On Christmas Day …
I didn’t get up till nine this morning! There are no trains. It is silent. But the rain gurgles ceaselessly from grey sky while the street, stunned by festivity, retreats. I saw the cloud to the northwest going ragged with the wind, how lovely it must be on the wet Chilterns, the kiss of the rain, wet fields, mid winter clouds, to walk out there right now.
I am LUCKY to be alone in my small house at Xmas. Each day then is Xmas present, this one a bit more so. The truth is, I am never alone, because of the Companions of the Light and the soul room which goes on and on holding me. In my universe I love the rain in winter – but in parallel universes (threaded through this one) they are suffering floods, cold homes and Xmas awash. The rain is both a kiss and a terror. Really everything in life is. Every particle is a kiss and a terror.
A fellow blogger across the pond created a new frankincense lotion straight from the sap of a tree, over solstice. (the scars in the wood produce a resinous elixir as they heal.) He has an alchemical Hidden Map of the essences of trees and the mystery. I can smell it from here.
The Hidden Map is whatever we are able to develop in our darkroom. For instance, the blogland is a Hidden Map of mutual nourishment and synchrony. The Hidden Map is what I almost see, but feel, relish and know. It is like being by the sea in the near night, which shrouds the land. It spreads out atomically through the forms of Assiyah – the everyday apparent currency. It is just as real, and because it cannot be grabbed, it is holy ground. It is like the child brought to birth in a stable.
It is a great asset of the world wide web; but one has to be of a certain development to perceive, handle and appreciate it fully. We all know the downside.
Today is the space right at the bottom of the turning year. The sphere touches ground.
From ‘Ladder’ – Roob’s Alchemy & Mysticism
The Kabbalist symbol of the Worlds, one on top of the other, has the figure of eight twice. I got a snowman Xmas e-card from Israel – it tinkled and rolled out 3 snowballs. When I moused them on top of each other, a carrot appeared for his nose, and some coal and a hat, and the whole scene chimed into tinsel and song. I loved it.
I remember. I remember now this moment, what it was like when I first met Mr V – in Alex Pollock’s garret in Haverstock Hill, by Belsize Park tube station.
It was October 1969; I was 20, he was 34. He gave me his address; the mutual shyness and wonder, an exposed and intimate intensity. I cherish that in him – and my bud whose growth he was about to accelerate. I remember the unabashed gravity of his inner child. We sat cross legged, face to face, after Alexander Pollock introduced us, and talked till four in the morning. Then he (naturally) tried to kiss me. I said No not yet. He wasn’t used to women saying No. He liked it.
I remember his innocent inventiveness and wacky jokes. I remember the first time I visited his big blue-and-grey bedsitter just round the corner. Wherever he moved in the room, my body was displaced, shocked and flowed. I remember my entire womb on fire with the thrust of his Karmic field, and the longing to be pregnant. “I want to fill you up,” he said “with our child.” I remember how the magical hierogamos became disabled, as soon as we tangled – the wood was too much wounded. I remember the dreamed orgasms, over astral landscapes and among trees.
What an interesting thing to remember this morning, at Xmas.
We had one peaceful Xmas together. 1976. I was 27 and just four months pregnant, and I felt her move for the first time, during the Eve mass at St Dominics. I wept during Father Alan Cheales’s sermon about Mary going to meet Elisabeth, the child leapt. Mine did, at that very moment. I went home at midnight and told him, and he had a couple of Hungarian friends visiting. We had a Christmas tree and a big gold star that Xmas, which I had made; and I listened to Messiaen’s music – “La Nativite du Seigneur“. (also see Jennifer Bate’s recording, particularly the long meditation following The Word.) It was a rare and tender oasis in our years of psychic stress/collision – a house inside a storm. All the Watershed had by then been dreamed, which would become my map – my occult and alchemical path.
The big gold star is still here, hung on a thread in my bookcase. I hardly ever notice it. It is dusty. Some of the treasures salvaged from my man in the ravine are lost – a pair of small pliers he painted red, for my birthday. They might turn up one day, at the bottom of something.
Deep down where it liberates, I love and value Louis V for himself and for the extraordinary learning curve of a lifetime; not one single accident.
I see our stress/collision, the breaking open of the apricot kernel. It is a marvellous thing to have happened, even with all the pain, abuse and decades of fallout, as two progressive souls without a spiritual training, crossed swords. Initiations are appalling. This was mine. It couldn’t be any other way.
In Alchemy, there is a Hidden Map, and we do not let it touch the ground, or it vanishes into the stiff and stony prosaic. Alchemy is in the body of the imagination. Alchemy is the region where all that will manifest, is created and is potent. Alchemy is the command of the astral kingdom, where it is co-creative. Alchemy is the twilit hinterland of the psyche, the soul behind the toothy coastlines.
Alchemy is the glowing furnace, way back of my House of Life, and the wonderful way he stirred it. Had we been successful and happy lovers in Assiyah/Yetzirah, I might not have noticed nor nurtured the alchemy in Beriah. He had, he admitted, “a problem with women” – he hated his mother. I was in love with drama – my problem. Behind our worst times, an angel smiled.
My creativity was excessive already, but the profound Karmic trauma between us sprung open my Pandora box. Louis was an artist, photographer, writer and recluse. He said “For me it is like this – go deep, as deep as you possibly can, beyond where you can even speak or write … then come back to the world, and tell the tale.” This in him – which in later years he lost, under piles of angry litigation – still thrills me. When I was only 20, I saw how honest I wished to be, I wished for my phony theatre fence to break down, so I could walk clear, and truly love – not just “be-in-love-with”. I invited his destructive nature. I couldn’t stop it.
All the time with him that I was mute with terror, and he was a wounded bull, was that land beyond where we can speak or write … the corner stone the builders rejected, which became a Violet Crystal. Now it is a ruby tincture in the fluid Stone. It fertilizes the ground. I am a sea of golden wheat. The crescent moon under my foot, is a tactile understanding of this lifetime. I am seated on a stone bench, in a green gown with a red thrust in my heart and the stars around my head: and my womb is always bearing down, splitting seed, delivering the Child.
What can I say to a louis d’or? “To forgive, I must Give way to the Force.” I heard and wrote those words in my journal only a few weeks after we first met. I was intuitively aware of what we were about to receive: smoke on the Moon’s face.
You cannot get sap without wounding a tree. You cannot get alchemy and creative joy without wounding life. So the tree is glad to give the sap, and to heal.
In one of my dreams, I saw on his thumbs, great gaping cicatrices, like canyons. They were our scar tissue. He was in prison, he was chained, and I wanted to free him from himself, in my heart. In the same dream, were turquoise fishes and he asked a question about astrology. In life he mocked astrology, which he knew nothing of. In life he showed me ancient keys to esoteric knowledge which he threw away. For give, and move on lightly.
Boxing Day – The Betweens
Dreams are a marvel and an awesome mystery, aren’t they – the wisdom and teaching they bring, from the endless deep. I don’t dream like that nowadays. I write.
Another quiet morning, no haste, no trains – the sun breaking quietly through a lightly veiled sky, very radiant.
What a breakthrough ! Fancy simply valuing us as a whole, like that, as if I return to his promising youth and pick it up from there. I’ve been living this way for years, but now … the penny dropped further.
Walking the three miles (no buses) to my cher ami’s house on Christmas Day, I wondered whether Louis had died or might be near dying – because 2012 tipping point is close to the edge for many souls – and whether I was celebrating his thread too, in the subtle Reality and clarity of the hinterland … the bardo borderland of the living and dying sunflowers. I feel lighter in weight with the atomic fields passing through me: my allowance with, and dancing with them. The Consiousness receiving dead souls is vibrant, powerful and light … the release of long, bound-up energies. Hey, it is like the infinite tides I danced with, on a long-ago rainy November night with him on Hampstead heath. We were on LSD and wandering about. They flowed across and through my path, and I am infinite space for their pleasure and vibration. They are invisible, and the stars are tears, and his voice cracks with awe. (He recorded the whole thing on a little tape machine – he worried about the tiny needle, was it moving? – I thought it was his compass he consulted, for our sense of direction.) The compass, polar axis star floats and trembles … I wondered if I was walking to my death, through and with other deaths into the eternal Life. It is unedged and beautiful – the tao of Vesica Pisces. I feel I want to put this Christmas peace present with him in my blog, and tell his name. I shall tell the Violet Crystal story, to open my planned “Watershed” series. It will be followed by The Knight.
In the years since, he did a bad thing. There is no going back; and he meets his own reckoning in private.
There is a shift in my subconscious about him. It illumines everything very gently, leaving nothing stuck or left behind. There is, at the bottom of the spheres, where the year’s axis turns, the river Styx, the fields of Asphodel, the everland of Hades. I am released, he is released, and our daughter – who was exhausted – is relieved of the burden she had to carry. It is like a death, and is perhaps clairvoyance. Life collapses to a veil and slides away, off the Art … unveiling the real Art.
When the Art is unveiled, compassion … my compass no longer blames that soul for something he did. It is seen, that soul went astray, but will return to integrity. This is yet part and parcel of the Art. Art Notdoing.
It is the fact of my salvage – gracious, serene, severe. Let him be himself.
A Poem: Smoke on the Moon’s Face
So I go on working in our garden of essence –
a bent and shawled old lady.
The truth of the child’s face
is kept alight, a sweet fertility beneath
the cicatrice we grew.
Can two old people
in this way together burnt
meet, exchange a kiss of peace?
I do not know. It is a private matter
old as earth is round. It is the core
of the apple.
In my ground the tree
drops fruit, and leads me
to the secret centre. “Go deep”
Oh my battered love !
“as deep as you possibly can.”
Any place here
may be the gateway opening.
Around you and our compost burning
love, my thought plunges and is still.
As I straighten in the ground
the outlawed intensity of you
Walking by the tennis court, I heard
the players and their pocking balls,
and silently the sea
ran down my face where the lovers played –
bodies of bitter years did devastate
this long, enkindled moment.
The Lovers are bodiless.
The Lovers are where I drown.
The Lovers embrace
and our life is Their shadow.
The Lovers appear as silence
and every story merely points
to the moon’s face, where they embrace
There is no need to explain
why you are in my underground
the deepest shaft in London town.
By the tennis courts
near Haverstock Hill,
I heard the muffled
roar of a train deep down;
as bushy brick chimney’s vent,
sunk into the Northern Line
by a shattered well*
you sat and wept and wrote from hell
Stepping out of my shoes, I
yet seeing through your eyes,
from Poems of Eclipse, 1999
*In a recent excavation in Egypt, sand/topsoil was dusted away from tall chimneys which turned out to be wells.
With my cher ami this day near Henly’s Corner, my hinterland resonances stay silent and sweet – a ripened fruit of life. We had a long, gentle and loving visit. We played a Xmas game of hosepipe and the Channel tunnel … all the way to Paris and back.
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 also 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). Watch this space.
All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address https://janeadamsart.wordpress.com/