2012

When looking up something in my last-February’s journal the other day, I came across an entry – which I had forgotten all about.   First there is a dream – an elder landscape, a valley crossing – and then a vision of the Games-to-be:  the context is Time passing through the Mayan calender circle into the Aquarian age circle this year – and pictorially, the years fore and aft, around it:  a Grand Crossing.

from Kabbalah 1991 series – the Kabbalah is by the way, but this is the general shape!

13 February 2012            THE VALLEY AND THE OLYMPIC RELAY

I dreamt last night a great and ancient moorland landscape, very old rocks.   It was a long U-shaped valley with steep sheer sides, glacier carved, exposed.   I walked along one edge of it, a path, noting the formations and striations of heather, rock and strata along the other side:  vast – could be Scotland or Wales, but could be anywhere in the world.

I backtracked some way, and took a path (right-angle) which descended to cross it.  Maybe I slid skillfully, or tobogganed.   In the geological patterns up the other side, woods were hidden, as if in the textures of a painting, and little bushy lanes tarmac’d for cars, but almost too narrow to walk along;  it was local but remote.   Tucked away were houses, cottages and signposts, like the Chilterns; a small urban community took root.

Going up that hillside, as often happens, it turned into an interior labyrinth and I had to ask the workers the way.  But the way was always quite clear to see, particularly when I turned a right angle corridor at the top;  someone showed me a door leading out of doors, and I saw the cliffs of the valley’s other side again (where I was before), and the paths scratched and worn along them:  the VIEW.

The path I was on, scarped the edge, but began to descend.   It was sandy and reddish, and lost height.   I met people and their dogs or children, and I looked for paths ascending back up.

The landscape had an elder brilliance of colour and tone:  I think, an astral region.   The two sides of the valley feel like the pillars of the Tree.   Among the bare rocks, small thoughts of humanity take hold and flourish.   There is an air of rediscovering basics.   I cross the bare valley floor playfully.   There is stability.   There is a conversation, side to the other side.

Parent pentacle – Two sides of the Tree.

This dream-fragment came back to me in the kitchen, by the taps, while putting a jaycloth away.   Yesterday I cleaned, dusted and polished my room at last, and bought a slow-cooker and some steak, veg and ale, and made a wonderful stew with an incredible flavour.

I said Chiltern – an echo – the valley is a dramatic version of the long land-furrows just west of Chesham and their paths and lanes:  a corrugation like the lines in a fingerprint.

In my studies, I read about “the power which hangs the earth upon nothing.   He who knows its presence at the centre of his being, and perfects its unobstructed transmission from that inner centre … knows the practical secret of the Lost Word.”  (Paul Foster Case.)

The hebrew word for Imagination is RVCh, Ruach, the Life-Breath …  …   through the intricate pathways of veins, arteries, nerves and cellular thought streams.   I like to think of those almost invisible fat cottages of village life tucked away among the steep bushy trees and hedges – samskaras and samsaras.  The One Life creates all my ideas.  They are tough like heather.

line dance 1987 – Crossing the valleys of each other

The potencies … are centred in the pituitary body behind the root of the nose.   This is the point through which they enter the field.  They put you in touch with the essential consciousness of everything, everywhere … the most distant star, millions of light years away, all mineral, plant, animal and human forms.

Behind the root of my nose is a visualising centre, which tastes and smells.   Here is a little Tree.   Here are bright white Seals of Solomon.   The valley in my dream is like a bath.   Sit in the bath like Archimedes, home in to the root behind my nose, and check out those distant stars and atoms closer than my breath, the intimate cosmic filaments … and pull out the bathplug with my toe.   Like going to see my teacher to ask a question, the intention feels businesslike.   Some clutter was removed.

The Valley is in a strange, living mode, a Face, a naked being.

What is your name?   Are you called Lebecq? 

I see through you, an ancient channel of light and knowledge, like a well, lain horizontally …  well, that is a telescope, n’est ce pas?   But you are more a landscape than a humanoid.   The idea of a telescope brings the stars close.  Your silence is as alive as when you speak.  You are a channel for God.   The telescope is a channel, a stick, a rod, a staff.   When the valley of the shadow is cleared and open, I walk in it, I cross it, I admire the detail.   There is a point of essence of you.

Hear the nose on your face”.    Listen to the breath.   Waves swell, break and fade.

The god Neptune goes into his elemental salt, the Ocean, from the beach, then deeper and deeper.   He IS the Ocean, being thus She, la mer, the mare, the mother.   Essence is restored to itself … like sperm to egg dissolves back into embryonic femininity, from which the genders grow.

Leibniz, Kepler and Galileo were contemporaries – the invention of the telescope then?   The dawn of the 17th century broke the caul of our world.  It was called the Enlightenment.   It contracted light years and brought in the universe. (Aquarian age).   It invented calculus and measure.   The Rosicrucean Manifesto satyrized the Church’s asinine pomp and tyranny.   The stars broke into the cleric fantasy and toppled it.

Something like this is happening now.   Where there were European wars, is now a perilous Euro-economy – another attention-capturing struggle, another situation beyond the save of linear savants.   Listen to the root of my nose;   the birds out there, and the cars going by.   Listen with everything I am connected to – replacing thoughts.   The mind can scan many things simultaneously, but only concentrate on One Thing.

Alchemical bas-relief in Notre-Dame Paris – Child baton

Neptune’s essence restored to his own element in Pisces – is the year’s basic scroll.

In the summer Olympics, the relay of the torch and relay races in general may be significant.

At this point we are a relay baton – (like a telescope) being handed from one temporal arc or era to another.   Trust the cosmic athlete to accomplish this more smoothly than the human runners and swimmers.   The Olympics is a baton held in hand, a relay.

magus equinox 1991

Yesterday I pondered:  the London administration in England, undertook this responsibility, to relay, to bring all the nations together.   This factor underwrites the extravagance and the security headache.   London – with its alignment to the Grand Cross next summer – is crucially placed for a movement through the hour-glass – trained, record-breaking movement, a national concentration focusing the globe.  It may or may not be a shambles.   It was the British Empire.   It is the Games.   Deep deep down under all the hype, the racket, fear and froth, lurks the Greek archetype ideal, unbroken.   The relay is unbroken.

Elder thoughts are the open valley when the glacier has shrunk to a little brook in its floor.

The relay is a point of exchange, unbroken.   Time is the meeting of the crossing ways, the passing hand to hand.   There is an Olympic flame.  Did Britain begin this present Olympic cycle, was Britain the first host in the 19th century, or thereabouts? If nothing else, the London Olympic project reclaimed and regenerated a waste land.


7 September 2012 …  and so it has!

 I saw last night the relay of blind runners.   The howling stadium is made to shush so the runners can hear each others’ feet.  The precision with which they hand the baton to each other, is deft in the dark, and … deeply touching.  Velocity:  trusting:  temporal velocity … the trysting trust untried.




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.

Meditation is Great Fullness

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Here is a link to a crazy shack near Mount Rushmore where the field of gravity went inexplicably crook!   (By the way, Pahari’s blog is a FEAST of beautiful pictures, travels and reflections.)

Meditation is here – the moment loaded with gravity;  the inrush still – Lord Siva dances with his toe on the bow …  while Shakti prepares to bathe.

What is meditation?  Thanksgiving.  It may shine in, burst through the cloudy bubble of my whats-going-on.

Meditation?  Stop and stand, like a road worker easing his back.  The warmth of sunshine.  I am not a formal meditator (cushion, lotus legs) because the moment it happens, creation wells up, knowing it is actually Silence, the dew.

The moving focus is empowered.  The urge to share, leaks out of the mountain side.

These paragraphs – written in 1991, revised last year – appear at once on my water-table:

On the Tree of Life – Yesod and Daat.

“Yesod at the Tree of Life’s Foundation, is a Sefira of establishment, the attachment of fertilized egg to uterine wall.  Daat within the Tree is the nuclear current which catalyzes and dissolves the meaning of “me”:  unknown cognition.   Daat is the shadow I cannot wear!

“Daat in the physical body is a mysterious encounter.   In the central nervous system, through capillaries which exchange molecules of mutual nourishment, mental consciousness takes root, picking up signals from the human collective which saturate the field.  From this point of support, an image – “I am” – appears on screen, as sentience stirs and stretches.  From the neural fabric of interwoven worlds, the everyday mood music arises.  It draws up for itself vitality, from the ground of bone, viscera and breath.  Memory’s depth of field ignites and is claimed.

“When photo sensitive paper is placed in a bath of developer after exposure, the negative or shadow of light appears through a white mist.  The dark lines or narrative of a world-picture form.  They are the impact.  Light underwent an inversion – on the retina, as on the camera film.  Light darkened the exposed film, to become available to our description.  Physical light – sunlight, the event on retina and optic nerve – is the inversion of a metaphysical radiance:  its shadow or negative.  An image is fixed at the speed of photons of light.  In the valley of the dark, the physically blind, a latent vision gestates, which is not of the ordinary senses but perhaps in between them.  (See also Alchemy & Self enquiry, 2 July)

“Let there be an introversion.  Collapse the senses inward, into the well of the dark, the untold.  Let the eye be directed not outward onto the world, but into the interior perception.  Wait for the sensitized plane to manifest.  It is a shy but seamless process.  Landscapes may come, if mental imaging is active, and sky-like radiance may spill into them.  If the mental imaging is  quiescent but alert,  infinite space … through all objects and densities … to all sides effulgent, strangely shines, like unoccupied sky.  Or none of these, but a blank, the dynamo of thoughts.

“What does the radiant landscape have in common with the sky-like aliveness?  the busy internal street?  the view of my room, the window, the trees, the passing trains, the town?   Who or what is the seer? 

“Let the wide petalled lotus in her green stem open, holding attention to the point.  

“Vision records interior and exterior thought forms freely, the same mind stuff passes through with the breath.  Vision resonates the abundant forms which precipitate into the field.  Vision is the quickening of their beauty and of their pain.  Vision records what emerges, settles, changes and vanishes. 

“Daylight in the mind, fixing the image, installs a belief.  The image fixed as in exposure to the darkroom light, no longer grows.  It is captured, and like a plucked flower it blooms, dies and is clung to.  That from which it arose and arises, alone un-changes, in the heart of the Tree.   Wood rises from and around the water of Life in the well.  ‘To be silent’ is good, for it does not prematurely precipitate information.”

When a Universe
big bang
beginning and all
begins like torn white paper 
dispersed from I, 
to shred grey matter 
floating outward, 

a golden dancer
breathes in and out
the cleft seed. 

Siva, child of Siva 
at play! 
around the core thou art 
the instant of unbounded 
of which no thing
is composed.

 Bhagavan Ramana.   Bhagavan means Lord of Light, and is a term of love.  “Guru” means dispeller of darkness – letting in the light.   Ramana was not a conventional Guru.  I am not a follower in the traditional way, but I am a devotee to his being.  His map and mountain are deep in my life and delight.   Ramana shared his Self – he had no choice – and let it become contagious, like the sun.

Now here is some more from the earlier writing in 1991:  The Lightning Tree


“Lightning strikes, fusing Above with Below down the Sefiroth of the Tree electro magnetically, but only if the root is in Earth.  Our roots were ancient people of the trees.  The Essenic people were trees which walked in the desert and made it bear fruit.   The branches of the Tree, its Sefiroth and paths, are raised to the heavenly Father.  The roots of the Tree, mirroring the branches and seven angels, penetrate the earthly Mother.


“My  hands at a right angle, bring the instrument close to my eye.  It shields from excess light and directs the focus.  It is like looking out from a cave.  I rest in the cave of my heart, looking out on the world.  The landscape inner and exterior, is seamless as the flowing thought stuff.   Restlessness comes under the contemplative dominion.  My mind, that bundle of habits, on entering the ashram, is trained to focus.  Vital and alive is the current which fuels my intellect:  the tool of life.

“There is my literal bundle of firewood – the Karmas and Samskaras of many a lifetime:  and there is the cosmic Intelligence which, like a song of love without words, consumes the wood in the flame.

Young ramana & mother

“She is his mother.  She squats on the ground by the cave of her long-nailed shaggy-haired emaciated young son in the hot sun.  With every persuasion the eloquence of her voice and pliable brown hands, bangles-a-jingle can employ, she weeps, implores and begs him to come back to his family like a good son and have a square meal.  They will build a little temple over him, if that is what he wants.

“Her young son replied to her with a silence which, pouring from those dark eyes, at last one day drew her into the cave of the heart with him … whom she had never left.

“The whole cosmos is received back into Siva, into the ALEPh – its child.” 


“In the ashram is a well, around which many insects buzz back and forth;  people gather.  Over the lip of a well sunk deep in cool, clear wisdom – a dark eye – is drawn a creative activity:  tools of the artist, the lover, the Magus.  The insects flit and sip the moist nectar rising from the dark deep into air and light.  Worries.  Sadnesses.  Old sores.  Muddy pools with bedraggled lotuses in them.  Conversation, how hot it is, laughter and sorrow and fury, the shouts of children, the musings of old men, the prayers of grandmothers, the jingle of conjugal bangles, a damp forehead to wipe with a corner of sodden sari, the smell of cooking and of cows, the longing for cool water in buckets, the fever of the day.  Much noise.  Many celebrations.  It is all thrown into high relief by the gentle potent Presence:  the power of attraction the sage has upon insect thoughts.  The Karmas of many lifetimes present beautiful coloured costumes , like butterflies for alchemy.  So it will quieten and deepen with time, and in surrender to the Hill of Fire:  Arunachala.  The butterfly flies to the flame.

"Silence is the even flow of electric current.  
Speech obscures the current for lighting and other purposes."  
                                              (Ramana Maharshi)

“The Will to be Silent is a “tao” of the Great Action in alchemy.  A time of great Yang dawns from a saturation of Yin.  The inner darkness, filled to the brim with its own nature, is the Light of itself, and spills.  How could I ever delay or quicken it?  

“What are all these things?   They describe the sage before we meet.  They are the feeling that the sage will come into my life, is in my being.  A sound of drums and flutes, banners and dancing elephants, is borne softly towards me on the breeze from an approaching carnival.  In everything I explore of Yin and Yang and beauty and trees of life, is the play of light over his features, moving from expression to expression like a river.   It is only like drawing.  Why not draw … what I love?  Labour apprentice, with your bits of wood and stone!  So close comes the sage, a little closer than before, my eyes start to overflow.   As a spring, the sage arises from within my mountain.”



Returning to today’s long breath:

Meditation is when peace and fullness comes, in any form.  Meditation is Great Fullness.  As meditation is empty it is full.

As I touch a key, and a fellow blogger’s writing or impression arrives into a moment where I am at:  so the roving finger filaments out there find and touch my keys, one that is right for their day.

The process as I learn, is beautifully sensitive, capillary interlacing like branches in the sky, and birds singing in them.

It copies the real software of the Universal Mind-Self, the human lattice-work.  It helps me let go of what order I’d like people to read me in.   Realisations are soft, deep waves of prana, rhythm of life.  The mother giving birth feels the same – the instinct wide and deep.

Polish the Stone:  polish the mundane:  gratitude.



Oh – by the way …

Sonnet on the Beach at Leigh-on-Sea

To detect my indwelling Sovereign everywhere 
in mud, bird and ungainly human continent, 
praise the Sun in whom all hidden share - 
one field, my self's soul questing element.

Compassion opens to each inward light. 
Should I judge the mystery, his currency 
through darkroom eyes that strive for sight? 
Sea-birds nesting on sea bed touch clemency. 

Abandon prejudice!  Heart questing into other 
is bright hermit's lantern; behold
your coloured cloak, my brother-
sister Self Divine; shadows of our hidden gold. 

The Sovereign eagle winging shore-less ocean, 
scribes the Great Circle - our unseen completion.

1993, from “Tailor of a Field”  …  still working on it!




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.

Para-Olympus – Inspiring a Generation?

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The opening Para-Olympic ceremony carried this quote from Shakespeare’s Tempest: 

A most high miracle! 
Though the seas threaten, they are merciful: 
I have cursed them without cause. 

Now all the blessings 
of a glad father compass thee about! 
Arise and say how thou cam'st here! 

O wonder! 
How many goodly creatures are there here! 
How beauteous mankind is!  O brave new world
that hath such people in't!


My friend Paul dropped in for a chat.  He had Para-Olympic tickets over the weekend – they had seats next to the Flame! – Tom Heatherwick’s torch of time.

After world war II, a German Jew, Ludwig Guttmann arrived in England.  He was “set up” to research paralysed soldiers at Stoke Mandeville hospital.  They’d been shifted to the scrap heap, kept sedated and hidden away, frozen in their beds.  Guttmann worked with these young men, aroused their fighting spirit, and founded the para-Olympic Games – his chutzpah cut through an English fog of stuffed-shirt medicine.   Last week, Margaret Maughan, one of the first Stoke Mandeville medalists, lit the flame in London for the world.

And here is another torch! – Jacobs ladder, showing the Four Worlds. 

Four dovetailing Trees of Life – as in Ezekiel’s vision of the Chariot – demonstrate the fundamental cosmic substance and its apparent division into the four great classifications:  Fire, Air, Water, Earth.

So we reflected on our teacher in the Tree of Life – Halevi – whose same post-war chutzpah laid the foundation for the Worlds of Spirit, Creation, Formation and the Physical World on Jacobs Ladder – in the Toledo tradition.  Halevi’s life long dedication to the School of the Soul  – see The Path of a Kabbalist, published by Kabbalah Society 2009 – cuts through the old British inability to say what we feel – get to the essence.

The word Kabbalah means “receive” and also “the balance”.

And our friend Elisabeth Tomalin – Tom Heatherwick’s grandmother.  She met Jung, studied Kabbalah, and pioneered an art therapy in Germany for the children of the nazis. She died this year age 99 (see the  link in Tom’s Torch of Time, 18 July) :  her prickly, passionate Jewish nature is chutzpah.  That penetration to what needs to be felt, said and expressed – changing everyone’s way of seeing things –  is never “Diplomatic”!


When I took this photo in 2007, she had just moved into Otto Schiff House in Netherhall Gardens.  Meeting Elisabeth was sometimes like talking to the whole century.  She remained obstinately active – up and down the steep hill from Waitrose on her bandy legs, and across Finchley Road, tiny, elegant and imperious:  puzzled to go on living when she was so old.  Her passion was for the life of the soul.  Her longing was for an intellectual connectivity, cosmic and humane, her natural element;  but her aging vitality retreated from it as she waited and longed to die.   Elisabeth, that torment was only temporary.  Through your grandson and his dandelion light, and through your spirit, you are everywhere …

… a sound of one hand clapping!


How does a man or woman with withered legs fold and pack them into a racing chariot? Doesn’t it hurt?  No  – they are floppy appendages, they say there is no feeling.  But every paralysed person surely lives with locked in pains, adrenalin rushes and phantom nerve endings.

The roar in the stadium is mind blowing.  There is a strange deja vue:  the ancient brutality of the Roman Colosseum inverts and uplifts now to a humane solidarity in Stratford.   “It moves the Kundalini centre, the left pillar, root fire into materia – an energy release through solar plexus – the Mother country:  ‘team GB’ – the huge cheer as well for the runner coming in last.   Transcending nationalities of winners and losers, they applaud the courage:  the first and the last.”

Equanimity:  magnanimity – isn’t this  a doorway to enlightenment?  The para Olympic ceremony was called Enlightenment.  Light penetrates the darkness.  When the cauldron was lit, the audience sang “I am what I am”;  some used sign language.  Stephen Hawking said “Look up at the stars;  try to make sense of what you see;  be curious.”

Cyclists, limbless to one side, find ways to self-compensate towards their centre and their balance:  runners without sight hold a string attached to the coach’s hand … the pain of hitting post or sandpit edge – the level of trust that is required.  “You must jump out of your comfort zone to feel fully alive.”   A long-jumper listens for the accoustic signal from the guide – when to take off into the dark!   Blind footballers “hear” the ball which has bells in it.   They all beat frustration, and broke the tape.


Found this column in the paper:

“Ian Dury had polio as a child.  What you never saw on Top of the Pops was that every step Ian took was a struggle, and standing seemed to give him pain.

“I thought about Ian when they sang his song Spasticus Autisticus at the opening ceremony – about what a brilliant man he was, and how even those of us who knew him, never knew the battles that he fought every day.  That song still makes me flinch.  But I know that somewhere, Ian Dury is smiling.

“These Paralympics will not help disabled people who are currently having their benefits slashed.  But they will educate all of us.  And their greatest legacy will be in the hearts of children, able and disabled, who will live their lives in a better, kinder and more inclusive world than we did.

“Perhaps, as Oscar Pistorius suggests, in the future we will look beyond the individual stories.  But it is hard to imagine that there will ever come a time when we are not humbled, moved and inspired by these incredible athletes.

“In the story of Martine Wright, who nearly died in the senseless mass slaughter of 7/7/05, we see a truth that we will always need to cling to.

“From hatred can come hope and love.

“From the pits of blackest despair some people have the raw courage to look up and see the light.

“From a body that is broken can come a spirit that refuses to be crushed.”

Tony Parsons, Daily Mirror 1 September 2012


An early figure, ja 1956

 The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee this year honours one person’s public service and devotion.  The Olympian Flame this year brings together around it, a global-collective service and devotion.  This in principle prevails.

“People remember you not for what you say or do, but for how you make them feel.”

“The heart when deeply moved, likes a little ceremony.”   What begins to move?  What breaks the barrier?  What inspires a generation?

What relegates sexism, racism, dogmatic religiosity and anti-disability to the dustbin of history?

Their courage moves through a collective cognition;  pulling the threads together through the Dandelion of the Light.  When I was small, I called them “brave golden clocks”.

Our national pain-body eases for a while, through the releasing effort of those athletes.  There is pain at childbirth;  then in the full push with Nature’s force – no pain.   Pain is our everyday portion or condition of life – at ease with it, or in stress and resistance to it.  Everything in nature is assymetric – a push towards growth.   Pain appears to immobilize but in fact accelerates the soul.  Somewhere deep down, we know this.

The mercury-hermetic archetype is a power of expression and of healing.

Hermes vision, 1992

The Para Olympians profoundly, progressively touch my own disabledness.  I am physically strong, but I have all my life, a low pain threshold;  emotional derangement and dysfunction, whenever hit by life, or anxious.   Who can say if the pain of the psyche or of the body is greater?    My pain relief  – the pain of life – was, and is, creative – the pressure of itself to express and be born.


Cockerel & abandoned child ’87

These drawings when I did them, back in 1987, express every emotion in the book as I fell and flew through my barriers.  They may refer to any form of disability, emotional, spiritual or physical – the jagged reality of being this, and the discovery to move and to flow through it;   and they need no other story.

The piano keys are grapes ’87



Right hand metatarsal, ’87.  Try easing an ache by letting it draw and open the picture of itself from within.  It is almost acupunctural.  It is certainly homeopathic.  Some of these “draws” were to help me play the piano.  I  learned the Cesar Franck violin sonata piano part – a technical colossus far beyond my means, and hauntingly beautiful;  but I learned it note by note over about six months, and played it with my friend Fred Barschak at a small concours in Paris.  He knew one of the judges, so we got a silver medal for trying.   But we really did try, and we loved it, and it was an extraordinary adventure.  This happened just before my visit to Vera and John Moore that summer – (see my post “A Woman playing a Piano and a Child of Art” 27 August)







being? … not conventional lookalike, what ever  ’87


Stop!  you’re going too fast  ’87

That is a Buddha wheel


Tree trunk – play the piano again, from the root  ’87


Sphinx 1  ’87


and here is an interesting link …


Continue … :

notes and keyboard touch


Relay:  centaur, athene and child – as in “Tom’s Torch of Time”


Sense of touch, the place of meeting ’87

We may have areas which cannot feel;  but we can find the ones that do, and build the neural pathways from there, back and back into the limbs.


Key ’87

One might be blind or deaf, or simply stretching the antennae or rehabilitating.   I drew SLOWLY, moving the whole arm, receivingly;  so I was physically connected, as I found and followed my natural rhythm.  It is a Yoga.  This principle is invaluable for anyone who is restricted, and seeks expression;  and I am certain it opens the ducts of healing.  The line … I do not know where it may go.  It is open ended and no copycat.  It is true.


In the tree  ’87


A hermetic-alchemical healing:  the warmth, the flame from within the egg


Sphinx 2  ’87 – sun, moon and shadow


Newton’s apple ’87

In Olympus 2012, there were apples all over the stadium, and everyone bit into one, all at once.   80,000 bytes!



Materna mother-country-flame  ja2005: copy from an unknown artist.  Cherish …


remember all those umbrellas and Grail cup curves …?



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 20 – Pralaya – The Judgment

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Sacred India Tarot Archive series, by Rohit Arya and Jane Adams

Correspondence:  Rohit’s Notes – November 2002: 

“This card is going to be tough to depict, as India has no equivalent of the Judgment Day concept.  We also have no cultural imagery of opening graves and trumpets. 

“The best I can think about, is Pralaya the dissolution of the universe, with the Kalki avatar of Vishnu to provide the hopeful impetus for the future, once the upheaval is over.  We need a feel and look of a world in turmoil by water and fire, with one peaceful corner, the South, because that is where Kalki will emerge from. 

“Kalki can be shown as a man with Vishnu’s face holding a sword and riding a white horse.  The feel of Albrecht Durer’s Four Horsement of the Apocalypse is ideal, if it can be managed.”

Visual reference:  Durer’s drawing of the Apocalypse


We cannot find in the archive, any of our correspondence about this card, or writings from Rohit.  So here is his essay on Pralaya in the book accompanying the deck:

The Dwara reveals:  The Judgment is, strictly speaking, Judgment Day – Armageddon, where the forces of decay and evil are routed by the aroused ranks of the spiritual.  In Indian mythogy, the event is called Pralaya, the dissolution.  Vishnu takes his tenth and most powerful avatar, that of Kalki, to preside over this most significant of battles.

This time we live in, is deemed the worst age of man, the dark Kali Yuga.  When it ends, a long time in the future as prophesied, human civilization and culture will have come to a breaking point.  The whole enterprise will either go under in a cataclysm of greed and violence, or Kalki will lead the forces of good to a defensive strike in the cause of the right, and the light.  Where we stand at that pivotal stage in destiny, depends upon our Karmic inclination.  There will be no time to choose when we see Kalki thundering in upon his white horse.  The choice has to be made right now;  in every action we take, in every temptation resisted or pandered to;  in every decent thought we value and stand fast by, rejecting the seductive pull of the comfortable compromise.

For Pralaya takes place more often than people suspect.

According to the sect of the Pashupatas, Siva himself causes Pralaya occasionally to give the poor souls tied to the wheel of Karma, some much needed rest and recuperation!  When the universe manifests again, they revert to their previous Karmic state, and the cycle begins anew.  The endless turning of the Wheel of Fire, with most people merrily creating fresh Karma to bind themselves further to it – even a just God would feel compassion at this harrowing and demoralizing spectacle.

But Pralaya, in a psychological sense, takes place whenever a person is about to achieve the full awakening into Pure Consciousness.  Like the attack of Mara the foe of consciousness, the collective lower aspects of the psyche (described superbly by Eckhart Tolle as the pain-body) launch a final struggle to survive.  The seeker feels he is on a threshold of significance;  just one more determined push, and he could attain.  But first, he must fight a wounded polar bear to cross the threshold!

If you try to individually repress or suppress the eruptions that occur, you are lost.  For memories, desires and habits rise in tsunamis of desperation, as the pain-body battles to survive.

The only solution is to take up the keen sword of Viveka – the faculty of wise discrimination, wielded by Kalki, and sever one’s ego-mind from habitual identification with such muck.  The blast of the Archangel Gabriel’s horn that arouses the quick and the dead, the call to awaken to a new self, a rejuvenation of hope and energy and purpose, is accomplished here by the bija mantra HREEM! – shown pulsating at the base of the chaos.  This is the final stage of the spiritual journey before complete attainment.

As always, consciousness wins the day by refusing to accept anything other than Itself as the underlying principle of value that pervades existence.

The Light in this card, is rebirth of the psyche and personality.  New perspectives, new visions, new values … Value judgments are abandoned, they are correctly seen to be cluttering up life and preventing the blooming of the new.

The Advaita sage Ramesh Balsekar has a pertinent remark about such times:  “Our prayer should be one of gratitude.  We should thank God for our suffering knowing it could have been much worse, like the suffering of millions below the poverty line.”

This is a significant stage of life, a genuine rite of passage;  and nothing that is valuable comes without trouble.

Builders of the Adytum: Tarot Key 20 – a four-dimensional image. The gestures of the woman, child and man, form an L,V,X – meaning Lux or Light.

Jane’s Notes – September 2012

Rohit used a “wounded polar bear” analogy:  in the western deck, the scene is of the arctic, with massed icebergs across the water.  In Kabbalah, the ice is a symbol of frozen water and frozen fire – the inexhaustible potential before it melts and moves into manifestation.  Indeed, the ice is a reservoir, holding the ancient waters as well as the new.

Climate change is suggested:  but the image is multi dimensioned, and holds a layered depth of meaning.

When alpine ice melts and the waters pour down the mountain on a warm morning, there is a tremendous sound and rush and rain, an everywhere AUM:  a let-down reflex.  On the Tree of Life, tarot key 20 is placed on the Mother-Fire-Letter SHIN, (Hod-Malkuth path) which from the sky, touches the root.   It suggests the Promethean gift of fire:  which transforms consciousness.  To this path also belongs the innate song, the sound of the universe, of Siva’s drum, of dancers around the sacred fire.

The Archangel announces God’s Word, which takes root in each sensitive womb or uplifted soul.

The word “Viveka”, wise discrimination, highlights the precision with which all Karmic forces and expressions are balanced, in the cosmic Law.  This is not visible as precision, until we take a step back from our situation and perceive the pattern unfolding around and from it!   Nowhere and in no way are we apart from the Law, except in daydream.   The Judgment weighs, measures through innumerable locations and lifetimes in time and space, the balance:  the trans-formation.   This Tarot Key is ruled by Pluto.

The Archangel’s trumpet sound, addressed to each and every inmost child, changes the particles within.  That same sound blew down the walls of Jericho.  The Karmic tapestry moves from every direction, wave-train across wave, like the waters of the sea in any place.  No linear perspective can adequately comprehend it.


Arcanum 20 – from Jane’s Hermetic deck.  The letter SHIN is a three-pronged flame


Here is something I wrote last week: ON RECONCILIATION.  I earmarked it as Arcanum-20 material.

In the vessel cleaving the sea, the Maggidim in their breath of life, see things silently in full, and let them pass – my valve, the floating gate of my private reconciliations.

Join the community of the watchers and the guardians.   Join hands with the circle – the hands are there every instant.   Stop and remember this and join hands, during the day.   All of us made our personal reconciliations which qualify.   You and I know what these are, and how difficult they were, and still are, sometimes.   We ensphere, we breathe the globe.   We seem to be few, but the soul’s mansions are immense.   Only the tip of the iceberg shows.   The tip of the iceberg is drama and dazzling formations.  The bulk of the berg is vast sub-surface cliff, and it moves peacefully in the sculpting sea:  consciousness, the secret and eternal flow of events.   Sea ice.  See Ice.   See-I-see.

The bulk of the world is far more than the sum of the parts of the tinkling skittles on top.   With the media skittles is a gambling game of statistics.   The skittles they are very little, and their bones are very brittle… like icicles.

Silence … the current and the sense-ship of ever steaming onward, through, with, receive, open endedly … be loved.  This is far deeper than technology.

This isn’t about the Titanic.  The titanic was a party going on unaware, its centenary grabbed the media this year.  There is a titanic partying among hedons, but there is an “end of term awareness” also, which the early twentieth century did not have.  In the early twentieth century, war was still a glorious solution, and soldiers had not lost their ignorance.

History spirals but does not repeat.  The awareness is uncomfortable.   But the atmosphere is changed.


Sacred India Tarot 20 – Pralaya, The Judgment

I felt nervous about current global armaggedons when I painted this card.  It looks like a gigantic clean-up, flushing out every Karmic poison.  Pralaya resonates with Archangels Michael and Gabriel, and the Krishna archetype who reveals the Dharma when humanity is in crisis.  His features and figure here, are those of Vishnu, the Sacred India Tarot Magician.   Krishna, Buddha and others, are avatars of Vishnu the Sustainer.

At first, everything is unbearably polarized.  The Day of Judgment takes place at any time, and on any local scale:  a time of conscious decision, shift, a shifting.  On the one hand there is clarity;  on the other, a demonic agony and disorder is rife.

This painting is positively charged with the seed mantra HRIM, unifying male and female principles.  It is also the primal vibration of the goddess Bhuvaneshwari, Womb of the Universe.

Card 20 includes the Last Trumpet – suggesting to me the Sound which brought our universe into being – the vibration of mantra, bells and sacred dance – primordial rhythm.  This Sound is unifying.

We need to find our own sound/vibration/silence within ourselves, to prevail against chaotic disturbances of mind and media persuasion.

And so, as well as the HRIM mantra, the heart of the Sri Chakra Yantra is born from the night sky, and represents Self responsibility.  Each inmost child of God is ultimately response-able to what he or she will become, in the full picture:  the intimate fusion of our conscious modes, sub-consciously.

The card attempts to portray an emerging Law of equilibrium.  The picture is polarized;  we select our alignment, and thus create our home;  for we live in an era of parallel universes.


The Symbols

from an illustrated manuscript, Nepal c.1760

Siva Shakti Yantra – the heart of the Sri Chakra lattice:  two descending triangles (fem) over one ascending (masc)

“Emergence of the universe from the cosmic waters.  The interlocked triangles symbolize the male and female principles evolving from the primal chaos of elements into the micro-vision of the cosmic man.”

(From The Tantric Way by Ajit Mukerjee)


HRIM seed mantra

“HRIM (pronounced Hreem) is the prime mantra of the Great Goddess and ruler of the worlds, and holds all her creative and healing powers.  HRIM governs over the cosmic magnetic energy and the power of the soul and causal body.  It awakens us at a soul or heart level, connecting us to Divine forces of love and attraction.  HRIM is the mantra of the Divine Maya that destroys the worldly maya.  It has a solar quality to it, but more of a dawn like effect.  It is charming and alluring, yet purifying.  Through it we can control the illusion power of our own minds.

“In Vedic terms, HRIM is a mantra of the Sun, particularly in terms of illumination.  It increases out aspiration and receptivitiy to Divine light, wisdom and truth.  It opens the lotus of the heart to the inner Sun of consciousness.  It is a mantra of the region of heaven or the consciousness space in which all the worlds exist.”

Extract from “Bija Seed Mantras/Mantras – the Power of Sound in Vedic Astrology” copyright Jyotish Ratnaaker


Aum Hrim









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.

Para-Olympic … Beyond Olympus

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This photo, on yesterday’s London Metro, says it all.  And so – surprisingly – does a TV commercial for strongbow pear cider! – an archer pulling back the string, lets go.

“Para” is a latin root, meaning placing beside, which also suggests beyond or outside the norm.  Many of our words – parable, parabola, paralysis, paradox, paradise – carry this meaning.

A Poem:  Coda

This my poem 
a seeding dandelion clock 
is a globe upon a stalk 

and every where 
I blow, the once 
upon a time it tells. 
                                       Poems of Eclipse, 2000

Mandala sphere of every whereness – the point of being.  Consciousness, inward as outward, dives into the heart infinitely, all ways.

A wikipedia image

Here is Margaret Maughan who lit Tom Heatherwick’s Torch of Time on Wednesday:  as the mandala rises from flower to stem;  from petals to stamens. 

The golden thread of the dandelion clock runs through all our waters and strings all our beads.

A few impressions of the festival –  a woman sings Handel in pure voice.   The new Olympian whose legs were blown off in the July 05 bombings tells:  the fate was her destiny.  She would not, could not be without it.  Clare Balding replies: fate is what you are born with, destiny is what you do with it.  An unlegged abseiler brings the torch down into the stadium on spider’s thread;  and Stoke Mandeville veteran Margaret Maughan lights the Para-Olympic Flame.   A Grail Cup emerges through inverted umbrella curves of light.  From above, I see the stadium – a concentric flower – it is a trembling drop in the pool.  In the beginning, with homage to the big bang and bosen higgs’ particle of Life, Stephen Hawking invites us to be curious;  towards the end, Alison Lapper’s huge pregnant figure bears the fruit.   Shakespeare’s Tempest is an enquiring child.    The disabled are flying in the interior cosmos, to roam and freely rove.   The simple images are very powerful.  There are as many human cells in the brain, as stars in our galaxy.  Each individual sitting on the tube is a galaxy.  Neuron threads inside my head encircle our world four times.


Yesterday – I wasn’t feeling well, and needed to open my eyes – I walked from Amersham to Great Missenden, and met this gentleman:

… he might be looking down into the Olympic stadium:  how soft his long neck is.   And there is an eye, a vesica pisces, a forming, becoming a sphere …

Further along the lane … Inside the saxon/norman church of St John the Baptist in Little Missenden village, this early medieval fresco has been uncovered:

… and isn’t that an olympic torch he bears in his right hand?

This morning I read:  “The Self is the good shepherd of the parables, and none of the sheep, the human personal expressions, is lost forever.”

Isn’t St Christopher, though carrying none other than the Child, the good shepherd?  That is “the me” on his shoulder, and my full potential is the Christ.   (a good way to handle/heal my sore stiff neck – on my left shoulder, just like St Christopher’s, and softly without hurry, like the swan:  walk glide tall.)  Christopher bore his burden across a flowing torrent, rocks and water, human strife, disability, to the sands.

In Greek mythology, the hero Jason did too.  His burden was an angry old woman, she clung around his neck and scolded him;  and he set down at the far shore, none other than Hera, the Goddess of the Hearth.  Patience.

Para means “beyond” or “to one side of” – as in parabola (para beside, bola to throw) … parable, compare … paralysis (para beside or derange, lys loosen) … paradox (contrary to received opinion) … paradise (the disus or greek paradeisus is a park or pleasure ground. Reflect also on other words – paraglide, paraclete, parallel …

I and you and every one of us has some disability or pain of life.  A Para-Olympian through her or his damaged and disabled frame, pain and courage, achieves something which is beyond Olympus.  Thus their extraordinary inspiration to us all.  Thank you.  Thank you.

Hemisphere perfection:  A photo from Friends of Charles Darwin




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.

St Christopher and a Cornish memory

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This post is a continuum of “Beyond Olympus


The Fool and Fish Hook

He went fishing, 
but carried a little child 
on shoulder
crossing a river swift; 

his charge descending 
into earthly things 
heavily and more heavily 
crushed him.

He set his burden 
on the river bank; 
the Child turned into Light 
and is his blessing. 

The fool became a saint. 
On the brink with rod and line 
his blood and sweat 
hook heaven and earth together 
bringing to surface 
our deepest fish 
to break the net. 

When he stands still, 
refilling within, 
the world no longer tells him 
what to do.  
Looking in the well, he is the well. 
His garment indifferently 
protects from winter wind, 
receives the summer rain: 
his nutty eyes shine serene
about his catch

and only they 
who truly know this Fool 
dare come into sight;  

"for the eyes in his head 
see the world spinning 

2004,  from The Masters’ Eye


Fool, lamb & Angel ’87


“Fool, why do you stand out there in the rain, your arms out stretched?”

“I am embracing my song before it is uttered.”

Peter Adams




When I was six 
I dropped a duck's egg on the grass 
to find out what would happen. 
My baby bursts. 
It spills the yellow gold. 
My mother scolds. 
"I didn't do it," I lie, 

Light released 
transmutes the bird 
overgrown in shell. 
Entering heart and soul 
within it, I must die!  

With shock, yet willingly, 
sunlight from the dark chamber 
released, becomes my Chariot. 
The little king feared 
the terrible mess of viscera 
and egg shell in the dirt. 
What power have these now? 

The earth remains intact 
with mother's anger at broken egg. 

In the grass around this scene, 
geese stretch out their long white necks 
at me, and hiss; 
bed-sheets blow on the washing line, 
a swing with wooden seat 
creaks new rope on apple branch, 
thunder clouds play hide and seek 
on sun-shot fields to frighten the cows 

and along the dark moorland's rim 
the Pyramids - cornish china clay - 
delicate, silvery touch 
the sky, moving 
the light a little.

2004, from The Masters’ Eye

Serpent & greek goddesses, circa 1956



I am thinking also today, of sheep … the sheep which are my woolly thoughts, Bach’s sheep to safely graze, St Christopher, the shepherd Self who is “the good shepherd of the parables, and none of the sheep, the human personal expressions, is lost for ever” … and sheep as well, along the coastal path of a human story, Cancer Capricorn.   The concluding episode in my welsh Coastal Path series is due.   I grew up among sheep.  My sweetheart – an Aries tup – found and gave me this picture for my birthday:

Painter unknown.  It reminds me of the cliff path east of Hastings



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.