Watching Myself and Krishnamurti – Part Four

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This post is really a coat-hanger for five new sketches of K, done in rather a rush.  They are not very good likenesses. Drawing is friendship.  I wanted to be in touch with him as a child, and when very old.  The merit is in the journey rather than the result! – or as someone used to say – “it is better to travel in hope, than to arrive too safely.”

It is a pity when I spend time poring over forums on internet about the wordpress glitch … like a dull desk job – instead of sprinkling my garden with illumining thoughts of Krishnamurti or Alchemy.

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Tarot Arcanum 19 - Children of the Sun

Tarot Arcanum 19 – Children of the Sun

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The everyday mind is not concerned with beauty and illumination and peace, my mind is concerned entirely with her own stress and need to resolve.  This is the root of separateness and therefore un-sanity.  By “mind”, I should say my personal Yesod-Moon and her path with Hod-Mercury.  It is potentially those Children of the Sun, but delivers dreary chatter – unbelievably dense and tedious for the Magid.   The dreary pull is through fear, insecurity, anger and all the me-centered primitive emotions.  They are the office with no language.

It is not fair to demonise my mind, because it is a perfectly functioning tool.   So personal ego is lured into boring technical paragraphs.   This is the state of us mostly! It is easy to fall into the default, with any tug of desire and fear on the string.

It is irrelevant and wrong, to judge my person-ego/small mind.  Krishnamurti’s observation of what is going on, dispassionately and with keen interest, is the Buddha’s teaching, but to many it came spanking fresh and un-named.  It had no scriptural trappings or requirements.   We watch and see, right inside life and whatever we are doing.

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Tao mandala, within without

Tao mandala, within without

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At the moment, K’s teaching, and the mysterious paradox of his person behind it, is the wonderful treasure of my life.   I am reading Mary Lutyens’ book – the England/Europe side of the Krishna/Rajagopal tragic quarrel.   For all the high calibre of the souls involved, and their lifelong friendships in the work, it never got bridged.   But a later generation is privileged to read about and reflect both sides of the pond.

I had a cup of tea with Mary L in the 1990s – a good chat.  She liked me because I seemed to understand about K, and she gave me a copy of the book she wrote “To be Young” – about her childhood and her love for K’s brother Nitya.

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“27 March 1994 – Dear Jane,
“Very many thanks for sending me your beautifully produced magazine with its very interesting contents.  So much expert work has gone into it, and I am sure it will be a great success.

“And thank you for the kind things you say about ‘To Be Young’.  I must confess that I feel too near the end of my life to feel drawn to any religious teaching.  I seem to be half way over to ‘the other side’, wherever it may be, and all philosophies merge into one.

“With all my best wishes – Mary.”

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K age fifteen - the dreamy teenage medium

K age fifteen – the dreamy teenage “vehicle for World Teacher”, being groomed –  a blank canvas.

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K’s teaching is Self-enquiry, expressed only just differently enough in language from Ramana’s, for linear thinkers inside boxes to argue about them.

Now then – after playing a little Mozart … Regard today’s wordpress-talktalk interface glitch OBSERVATIONALLY.   It will untangle in due course, and perhaps it already has.   Look at it, as I look at Krishnamurti and the Rajagopals … with love.   In all creative enterprises and interfaces, there are periods of faulty connection.  These lagunas get massively magnified in our self importance and our pain.

Perhaps K and R both tried to watch and see and be patient, but the pain was too great for them not to react against each other.  R was a perfectionist Virgo – it was not in his nature to abandon K’s writings and legacy he had attended to with passionate devotion for so many years.

If I watch and see and am patient with the glitch in my mind, my relating with the problem won’t waste energy and emotion into it.   It will follow it quietly, working with it when I can.   Don’t personalise the difficulty!   That turns it into paranoia – a hard fence.   Nearly EVERY TIME, things work out into their natural way, and I wasted a lot of fear and fantasy in trying to push the sides of the train.

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K at ninety

K at ninety

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Watching Krishnamurti, my path-along …

The Cube of Space.  Attention to the cube, embodies a multi dimensioned space, in thought.   It opens the breathing-room.  Thought is just as much thought when it is silent – as colour, shape and sound.   The cube in the centre of my BOTA Colour Wheel has the perfect relation of supra, self and sub consciousness – (yellow, red, blue), turned over to the right, or westward.   The wheel itself has the Zodiac sign/house colours in perfect order.  The planets travel leftward.  The wheel rotates to the right.   This is indicated by the colour shapes.   It is a beautiful and clever design.

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Builders of the Adytum - Colour Wheel

Builders of the Adytum – Colour Wheel

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Attention to the cube of space widens my room inside, and produces its living depth-points.   With this factor, I can be sane in any situation.

Sanity is serenity.   The opposite of serenity is always false somewhere – a flat billboard inciting unrest and revolt.  Walk towards the rising Inner Sun which each problem masks.

The serenity has a note – it might be A (Saturn, indigo).   Try the pitch-pipe – it’s not, it is B, which is magenta red-violet, Pisces, Key 18.   I think I had a “violet” feeling.   But Key 18 The Moon is a portal;  it illustrates embodiment and the long path through our dreams, to Reality.

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Tarot Arcanum 18 - The Moon (landscape)

Tarot Arcanum 18 – The Moon (landscape)

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In this Key landscape, the Moon-profile overhead is flat, like a cartoon, and as we do our walking through the Yods and into the hills beyond the gate, the Face fills out with the depth and mystery of life – the Cube – and I discover my beloved preceptor in my Self.

Walk towards the Sun.  It is Sun and Moon in alchemy.

The laws of growth turn both ways, in the Wheel of Life, and in Eliphas Levi’s Pentacles. Planet rotates:   stars and planets “move” in the opposite direction, across the Zodiac ecliptic band to meet the rising Sun wherever it is.   Little babies are born.

Mr K. is such a funny looking old person with his enormous eyes and white hair brushed the wrong way, and his deep wrinkles and soft smile.  To children, he is a treat.  He never fails to ham up an elfin Astonishment when they prank him. When he was very old, he became a little blurred and sweet, but his voice was as fierce and passionate as ever.   He shrunk to child-size, very thin.   It is extraordinary to think of the three little Krishna-Rosalinds who might have been.   Where did that soul lodge, I wonder?  S/he couldn’t get through their door – once s/he was miscarried into a field somewhere near Los Angeles – but was persistent … and will have found a contingent parental arch for the destiny, and is living and dying somewhere.

We are all connected:  none of us operate in isolation;  it isn’t “me”.  When I write my blog and put up my art, I share a huge platform and its activity around gremlins.  It is mine host, with troubles of his own.   I see clearly the particles en masse, in the wave and in the weather, and the shared mind:  the psychology.   Another view of this, is the Surveillance culture which in its crude infancy, acknowledges we are all interlinked, and cannot ignore it.  Eventually – very eventually – the higher Humanity begins to hatch its own contagion among the droppings and the mess and the mixture of good and evil.   Here I keep going.  So do you.

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E.Levi pentacle

E.Levi pentacle

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The human condition cannot be solved, but it is heard.   Revolution is where all the fuss about it stops.   The mind-train with its incessant wheel-go-round importance stops, baffled and disabled.   Then there is the silence, the silence of the lambs and doves, where life falls into place beyond any plan.   Re-source rises like a well.  Beyond solution, beyond Masters, beyond the human Plan, beyond fix or advice:   here it companions itSelf.

Here dawns an insight each day: miraculous cosmic alignments in the oracle do not generate a ‘happy’ and problem free life.   Life is what it is.  The alignment means that whatever is going on, is expressed without restriction or artificiality.

I have a close friend who feels ill.  We share this problem as life, as the landscape provided.   The more I realise this, the less tension I have with it.

It is infantile to expect enlightenment to cancel problems.   They increase.  The Great Work increases the exposure and response-ability.   The Great Work of alchemy settles not in ashrams but in hardship zones, such as the present period in human history.

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Coil

Coil

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In “Lives in the Shadow with Krishnamurti”, Radha Rajagopal Sloss wrote:

“We all felt his quiet observation of us, and in part returned it.  He had often said that to help someone with a problem, all you had to do was understand it without judgment, to see it clearly, and in time this understanding would be transmitted to the other person.

“His non-verbal self was at its best in such circumstances.  To have had the opportunity to experience that directly, was worth a hundred of his lectures.”

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K with Rosalind in Ohai, 1935

K with Rosalind in Ohai, 1935

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In Commentaries on Living, he says:  “You can be converted from one belief to another, from one dogma to another, but you cannot be converted to the understanding of reality. Belief is not reality.  … …  If you have an experience unexpectedly, spontaneously, and build further experience upon the first, then experience is merely a continuation of memory which responds to contact with the present. Memory is always dead, coming to life only in contact with the living Present.”

Since my teens, I am deeply frustrated by somehow intuiting this, yet unable to change the way the engine turns.   It makes me a dogmatic idiot;  it makes me fall on my nose.  But I love that amazing image of dead memory combusting with the living Present.  It is like a dream I once had about living white sunflowers, who thrived on eating the dead ones:  a blue light ray played around the miracle.

Mary Lutyen’s book ends near the end of his life, with a sublime chapter, much of it in his words.

“K said, ‘We are trying with our minds to touch that.  Try to find out what that is when your mind is completely quiet … You might be able to find out, because you are writing about it.  If you and Maria (Zimbalist) sat down and said, ‘let us enquire’, I’m pretty sure you could find out.  Or do it alone. 

‘I see something:  what I said is true – I can never find out.  Water can never find out what water is … Can you feel it in the room?  It is getting stronger and stronger.  My head is starting.  If you asked the question and said, ‘I don’t know’, you might find it.  If I was writing it, I would state all this.  I would begin with the boy completely vacant.’

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K at five years old

K at five years old

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“He would never get outside;  he would never know what he was, he would never see how transfigured his face became in special inspiration or revelation. Could I find out for him?  He had told us it was possible, told us to try to find out, whereas in 1972 he had said that no one could ever understand – that it was something ‘much too vast to be put into words.’

(He said) ‘There is a tremendous reservoir, which if the human mind can touch it, reveals something which no intellectual mythology – invention, supposition, dogma – can ever reveal. 

‘I am not making a mystery of it – that would be a stupid, childish trick.  Creating a mystery out of nothing would be a most blackguardedly thing to do, because that would be exploiting people and ruthless – that’s a dirty trick.  

‘Either one creates a mystery when there isn’t one, or there is a mystery which you have to approach with extraordinary delicacy and hesitancy and you know, tentativeness.  And the conscious mind can’t do this.  It is there, but you cannot come to it, you cannot invite it, it’s not progressive achievement.  There IS something, but the brain can’t understand it.’

‘I suffer, and the mind is doing everything it can to run away from it.  When it does not run away, then it observes.  Then the observer, if it observes very closely, is the observed, and that very pain is transformed into passion, which is compassion.  The words are not the reality.  So don’t escape from suffering, which does not mean you become morbid.  Live with it.  You live with pleasure, don’t you?  Why don’t you live with suffering completely?  Can you live with it in the sense of not escaping from it?  What takes place?   Watch.  The mind is very clear, sharp.  It is faced with the fact.  From that arises a mind that can never be hurt.  Full stop.  That is the secret.’

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last talks at Saanen

last talks at Saanen

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For other posts on K, see Krishnamurti & the Coastal Path, under Categories in the sidebar.

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.

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All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright (c) Janeadamsart 2012/2013.  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

Watching Myself and Krishnamurti – Part Three

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Sacred India Tarot - Babaji landscape

Sacred India Tarot – Babaji landscape

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As many readers are aware by now, we in the UK have difficulty in accessing and posting in WordPress, for the last fortnight.  I only managed my last 3 posts with flexible patience and workaround – it keeps getting stuck in the website/internet-provider (any) interface. The connection gets dropped.  Engineers are working on the line, so to speak.   So if you have difficulty opening a wp blog, that is why. I wonder if this post will get through.  It slipped unexpectedly into my new Krishnamurti series, this morning in my journal:  the nature of the oracle, while butterflying around in K’s energy field.

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My dear Companion of the light!  All I write to you about these days, is housework.

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News:  I de-congested the tool cupboard yesterday, and sewed a long Velcro strip into the Cube which joins the Upper and South faces.   That was very hard work.  All it needs now are small fasteners for W/N and N/E edges.   I took “Little Jeep” (two wheels) for his free service at the bike shop.   It was hot and sticky, and rained in the night.   WordPress was very stuck yesterday.  I altered K’s ear (brought it a little closer) in the Dissolving the Star drawing, but couldn’t upload it.

You who are my Companion of the Light.   Where are we today?  What is the awareness?

Perhaps to sit quiet, but pictures roll out the ball to awake with.  Where does the ball come to rest?  This morning, let’s do a SITA oracle, as there is an enthusiasm in facebook for it – a new Indian friend.  Out comes the shrine-box with Babaji and the Himalayas – the water bringer from the skies.

Sacred India Tarot

Sacred India Tarot

Beloved Companion, what is our moment now?

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Just as I began cutting the deck with my left hand, I recalled that Manasi (in India) posted on f-book the Wedding of Siva and Parvati card, with Brahma in the shrine officiating;  and she said all the cards are doors opening into her inner temple – or something like that.

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Three cards –  who appears at centre?  Brahma the Emperor, card 4 – the same as in Siva and Parvati’s wedding, the 9 of lotuses.

In the BOTA deck, the Emperor portal leads us – via the Cube of Space’s northeast corner edge – into the interior diagonals which pass through centre, and open the inner enquiry of Life.   My handiwork on the Cube last night, brings this up for me.   It is a way in.   He echoes Babaji’s stance, but one leg descends to touch the ground-water, near the swans … like Buddha’s hand during the Enlightenment.

Sacred India Tarot 4 - Brahma

Sacred India Tarot 4 – Brahma

Brahma is seated on Vishnu’s naval-chakra dream:  Vishnu is the lotus root.

Brahma’s face looks like Krishnamurti’s, who was ‘in the Vishnu lineage’.   Brahma is a fountain – the fountain splashes into the dark blue sky behind his shoulders.   That is the feeling when my morning snake gently rises;  and where K burned when his different dimensions rubbed sparks together.

I read a post about Quetzalcoatl yesterday, and commented.   It is fascinating and inspirational.

The medium in front of Babaji is earth-ground, because he is of the skies.   The medium in front of the Emperor is a cool lake, because he is fiery. The ground in front of Babaji is cross sectioned through the soil, and is a rising wave.

The green-yellow landscape around and behind him, is fluid like the sea and sands, with wave crests.  It is very beautiful to be in the Indus civilization – the mystery of Saraswathi.   She – the SITA Priestess – is Brahma’s wife.   Swans float creamily around them both when the mind is lucid and quiet – the waters.  The ground.   The elements.

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Saraswathi with swans

Saraswathi with swans

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A lotus grows before Babaji:  on that same lotus, Brahma sits:  the lotus grows on a stalk from Vishnu’s navel:  Vishnu’s bed is the cosmic Serpent.  And just in front of the dreaming Vishnu-serpent-sleep, the ground where it meets the water, ripples and turns green – as the Babaji landscape.

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Sacred India Tarot 2, Saraswathi the High Priestess

Sacred India Tarot 2, Saraswathi the High Priestess

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The Emperor – Brahma Creator – bestows educated abundance.   His consort Saraswathi is a Vedic woman, before caste and social systems oppressed her.  She is at ease, coming through her golden sand-water environment like a supple snake with the ground it undulates along. It was in the days before the river dried up.

The backs of the SITA deck have this old-gold sadhu colour, with the Sri Chakra on them. Now turn over the card to the left – it is The World Shakti.  Her womb is the Sri Chakra, and she dances/is penetrated by a Sivalinga with a rising red snake from triple coil.   She fountains like the Emperor, and in her four palms are yoni-seeds.  Around her is a circle of six lotuses, the sixth one – she is with child –  being the Sri Chakra Yantra bindu:  the core of the Universe.

Sacred India Tarot - Babaji, Shakti, Brahma

Sacred India Tarot – Babaji, Shakti, Brahma

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The Elder Indian Mysteries are very beautiful.  We praise them, alive and singing, within the materialistic effluent of nowadays.   That jingly crust will pass;  the youth will reclaim its heritage and wonder. And now turn over the card to the right. How strange!   It is Rati Queen of Lotuses.   Originally, World Shakti was painted as the Queen of Lotuses:  Rohit moved her to Major Arcana 21, and asked me to paint a new card for the Queen – here she is.

Sacred India Tarot Shakti, Emperor, Rati

Sacred India Tarot Shakti, Emperor, Rati

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This is breathtaking.   The ‘apparent random’ of a triple cut, done three times across a deck of 82, unveils their artistic relationship – a unity.

Brahma the Creator, with Kundalini-Shakti to each side – the continuity – how does it feel?  Transcending my usual housekeeping and worldly worries, particles join together by that miraculous agency which ‘knows their story’. This demonstrates Reality – the contact which silences the talk.

Even at Brahma’s feet/foot touching the pool, the mirrored swans glide to meet each other as a heart shape forms. World Shakti gestates the Kundalini.  Queen Rati holds the snake easily, like a gown she is slipping off;  she might at any moment transform the snake to a hard bright arrow for her casually held bow.  She is pure shape shifter.

It is wonderful to behold the Mystery.   For me it is just another picture of K’s childlike amazement at the way things are, and his longing to ‘educate’ and ease peoples’ minds.

Behind the Mystery broods Babaji in his Himalayan earth-river.   Babaji is the “deity” of the deck – conduit of the whole pantheon, for the Sacred India Tarot.   In the background, ancient rivers descend through Himalayan foothill strata:  he is their recollected Consciousness.

The recollected Consciousness is a shape shifting clarity … now.   It has no thing, and everything.  It is transparent.   All the books wrote of it, and it has no book, the pages dissolve to a fountain afresh.   Krishnamurti and Ramana talked of it, and taught Self enquiry.   We must do our own, for the doors to open.

The SITA deck tells stories in a magnificent way, as in Rohit’s book with the deck.  A peep into the pile under each of the three cards delivers further vivid symbolism and narrative.   While awakening itself is unfurnished – the Here and Now, the wave of the sea in my face –  my subconscious child loves pictures.  They are portals to the interior Temple.   With that awe and beauty, my nature falls silent.   The Cube falls open into the Great Rose – and who ever heard a Rose say anything?

O Rose Cross, thou art a Kiss – the kiss of Life. When I cradled and watched my newborn daughter’s face, there was silence and space and love.  This is the connection.  The eternal bond with and as the Self, makes parents of us all.

prince george alexander louis

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The heart of Krishnamurti’s teaching is a warm silence, companioning a friend.   Again and again he repeated – do you stop to look at the flower, or hear the bird, without naming it?

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Following J.Krishnamurti

Following J.Krishnamurti

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Here is the FACEBOOK link to the Sacred India Tarot page ….  https://www.facebook.com/SacredIndiaTarot?fref=ts

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.

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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/

Watching Myself and Krishnamurti – Part Two

These 3 sketches are of K not long before he passed away

This sketch  – see also the end of this post – is of K not long before he passed away

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Continuing this month’s reflections with K – a fertile ground.

 1 Krishnamurti profile

From Journal – 9 July 2013

I try not to deny things, and often labour the point, as I write.   I have no cotton wool for my precious preserve and self image.   In life I struggle along, at basic psychology level, trying to turn to face the music, face the current – the soul’s welcoming.  

Now picture the current;  the onrush of water in a canal after the heavy lock gate loosens – that surge comes towards me, I look at it directly, stand still, unrestricted;  and my breath slows down and opens to the abstract core of the event – its nuance and feeling.

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Pithy tree of Life

Pithy tree of Life

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 My manner is not firm enough.  My manner is conciliatory and seeks to understand, until certain buttons are pushed – then fury.   Behind the incipient fury, I cannot be firm.  There is fear and vocal paralysis.  There is scar tissue – pre-judging – and the damage that does.  The human spooks in my nature – spanners in the spokes – are powerful, and only change with painful slowness.  They go back further than my conscious reach.   They are subconscious.

WHAT IS THE COLOUR OF THIS SITUATION? THIS FEELING?  The trigger?  Good question!   Practice what I preach.   Feels dark, somewhere between indigo and brown.

Keeping still with my trigger, is trans-formative: awareness without chat-camouflage.   The Light – pale primrose white – enters my dark cave with the Thirty Verses, Quintessence of Instruction.  (See earlier post, The Mythology behind the Thirty Verses.)  Read them carefully.

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The Ferret and the Himalayas

I finished reading Lives in the Shadow.  I guess any luminary or work with the Light carries a quota of Shadow in life.  Ramana had his devotees and the cauliflower on his arm.   Accept the shadow.  I know what mine is.

Krishnamurti’s shadow was his fear of telling the truth – a furtive boyhood thing, as he was punished at school.   It grew into paranoia, and the meticulous Rajagopal became a spook.   The paranoia grows like a tumour on failure to be truthful to a close friend.   Paranoia believes in lies, especially in one’s own.   Messengers of light carry big shadows in the bag.

Here is a story, as I see it at present:  In the Californian Ohai valley, Rosalind, Rajagopal and Krishna, with young Radha, were a brave and lovely ship a-sail. It took its chances.   The ship’s course was inevitable, given the souls they were, their sensitivities and their place and period.  The shadow in the combination escalated due to Krishna’s human frailty and messianic mission“I”, which won’t declare itself.  He consigned his personal i to the unconscious, he said it has no existence or memory.   So it grew in there, unregarded and developing its data base, until the decades of enmity happened – and the vast legal costs – the waste.  Different astral bodies inhabited Mr K, like the continents he roosted in.

In 1910 when K was a thin boy in Adhyar, the Theosophist Charles Leadbeater caught sight of him on the beach, perceived a pure ‘egolessness’ in his aura, and groomed the boy to be a Vehicle for the Messiah, Maitreya.   In 1928 – his Saturn return – K rejected this role and declared “Truth is a pathless land.  I want no followers.  Be the disciple of your understanding.”

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GALLERY – I have been a little hesitant in including this 1987 sequence.  It seems rather disrespectful, but it tells the truth.  I was hopping mad with K in those days, and with the way I felt his Speaker had hijacked my parent and made me mute.

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In 1986, when K died, his fear and fantasy around the Rajagopals was unresolved. During  the same period and after – due to paternal preachings against the “I” in my childhood – I felt K was my enemy.  K remained my “enemy” until I learned about him through reading Mary Lutyens’ books, which Bruce Macrae Smith gave me.   What an extraordinary tale!  With a joyous appreciation of him, and of my father’s path and its perils, I forgave.  I discovered myself.  

Lives in the Shadow published five years later, was a further exposure.   It was rich, to love K’s truth and be simultaneously heartbroken with his lies.   He lost his way with his loved ones, but he went on Talking.   The vehicle went on Talking round the world – nothing stops that – and being well tuned.   He died feeling isolated.  He said in a rather crackpot way that a great force or Master lived in him during his life time, and would not return to humanity for hundreds of years;  because no one had understood or was able to practice his teaching in life.   He suggested it had all been a wasted effort.  This was an arrogant pathos in the old man.  He forgot the many he loved and who loved him, behind the Shadow, and who practice his teaching.   He is human.

To this day I both love and am irritated by him.   It is a mixed and vivid emotion with the pampered Speaker whose influence bombarded my teenage years – (“I ?  What can you mean?”).   It is full of landscape, light and acceptance.  At the 1974 Brockwood gathering (a series of 3 posts), I observed that I and other souls fall passionately and painfully in love with each other around K – the disturbance in his energy-field.  I knew the laceration of the nerves.   When I – much later – read about his process in the spine and head, everything fitted into place. 

The vehicle for World Teacher does not dissolve when he cuts the ribbon of the Order of the Star.  It becomes “en-ghosted” and powerful – kundalini discharges through his stem like a marginalised fairy godmother.   There were two or more agendas in full flower, from the deep Karmic past.   K’s template was Conflict.   He spoke always of Conflict and of Fear:  and of the tide whose seamless movement in and out, has in it “the essence of conflict, which is peace“.  I think he felt that speaking of conflict and fear “together” with his listeners, might dissolve the tendency in himself.   I used to believe – similarly –  that the transmission through my journal/writing, keeps me out of trouble.

Well, spirituality is not a safe straitjacket!   The contact highlights life – sharper and sometimes more distressful than ever.  You take it as it comes, or you pile on yet more light, to hide it.   I know how easily I hide behind lies and evasions.

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Worshing a deity and making him cross

Worshiping a deity and making him cross

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K’s life and failures are an extraordinary and illumining lesson for me.   He is among my most precious Stones in philosophy – the love of wisdom.   Radha’s book – he was her other daddy – gives his full flavour, tooth and nail – like a Californian orange in the sunshine:  and how like him in many ways my daddy was, when I was growing up.   I chuckle at the familiar mannerisms.  Peter began to follow K’s teaching in about 1961, when K first spoke in London.

K loved children.  He was a child himself.

As K grew old, and more shielded by devoted friends and adherents, the fruit turns a little sour – there is a sour vacancy in his eyes, his presence and his vanity.   So I am making marmalade!

My parents have a shadow which is very difficult for them both to reach through, and talk of.   They are close friends, but the tension is there.   I have many things which are desperately hard to say.  They wriggle away under a rock when I try to find them.

So K’s life with the Shadow illustrates something we all have, especially when we are trying to grow up and become more human, more open, more truthful.   The personal-i is a wounded ferret.  She thrives on gaps in consciousness:  she slips out of sight – she thrives on my spiritual spells to deny her existence.   She is always here, popping up for a good wail, or – her favourite hobby – sewing Shadow coats for unsuspecting folk who try hard.

So this moment itself I wait by her hole – the ferret’s hole – to catch her by the nose and tail.   Not punitively:  but to see her coming into the light.   She is “I” – the toothy predator, like a furry snake.   How she shines, silvery on the ground at dawn.   At the ferret’s hole, I try to remain attentive – to catch her when she manufactures Shadow and does her Talk-stuff and practices fear.   I.   I.

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Finding a furry snake

Finding a furry snake … between a waterfall and piano keys.

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Self enquiry awakes response-ability at Home.   The quest ultimately dissolves personal i into a wide-angle-lens cosmic I:  the un-altered being.   Ramana’s teaching of Self enquiry reveals my vasanas.   It is their nature to come up:  and Self enquiry observes them, like the Buddha does, dispassionately.   None of the great Teaching Rivers diverge from the Source.

In K’s Shadow, he grew to resent so much his early teachers and protectors, that he couldn’t see this.

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7 K2 photo by fosco maraini

K2, photo by fosco maraini

Now, as I get my Himalayan glimpse – the Source of the Rivers – my ferret gets the chance to scurry out of sight again.   The trick is to hold them both in the view – ferret and Himalayas.   The i and the I … “two dudes agree not to fight over the steering wheel” – thank you, Jeff!

Meditation watches the ferret – at any time of the day or night.   Watch the road.

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And watch the spiritual camouflage!  Be cosmic-carrot mindful:  the interior stars in the stem, as gravitational centre ground.   The carrot is not in the sky, but in the Earth: and orange like California oranges and the Sun.

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Consulting the ‘secret dakini orace’ uncovers my thought – a present moment – in picture form.  This one shows an armouring, a goal and a letting go.   The cosmic carrot has the chakras on it:  kundalini’s wheels.   Taking up Arms is the god Krishna, about to rescue the dharma.

dakini oracle "cosmic carrot"

dakini oracle “cosmic carrot”

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And “Cutting Through” is a way also of going through, with relative ease.  Or being passed through …

Canal Lock Gate

It is hard to see through
our wounds tending to meet each other.

Love waits
for waters each side to level,
the deep gate to open
for the passing through
deliciously.

from “Homer Rows” 2004

Have faith in and value the effort which living takes, along the canal – don’t worry about all the creative projects I am not doing.   Remember – I have a limited idea of cosmic time, depth and management.  I am the small dent in the rim of the jug, through which it pours.

I achieved two more drawings of Ramana yesterday (i.e. 8 July) – with great difficulty – and the post about the Thirty Verses delighted a few readers.  Alan of course was thrilled. The thirty verses themselves are SO BEAUTIFUL.   I feel more “certain” or sure of my home ground, when working with the Ramana elder window and its teaching.   This is not surprising, as the only position of authority I ever held, was Hon.Sec.Treasurer of Ramana Foundation in the 1990s, and editor of Self Enquiry.   With this role, I was ignorant and bossy.

The difficulty with spiritual teaching, is carburettor management.   Little i gets a rest when big I flows:  but afterwards, the engine is flooded.   This leads to depression or inflation.

Centre Sefiroth in tree of life.  Tifareth is the conscious Self or observer.  The path connecting Yesod (personal self) to Hod (mind) is coloured orange, and has on it the tarot key The Sun.

Centre Sefiroth in tree of life, with tarot keys on the paths. Tifareth(Beauty) is the conscious Self or observer. The path connecting Yesod (personal self, Foundation) to Hod (mind, splendour) is coloured orange, and has on it the tarot key The Sun.

Tifareth in the heart of the Tree – the Sun growing oranges – receives and feels EVERYTHING.

Facing Fear … a big fish is swimming up, which I have refused to deal with.   It is the attitude of we humans to our various Nemeses. Consider this, as if I wanted to attack Iraq, faced my fear, and then took wise counsel not to.   Consider this, like all the meddling in the middle east – what we brits and eus and uses raised against us, and among itself internecinely, because we could not see the picture, we just saw the oil and the wealth rising and started to engineer barricades and frontiers among the old desert tribes.

Doesn’t this happen in any relationship ?

Watch the attitude.   And make peace here to begin with, by being conscious.  Various wild cards drift among my inner cities.  Recognise them.   Then there is dignity.

BOTA key 20

There is an interior condition of co-existence which does not snag and snarl.  Remember in my body which is alchemy, the sunlight, the Hermit’s black dragon, the chyle, the red and white soldiers, the arterial roads and the cities.   It is all the play and tension of life, the truly broad band, the ferment perpetually, through my body’s standwave, as the same ferment in all places. (Perpetual Intelligence = Key 20, red cross).  Look at my box-side placards of Fear.  I fantasize my End, my closed-upness.   What a fake thought, a fantasy, that is!   Stand up tall, and leave the coffin.

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20 judgement - Version 2

Krishnamurti all his life, faced and discussed Fear.   He acted from fear when he and Rajagopal fell out – it was deeply rooted, and deeply painful for them both.  But his way of observing Fear, is my Lighthouse.  Fear blinkers me in friendships, but I try to remember K’s view, and to face the music.   The observer is the observed.

There was a wonderful beauty in K’s early life and mature manhood, and it isn’t altered by the more crooked landscape it became.  When I saw him in ’74, he was already bent a little to one side, as if by the denial of his shadow in California, and the strange way that he was cruel to it.  The shadow built up substance each side of the pond, as KWINC and Krishnamurti Foundation consolidated their separate boxes of enlightened non-organization, argument and admin.

We humans face our species-poison, every which way.   And yet the weather today is clear and beautiful.

The insight when it opens, is the river, the river, the river, the teeming magnificence of the Light and Shadow and all the baggage:  and ways to navigate, in the stern-spine:  the tiller of the contemplation, the rock and the sway, the flood and flotsam, the Darkness shot with stars.

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boat yoga spine crab

boat yoga spine crab

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Then my body relaxes, and there comes a natural Yogic slow breath, like the sea.

Ramana Maharshi never said to force things.   Of course we as human life carry almost more poison than we can bear.   Yet still we are life, and we remain consciously alive, if we just manage not to set up riot shields against things we fear, and create enemies.  Krishnamurti taught me that I am what I consider to be “the world”.   It begins here, not out there.  Facing the fear is Liberation – the cup turning over:  raising the glass.   This has a knock-on effect through my interior cities – the organs of life.

The fears are legion – including armies of harpies, judgements, lacerations and so on.   In the middle ages, penitents had no alternative but to lash their own backs.   Have I not seen time and time again, that what I fervently know is right, I most often fail in?  And don’t we see teachers with their private difficulties?  Isn’t it the fate of idealists, and of priests and politicians?

Evolution is slow.  It isn’t easy to trust it.  The one all encompassing lifetime on the job, is a particle in a string of raw pearls.

My vital energy is often in a depleted state, either that or “normal”.   It doesn’t go manic, these days.   Sometimes it stresses out, adrenally, or when trying to troubleshoot.   The energy bank is not a graph which determines my health.  I see now, that when I have no energy, it means my body and psyche need to rest, and have no choice.   A real soldier isn’t rushing around with shield and spear.   A real soldier stands at ease, and guards.   A soldier observes the field, like a lion after his nap.

To sum up:  refrain from making enemies.  The great beauty of K’s liberation when he was young, would be and is a life long intense struggle:  the upkeep with his body.  That is the way it interacts with earth-beings.   So he had to speak and speak and travel and create schools to educate young children – the urgency in his eyes and fluttering hands.   He needed to work it out, again and again and again, through the inertia.

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K with pupils at Rishi Valley school

K with pupils at Rishi Valley school

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Well this is all interesting and unexpected, and reassures me because it rose without my volition but of its own accord with my willingness to face a certain machine and not run away again.  When it rises of its own accord, it is the Magid, with a higher, deeper view of the country.

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13 dakini 44, 34, 54

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Dakini oracle 34 THE LINEAGE TREE, with Unicorn to the right and Heart Drop to the left,  doesn’t show any wild cards rushing around.    Heart Drop illustrates the ancient, flowing, white-sand hinterland to the stupa and the ruby.   The Lineage Tree is the buddha’s rainbow body – the Self.  The Unicorn in the tree is sanctuary.

Often when we consult the Magidim or the Oracle, we don’t see the Truth, but what we wish to see and hear.   … like the Theosophists with K.  On the other hand, the still, small voice in the well which is peace, tends to reveal a True condition below any surface melodrama.

Reading about Krishnamurti –  the Mary Lutyens books now – is illumining.  It was as much my spiritual path as my father’s.   It formed my thought.   It presented the Vedas and Ramana and Buddha in a language of here-and-now intense enquiry … outside the puja parlour.   K’s meditation was to walk in the country or by the sea;  to explore the deep sculpture of his sacrament – the thought – sacred beyond any definition.  He was set up by the Theosophists for thousands, millions, to flock to hear and read him:  and so he cast off the knitting and became the needles.

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14 K on the sands

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The dakinis of Buddha in tree, unicorn in tree and heart-ruby in front of a Tibetan stupa, are the Battery of the soul, lit up.

This post is inspired by K, and also by things which other bloggers write, along similar lines.  The lighting up of the battery (see comments on The Lighthouse Keeper part One), diminishes the small-i of its own accord.   Give attention to the current rather than to the so called problem and its literature.  All problems lead to the Current, which is why teachers and sages ask for questions, to get them going.  It is why K travelled around the world to give talks, rather than stay quietly in one place.  Great souls include the currants in their cake!

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K at a last talk in Saanen

K at a last talk in Saanen

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Attention, as K might say, is to the river of life, among whose waters the small troubled “i” floats. 

Many years ago, my father caught sight of K with a little old lady in a sari.   She was distressed.  He – himself a little old man – took her to a window seat, sat her down with him, with his arm around her, and ignored everyone else.  He encircled and heard her with his merry brown eyes, his gentle laughter and his total, eager attention.   This says it all.

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16 krishnamurti at gstaad

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For other posts on K, see under Categories in the sidebar – ‘Krishnamurti and Coastal Path’.

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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.

aquariel link

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/

Watching Myself and Krishnamurti – Part One

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K at Brockwood gathering, 1974

K at Brockwood gathering, 1974

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This series of posts continues last year’s Krishnamurti and Coastal Path sequence –   which you will find under Catagories in the sidebar.   Krishnamurti is perhaps the deepest and most prevailing influence in my life.   I want to go on watching and walking with him in my blog.   Actually, these thoughts should be titled “Watching Myself and my Father and Krishnamurti.”  Peter went to K’s first UK gatherings in Wimbledon in the early 1960s, and returned to Somerset all fired up.  I was eleven or twelve at the time.  My teens were dominated by his teacher K, whose iconoclastic thoughts he practiced on his family at mealtimes.   Thus, my difficult windows to life were kept wide open – a love-hate paradox of awakening.   

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The Refugee with a Silver Spoon

I’ve been reading Lives in the Shadow with JK.  This book was lost for a year, then I found it in a cupboard.   K is my “spiritual thriller” again – next I can re-read the books by Lady Emily and Mary.   I wanted last year, to complete the Watching Krishnamurti series, with a post based around the shock of Lives when it plopped into our pond in 1991/2.  It was during the early days of Ramana Foundation UK.  I think the best raw material for this post, might be the letters my father and I wrote to each other about it.

It is a pity Radha Schloss doesn’t quote any of K’s letters to her mother directly – just relays what was in them.  Perhaps there was a legal knot there, which K or Rajagopal (her father) would have tied up tight in KWINC (Krishnamurti Writings Inc).

I just reached where the K/Rajagapol quarrel starts to be particularly distressing and breaks the heart.  How fragile and easily poisoned are peoples’ lives in the soul.   I feel scant sympathy for K during it.  He was being wagged by his Theosophical training, which he denied.   He talked all the time about Fear, and he couldn’t turn to face his own fear process, it was somehow barred to him.  He couldn’t face Amma Besant in his background.   He lied to Rosalind and to his loved ones.   The early training as the Vehicle, would fracture him into two or three continental particles without a communal nucleus to bond them.

K with his 'theosophy parents' Leadbeater and Mrs Besant

K with his ‘theosophy parents’ Leadbeater and Mrs Besant, late 1920s

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K experienced life so intensely, that the memory base for situations and countries he was not standing in right now, had no relevance.

It makes no difference to the wisdom he often spoke, and his tender observations on relationships which inspire me to this day.  I said to my father once that people want the icing on the cake without the currants, sugar and flour of the cake itself.   That is how people regard spirituality – anaemically.   Now I have the whole fruitcake!

Lives in the Shadow:  Lives in the Soul:  the bow-wave builds up an enormous contrary force, when there is denial somewhere.   I don’t mean just denial of the love affair with Rosalind Rajagopal, which in those days had to be handled discreetly.  I mean the denial and refusal – or inability – to face his friends and tell the truth about many things:  also the way he – or the compromised Avatar through him – manipulated the sugar icing.

It is the old story of power and everyone deferring to him, believing him to be beyond reproach.   What is the end result?   Henry VIII, Head of the Church, in some form or other!

K was a lonely man when he died.   He thought no one had understood what he said.  He cut himself off from hearing the truth with souls who were close to him.   It was his destiny, Maitreya trained; his hatred for Theosophy was understandable.   It made him unable to reconcile his revolutionary teaching with what the Vedas say eternally.   It cut the roots.   Wherever he went, he was a refugee with a silver spoon.  The silver spoon is the primordial and ageless wisdom.   He could not and would not cast it away.   He expected everyone else to cast it away, and to follow him.

Here follows my father’s poem –  Follow My Leader!

In childhood’s time
we form in a line
and love to play follow my leader. 

As youth comes on 
we sing the same song
and still play follow my leader. 

Sisters and brothers, 
fathers and mothers, 
all love to follow a leader.  

This fact in our life 
leads often to strife, 
for a wise man is seldom a leader 

and he who follows
knows only the shallows; 
his is the way of a pleader.

They only are strong 
who break from the throng
and make life itself their teacher. 

So if you would 
be a real man alive, 
please listen to this, gentle reader: 

Stand on your own, 
face life alone 
and never play follow my leader.

Peter  Adams
North Devon, 1980s

There is “an independent science“.

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Peter & Jane  copy

And here, in 1992, is some correspondence.  Peter wrote to me:

“Have finished the Radha Schloss book.  It was quite a shock, but good to have read it.  Shock not in K’s affairs with women (I had guessed this, and was aware on an interchange between him and a lovely Indian girl sitting by me once in Wimbledon), but in his deceptions and fears and anger, and in that ridiculous and protracted and unseemly court case.  But if you look at some of the early and late photographs, you can see it all there – an arrogance in youth, and an old woman’s petulance in age.  So it was his Karma you might say, which he did not master. 

“I think Radha did not quite understand him about memory.  You cannot blot memory out, but by disregarding and not using it, it rusts, becomes dulled.  When K said he had no memory, he meant he did not pull it out, look at it, use it.  It was there, but quiet, and so in time very faded.  What he meant was that memories of childhood had for him no significance.  Sensitively written on the whole, and certainly a very just squaring of a very fancy picture.

“It is much to her credit that Radha made nothing of the late Mary Zimbalist affaire, of which she could have been very bitter, as Mrs Z took over her old home and re-vamped it in very expensive style.  Radha only refers to her as Mrs ——- which I thought was admirably restrained.   Love to you and all – Peter.”

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I wrote back:

“… re Radha Schloss and Krishnaji’s memory!  – Yes, he didn’t pull it out & look at it, also I feel that the dimension of Krishnaji as a whole outside Time, put forth pseudopodia or parts of K-self into time, and Time is a fragmenting situation.

“Consciousness (my view) has great difficulty in remaining integrated in the context of Time which is generated by the world (and which is so easily upset.)  Consciousness forgets parts of itself, as if those parts don’t exist, because Krishnaji-Consciousness cannot be wholly present in the temporal form.  So not only did he not use memory, but also symptomatically he appeared to deceive people, because he couldn’t remember or wasn’t interested in who they or others individually were, or had done on this or that side of the ocean.  The In-tense is HERE.  So this caused confusion and conflict around him.  Though – interestingly – he maintained a continuum of constant letter writing between different regions of the world, with the Lutyens, with Rosalind, with various others.  It reminds me a little of Jim Ede’s mania of correspondence – Jim and K born in the same year more or less, there were 4 planets in Gemini including Pluto – an awful lot of letter writing in the sign of the Twins! 

“The Consciousness generates local conflict as a sort of breaking of the water or molecular lattice of life.  K – most remarkably I feel – undertook to be in a relationship with conflict, and stayed in the thick of it all:  the dense Western mindset.  He didn’t retire off to a cave and loincloth, as he many times wished to do (romantically perhaps).

K dissolves the Order of the Star, late 1920s

K dissolves the Order of the Star, late 1920s – “I maintain that truth is a pathless land...”

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“The court case K v Rajagopal, agonizing and futile as it is to read about (it made me cry) is an instance of the discomfort of life and consciousness when mixed.  The pain pangs in the very long term, bring forth Fruit.  K had an enormous interest in conflict.  He stayed with and in it, as with a wild animal, looking into it.  I feel that everyone involved in the case was stretched to their own capacity.  I found it painful but very salutary to read this book.  It gave an added depth to my K picture.  It showed me how saintliness is forcibly projected onto people like K – and it limits them grotesquely.

“But the measure of greatness or truth is not success or being ‘totally pure’, for these are value judgments.  There is the whole impact of K –  his thereness – which made me feel much compassion with him, and with everyone who knew him – including myself by proxy, because I feel what happened in every life which contacted his.

“There is some strange, long-term alchemy in K being dropped into the waters of the dark century – this era.  How could he not generate upheaval and white waters?  What do people want, the icing on the cake?  In myself, it was (with difficulty) to hold simultaneously the treasure-distillation of K, with the monstrous pain of that litigation … as TRUE.

“So I’m very glad to have shared this book with you, because it seems many people flung up their hands in dismay – just as they did when he cut the theosophical umbilicus.   They wanted to see only one side of the cube – But there are 6 sides …

“Have you noticed that K’s head shape bears a remarkable resemblance (type) to representations of Siva and Buddha?   Much love from Jane.”

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K at Rishi Valley

K at Rishi Valley

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Peter replied,

“Interesting is what you say about only parts of a total consciousness precipitating in time, and therefore never a whole functioning.  This would suggest considerable discomfort and tension, even conflict.  I have not your fascination for reincarnation or other lives of being conscious, being too pre-occupied with somehow trying to live accurately now, and to come to grips with the facts;  but I would love to know.  

“Perhaps I left an important part up there or down there, and am finding it difficult to manage.  As I said to Mary when she mentioned I seemed to be making some progress –  I really need to, because I started much further down the ladder than most!

“Yes – you could say Peter is an alchemist, in that realising that everything is the expression in different ways of the same energy, he is basically given to trying to transmute base energy into higher energy.  That is the human task.

“I like very much what you write about K.  Very perceptive, although I never gathered from anything that he ever wanted to retire to a cave and a loin-cloth.  Quite the reverse.  His dialogues with people were meat and drink to him, and speaking/teaching was life or living for him. 

“Yes he was interested in conflict as a human problem, but I am still astonished how easily he seems to have become involved himself.  I do not follow this.  Was it an attempt at a crucifixion?  an experiment?  a mistake?  Or did it just happen?  He does seem to have ridden on a very wobbly bicycle a lot of the time.

“I really like your challenge – ‘what do people want, the icing on the cake?’ – that is good.  Few people can stomach real cake, they have not the digestion. 

“Yes – there is a resemblance to the portrayals of Gautama.  Large, finely shaped ears with prominent lobes are one of the body marks of a Buddha, as are the finely chiselled features and the rounded limbs – the rather effeminate body.  I was interested in the photograph in the Radha book of K at the sea holding a sunhat behind his head – breasted and rounded, he might almost be woman.  And like most men with much woman in them, he craved the company of women – not just physically, but because woman is profounder, more direct, more in contact with fundamental energy. 

“Yes – I am pleased to have read the book, which has given me a plateful of cake with the icing I have always carried about.   

“By the way, somewhere I think in one of the Commentaries, he just mentions that he is walking on that path that was once trodden by ‘the greatest teacher of them all.’  I believe K was much influenced in his early studies, by the teaching of the Buddha – his teaching fundamentally is Zen Buddhism, and I have wondered (I am sure he wondered) if he was an incarnation of the Buddha.  This frequent talk of his being the vehicle for a tremendous energy sent down to earth, puts him in line with the Gurdjieff teaching of Higher Beings trying to direct and influence humans, which all links up with the Catholic speaking of angels and spirits.   In fact, quite a lot of my discarded – but still there – early (Catholic) teaching I find turns up in one form or another in quite astonishing places.  Wouldn’t K be surprised!

“The last book of dialogues I bought, and am just launched into, is terrific stuff.  A great deal of very direct, punchy talk, right from the centre.  It is as good as anything.  You must read it. 

“Have just done 3 days sitting quite successfully (vipassana).  Some interesting things came up.  They don’t stay with me, but the affect does.  It is significant.  The legs protested and were often an agony.  The body is a mixed blessing, but is here to be loved.  I do not find we are anything without it.”

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Peter at Ventonwyn - 1956

Peter at Ventonwyn – 1956

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**

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.

aquariel link

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/

Human Landscape – in Capricorn

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www.trasseur.com stars1

On winter evenings after school, a mile to walk home from the bus stop, the lane was often pitch dark, and I groped along the hedge.  On clear nights the stars came out one by one like songs until the heavens were ablaze.

I wondered, in about 1964:

“If I were to reach for you,
a million light years of night, as spider’s sunlit string at dawn;
if I broke earth’s cloudy cloak and fled from home …
beyond thought, hope, beyond time,
abandoning spinning self contained sphere … beyond ALL …

“will you some where begin to swell
to a tiny ball of fire?

And if I should go –
(fire burned out in aeons past) –
beyond?”

From The Reckless Fruit, 1960s

In later years it seemed to me that because the whole night sky is a splendour, there is nothing in all the universe but light, the depth and density packed together of the photons which are stars.

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0 fishing net floats, at shebbear

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My blog is an archival therapy.  Behind the process, an ancient Dame prompts the nuances.   She arranges them with clarity in the astral temple;  every writer/artist has to keep mum down here on earth, with his or her nuances.  We are each nourished by our roots in the tapestry, whether we grumble, forget or exalt them.  Though I live in London’s  light-pollutant, which screens out my awareness of the starry sky at night,  an interior sensitivity compensates. Nuances are the nous of life.  Buried galactic stars illumine the ground, as they do the sky.  It is the same materia.

A propos, here is the link to a video:  Carl Sagan describes the galactic DNA within our white blood cells.   I found it on moma-fauna’s beautiful blog “Pray to the Moon”:  a miracle each day, give it time.

Persons are treasures.

I went to the community ground across the road for an hour yesterday, to transfer some earth from bags to boxes with spade and wheelbarrow, and to begin sorting out long sturdy stems from the cuttings pile:  the image of earth, gardens and digging is powerful just now,  with ancestral nitrates and tribal tapestry.   And I just have to go along with this.   My muse plans without a break, this post for my father’s tribe.    I want to deliver the Beauty, in spades each day.   Please bear with me – this is a garden and it is spring.   In the context of Families, my next watershed tale – “House Life” may sit well.   A hidden story grows through it all.   As a Long Thought, she completes herself to the open end.   Then another Long Thought takes the baton.   They are runners, like wild buttercup.

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capricorn goatfish

My father and I are both Capricorns, with the Moon in Cancer.  Here now are some of his people.  I have not done all the drawings yet.  Soon I will, and will add them.  The Adamses came originally from Scotland, and my paternal grandfather married Lily Basche the daughter of a piano maker from Bohemia – the Petrof piano firm.  Fred Adams was a Freemason, master of his lodge, and Lily was a devout Roman Catholic:  theirs was an interesting marriage.

1 lily and fred

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commander john yule

But a couple of generations further back, a female Yule line married into the Adamses. Fred Adams  said,  “My mother was a Yule”. The Yules were originally London merchants and rather wild, but their graveyard is in Bradford, north Devon where John Carslake Duncan Yule was Rector for 40 years.  When Rector Yule’s younger brother died, he took the widow and all her children into the household.  Our link is to one of the deceased younger brother’s daughters – Commander Yule’s grand-daughter.

(Before he knew anything of the Yules, my father moved house in 1985 to the next-door parish!)

Rector John Carslake Yule’s father, Commander John Yule had served on Nelson’s ship.  The rumour went around that Lord Nelson was unusually fond of him, and awarded him privileges for life: John moved west and married a Dorset Carslake; their son the Vicar was given the Bradford living, and the family prospered under Queen Victoria’s patronage.  Commander Yule was either a natural favourite, or … the jury remains out ! Be that as it may, Nelson on his column soaring above the pigeons, and planted under the dome of St Pauls’, played a benevolent theme among my Victorian ancestors.

Nelson - a sketch by Zev ben Shimon Halevi in The Path of a Kabbalist

Nelson – a sketch by Zev ben Shimon Halevi in The Path of a Kabbalist  (Kabbalahsociety 2010)

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auntie lonie_0001

My strongest influence from my father’s family however, is my great-aunt Appelonia  Basche, his mother’s sister.  Her fiance went down in the Titanic, so she never married.  She was a student of Emil Sauer – a pupil of Liszt – but her concert career was cut short during the Great War, because of her “Germanic” name.  Lonie was a wonderful musician, and became an inspiring teacher – fierce, emotional and childlike. When I was 12 or so, she strictly forbade me from trying to play Brahms.  She was very tall, with a deep voice, and enormously long hands and feet.   She died in 1973, two weeks after her 90th birthday, after a long struggle with dementia over knitting-patterns for her many great-nephews and -nieces’ birthdays.  She had promised herself a nip of scotch at 90, and she just made it.

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Auntie Lonie with her niece Jennifer & children

Auntie Lonie with her niece Jennifer & children

I’ve noticed that people have their teachers’ spiritual physiognomy.  Like flesh and blood, the transmission of a teaching marks and moulds the subtle body, down its own generations.  I have tried to sketch that central-european resonance I see in the faces of Auntie Lonie, her teacher Sauer, and his teacher Liszt.  (this is a 2nd link)

In this family portrait, the philosophical “DNA” interests me.  It drew like to like, across the genetic lattice, touching the physical life-streams, birth and death, for its sustenance, to  blend the rivers (Daat-Tifareth-Yesod) at various levels.  Picking up the photos or drawings I have here, I follow one thread through the tapestry;  but of course, many fascinating characters are left out, such as my father’s three sisters, the teacher, the dancer and the prison visitor;  or the Bohemian Basche piano makers.  There is only scope here to show a very few “slides”.  My father’s family, though mostly quite musical, were robust, down to earth citizens:  a texture which supports the arts.  But Fred Adams tried to stop my father from playing the fiddle.  He said “one musician in this family is quite enough.”  So Peter as a boy, “practiced” with two pieces of wood, like the young Haydn.    After the war, he became a farmer, one of the few pioneers returning to organic ways.

But an even stronger influence, forcing all my windows to remain open since 11 years old, is my father’s teacher, J.Krishnamurti.   See my other posts in the Krishnamurti & the Coastal Path category – with more to come.

Krishnamurti at Rishi Valley

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This has turned out to be more a portrait of my father, than of his family … tentatively so.

What are these three huge Human Landscape posts for?   What made me want to be a Kabbalist – or the roots of any spiritual “mould” or tradition?   The map is revealed precisely!

The Adams Basche Yules group had solid earthly roots, stable psyche – with a dash of English eccentrics, and a firm ethical base.  This framework – the equivalent of a mature working lifestyle in the Jewish tradition – qualified me to continue my study of Kabbalah and Vedanta with clarity, depth and safety.  It is the “soul law”.

My father rebelled against the urban desk conventions.  He went back to the land, with his violin, his ecology and his love of poetry, and learned about sheep, cattle and fruit.  He loved land management.  I am stunned at a glorious mixture in my childhood, of the tough spiritual quest with the geologies of Scotland, Yorkshire, Cornwall, Surrey, Somerset and Devon.  What landscape!   What a gift!

The esoteric method seeks out its student.  I “think” I am the seeker, but I’m on the hook which is baited with life;  I receive.  I am the seed in the ground it sprouts through.   My passion for it could have gone ANYWHERE – it was so eccentric, open and willing.  I could have joined a cult.  But I was gated and protected by a mysterious ethical restraint – there must be no personal inflation.  It must work only for the good.   This was reinforced by the difficult Krishnamurti influence in my teens.

The restraint is the formative one of Saturn.  It comes from the shape of previous lifetimes, it  gravitated to a Capricorn birth with a Capricorn parent.  The flow is unbroken. Additionally, the intellect refused to go to university and learn other peoples’ thoughts.  Everything had to be planted in life-experience, and tried and tested.   I did not want answers.  I already knew them.  I wanted the open Life of the quest, and to become a better human being. Or IT wanted to;  for the transpersonal works through the personal.   The alchemical image is a lily in a flowerpot, standing in a garden.

lily in earth Emblem 7

I wanted to make and love the garden, the way my father loved his farms.  He never owned land.  He was Her servant, and sower of seed.  He got the sack a few times.  He hoped that what he began in those fields, would survive.

Capricorn asks perennially: How does Spirit work out in the earth plane?  How can the ageless Wisdom be applied?  What is practical?  How can I Self remember, and live more accurately?  more kindly?  Music and all the other training is preparatory, step by step, in learning to walk.  My artistic gift was carried over from the Renaissance apprenticeship 500 years ago – a deep, ongoing focus.   It is my key to the Great Work.   It no longer needs fame and fortune, it grew out of all those.   It only needs to be kept exercised for the “as above, so below” –   the LENS.

Kabbalah engraving

To love God daily, hourly, consciously, in the NOW?  Peter my parent, is a passionate atheist.  He became so, after the War.  Thus I was never constrained by belief in God, but explored the science of God:  the cosmic DNA or connectivity, the atom as the galaxy, the seed in the ground, the yeast in the loaf, the ferment in the grape, the lamb in the ewe.

How to be in The Work?   to live as a Kabbalist?   to wake up right now?   What is the essence?  The Work awakes to where life shines here, beyond my mind’s clogged pore.   When dull and stuck and dispirited and repetitive and stressed –  try to step off the engine into … the inner stars, here and now the Tree, an utterly new and timeless way of planning things.

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the lane to the river

Shared Sight:  Shebbear

Walking the lane
past a familiar oaken discourse in the field,
I have your frameless window.

Sixteen years you lived here!

I have your sky turning wind to shape each tree
and secret mossy dip of hedgerows to the winding lane
which lies along them, like a bootlace.

In a hollow, a slow crease between unbroken waves
of inland sea, lies hid yourself, whose nature
herding wild lambs, fighting red tape
and cherishing the root along the tractor’s tread of time

sowed with love the soul
of England’s fields
and planted stout trees, retiring.

My sight along the road
which ploughs a clustered contour, coloured soils,
holds yours attentively.

Here we behold on veined leaf
one globe of dew,
light ensphered.

From Poems of Eclipse 1999

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mary and peter

mary and peter

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morwenstowe, near Harland

morwenstowe, near Hartland

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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/

Watching Krishnamurti (4) & Ramana : photos of coastal path and Arunachala

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K arrives for a  last talk at Saanen, carrying the questions

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Pwllderi caves

This post is the concluding part of my Coastal Path memoir in 1991 –  Krishnamurti and Ramana’s teachings, where land meets the sea.  (See my mid-August posts:  With Ramana and Krishnamurti on the Coastal PathOn the Coastal Path – Travellers’ Treasure;  and Parc y Meirw – the Field of the Dead.)

Pwllderi beach

For this post’s illustrations, I raided my daughter’s photo album!  She was 17.  She took her tent to Pwllderi and Strumble in 1994, and later on, she went to  Ramana Ashram on her own.  These are pre-digital snaps on her instamatic in mucky rucksack; yet her views say what I feel and see, and didn’t write.

Older photos are like paintings:  we use our imagination a bit more.

The conversation with Ramana and Krishnamurti by the sea and afterwards, was a catalyst.  From it unfolded later on, my involvement with Ramana Foundation UK, and editing the journal Self Enquiry.   Who could have known!    Different time frames converge here – 1991 on the coast at Pyllderi, ’93 /’94, journeys to India, and then today:  hindsight and some new drawings.

Pwllderi stones and low tide

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 26 August 1991

The soviet iron curtain fell.   A global tremor!

Ideology’s dead fruit fall at last from the great tree of Mother Russia.  Whatever next?  The soviet empire reached the classic three-score years and ten.  That child of the October Revolution, an ultra-material religion, held those continents of the world in irons, for the span of man – one lifetime.   It was made of human, of collective mind.  It came forth and was acquiesced to;  it created liberation here and suffering there, moved its economic ballast around, and fed on the fear of death.  Like the birth and death of all people, it will prolong the memory of those it grasped, and be irrelevant to those it did not.

An idea rises and falls with extraordinary power.  In the end, it is dust – It seems never to have been.  There flows forth from under its grip, a river;  and they call this river “the people”.   It reached a tide, a crest of maturity into which it must deliver itself …  into the world as a whole.

 

Pwllderi sea-weathers:  looking towards St  Davids head

Politics, moments of history, local convulsions, even those which inflict unspeakable pain upon whole populations, are tides of the sea … the pendulum.

J.Krishnamurti said “Get out of this field!”

The field of the world is the tide carrying back and forth our baggage – time, greed and political polarities.  Stirring up the excitement, makes the bath water in my tub surge up and down!   The feeling is turgid and complex.  It dims my ability to see.

But it is another thing, like seeing a phrase of music, or the way the wind lifts a branch, to watch in myself the field of the world, without comment or belief.

To suspend belief in any part of it, is to remain an open place.

From Pwyllderi dinosaur headland

If I wrap “the field” of any phenomenon or belief around me, it is like going into a house and shutting the door.  But if I in that moment look and listen, a deeper arena opens.  Then I have sight of the house, and other houses on the wind, like the ripples in a golden field of wheat.

Journalism has no place here, nor has any opinion.

But there might be love.  Love – the response to life – opens red poppies in the field, and sky-blue harebells.  Can I observe it impartially?  Can a scientist see beyond measuring his own condition?  How to see objectively, the world? – for it is me!   Upon the dual fulcrum of “I” and “It” strives division and diversion for a pastime.

The pastime is false to the deeper question.

The field is space for evolution … the journey ever into “I” dissolves the “…I”.

 

pwllderi heather: Strumble “lions’ paws”

As I am, in this way, humanity, what do “I” contribute?  A particle, a drop of water, contains the universe.  I have no sight or function that I know of.  I cannot see what I am.  There is no answer to the question that I am asking.  Deep into the silvery ocean depth, the essence of joy and sorrow, I dive towards the golden note of “let it … being”.  It unfolds space within space for ever.

The question mark is the curve of a dotted I turned upside down.   There is no departure, no isolation from what I call “the world”.   It is the same for hermit or politician.  There is a mysterious transcendence at the heart of it all.  To “get out of the field” is to dive deep into it, dissolving the outlines of my bondage.   I see the global landscape only from the point where I was born.  The energy bound into making a fuss, is conditional to my own security and to patch a fabric.  The balance of power, the stabilizing of hostilities among countries, the environmental crisis, the pain of famine, suicide and tyrants that people suffer on so great a scale – so rapidly communicated – the spillage of fuel and the parturition of conscience … all engender hopes and fears, which boil down honestly to my very local interest.   I want an answer to suit ME.

Such “answers” are formulations of belief.  They solidify collectively, and nourish the merry go round.  Or … bored with itself and dying, the answer drops away like dead skin cells.

The other side of the coin, I surrender to a strange reality:  the creation of an un-thought inward –  Who? – generates, but never entraps the adventure of living.  I drop away not into dead cells, but into being.

Again I seek ground!  Belief!  What is truth?  Who are you?

Vishnu-Siva, dance of Creation.  Krishnamurti sees Creation as divine destruction.

Pwllderi – volcanic rock near Strumble

Mrs B came to visit.  She saw on a wild life programme, a baby zebra who lost his parents and tribe. He stands by the water in his stripy coat with his big, dark baby eyes, about to die.  Then he lies down on his side quietly by the water, and he dies.  He is given to the land.  The vultures come, gathering in the sky, to swoop and feed and clean. My friend rejoiced suddenly in the co-existent beauty of creation/destruction, Vishnu-Siva …  we’d been talking of Krishnamurti, the way thought self-destructs to awaken.  I see in the baby zebra’s dark eyes, the vultures, the translation of innocence.   That is it.  Every new instant is innocent.

The vulture is the baby zebra.

Pwllderi looking south, strata change

 **

Krishnamurti sees, is, walks among the divine beauty of destruction, without intermediary or describing.  Vedanta calls it the cosmic dance.  K knows this without symbol or spiritual shelter.  It seems his hands are untied.

K at Saanen in 1985

But is the symbol a mere “Ah! Shelter at last!”?  Do those who intuit and understand the symbols really regard them as permanent?

The symbol is a musical key.  It is alive.  It is there not to ritualize, but to open perception into the Self.   My embodiment walking around, is a symbol.

K regards symbols and hieroglyphs – occult or divine – as crutches.  I think he doesn’t know, they are not truly used that way.  The wise use them – the way language comes to hand – as tools towards the timeless flower:  the Inner Revolution.   Eventually they are no longer needed to open the heart.  As they inspire and enkindle love – and love is gratitude for Life – K encountered that same benediction when he walked among mountains, trees and wild animals at dawn.  He wrote in his notebook.  It bathed his inner “process” in radiance.  He preferred to call it by no name;  for so many divine names had spawned him.  But he said it is sacred beyond thought or form.  Where he walked, he loved.

In K’s own private mystery, it is not by naming that he truly sees the world/himself.

K in 1953 with Rosalind Rajagopal’s granddaughter Tinka

This makes him seem to close the door just when the seeker sees it begin to open.   The door opens inward to his or her “meaning”.  K seems to speak from the other side of a river which the seeker is suddenly required to have crossed and “destroyed” already.

Yet, this courage of K to go it alone, to lodge his person in no sacred hill, but expose it to the worldly frets, frustrations and ignorance – the fluctuating mood and encounter of secular life – is an extraordinary spiritual sacrifice.

It is said that K had no ego.  Maybe so.  The interest the mind has in maintaining its province, did not in him exist.  He described it as “empty”, vacant, without memory, without the sense of things past.  As there was no past tense in his consciousness, there were no “answers”.   Yet he was passionate to reform education.

So what is an answer?   A kind of verb.  A doingness, a beingness, being still or in movement.   Many are the ideas which obscure the inexhaustible inner fact.

K is himself, being visible, a symbol.

 

pwllderi goats

Ramana is a symbol.

Invocation from his Forty Verses:

(1) Can there be a feeling "I" without that which exists always?  
    Free from thought it exists, the Inner being, the Heart.
    How then to know what is beyond the mind?    
    To know it is to abide firmly in the Heart.

(2) They lose at once their "I" who, from fear of death 
    seek refuge in the Lord, conqueror of death.   
    Then by nature they are immortal.    
    What is to them, the thought of death?

.. 

 

pwllderi rough sea

Looking outward, I see the surrounding furniture, and seek identity.   Let this collapse inward to centre, inward to this kind of “Am”.  From the core, a pulse – the attention –  emanates subtly outward.  First there was a fence around existence, and existence was that fence.  Then the attention is removed from the fence, to “here” within.   There is no fence.  There is a root – the ‘I-thought, creating the appearance of the world.

If you hold that feeling by the stem as it dissolves, you are led to the Source behind the beginning and beyond the appearance of time.

In Ramana’s experience, the Heart or seat of Self reflects the physical heart:  to the right of sternum can be found the spiritual pulse or sphurana.   To search and feel and focus into this tentative centre, is a kind of tickle, peculiarly restful.  It may be leaned back into.  It feels like a depth or centre of gravity into which I take a brief tumble.  The “In-tense” here is a query with no castle wall.

pwllderi rough sea 2

There is no wall around Ramana either.  There’s a contour suggesting a hill that all may enter and ascend.  There are in the hill, those caves of brilliance, his eyes, to delight in.  That is what “I am” in sky and earth, in shy fox and flowering heather.

Arunachala ’93

And there is a living veneration, which does not generate attachment or cultus.  Why?  because he said when dying:  “I” am with you always.   Where can “I” go?   His figure opens the way like a landscape by the sea.  The light plays around it … as over pre-historic rocks.

Ramana ashram ’94, by the Mother temple

These are beginning sort of things.

Till now I’ve found it difficult to “be still” regularly.  There are so many things to concentrate on.  There is  work in watering my garden in every direction, to keep refreshed.  There are so many places – like the one between the eyebrows? –words, tones and colours to resonate.  I need to nourish the vast symbolic wealth with my creativity.  All of them are doors opening, and all are potentially exhausting.  Anxiety stalks an over-prolific garden.

But concentration is not upon the fence, not upon things.

 

near Arunachala, to the west:  portal

Concentration is the flow, the breath of itself.

The best way then, is simple.  Ask only into the essence of being;  with no room nor need nor expectation.  The rest will follow or flow from that.  The Great Rose, or whatever else.

Doorstep mandala at dawn, Tiruvannamalai ’93

Dare I hope?  What solidarity of the ‘open’ way into the Self, how encouraging to have met, or be about to meet “the others”, some others who are doing it too!

Last week – I don’t remember my dreams very much, for the work with them is done – I dreamed I was in central India traveling.  There was something very real about that, and the people I met.

 

Pondicherry ‘94

There isn’t anything truly real about things in life, which continue to agonize, upset or pull me into spirals of imbalance.  From within their coils even, I see how illusory, how “maya” is the waning momentum of manufactured complaint, how absurd it all is.  This is indeed strange, for to lose my centre feels at present worse and more painful than ever, like an irrevocable back-sliding.   Yet, the trouble, acute at the time, is quickly forgotten, like the labour when giving birth and feeling stuck.   It is all in the mind, the carrier of the evanescent.   The mind is that valuable passenger to Alchemy.  Thus I live in the world, not on retreat.

“You can keep your head cool in solitude while your hands are busy in the workplace,” Ramana said.  From the Centre which is transparent flows (through mental prism) the rainbow Universe of colour and form.

 

Cows near Arunachala

I want nothing.

What a vast variety of curves, of hues of “I”, fragmented or whole, knowing or unknowing, refracted or reflected, sore or joyful:   individuals.

Pond near Arunachala

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Tonight I went to visit Princess Helen.  She wore a white gown.  The walls of her palace are white, and the furniture is thoughtful.  She kindles her oasis in the paintings she buys, in the extension she is building out into her garden, the Transcendental Meditation she does, the fine young Italian who services her, the deep impressions and sudden visions she relishes or is infuriated with … the uncompromising creation and destruction of her inner world week by week, and the spaces – palaces – she builds and furnishes for her clients to live in.  Just now she is developing a residence in Park Lane.

I found her pouting sultrily over a tall glass of dry Chablis.  She had been down to Soho and bought a dozen huge glass jars.  She filled them with Indian spices of unusual autumnal colour, like leaves in fall, for the Park Lane palace …  no not to eat! (a kilo jar of chilli powder?) but to feed the eye – look how beautiful they are, ochre and siena, and to lift up the lid and sniff?  Her clients are rather overwhelmed by these personal touches.  They do not understand the paintings Princess Helen chooses for their palaces, but they feel cared for.  We began to sniff the spices ourselves.  We took rather a long snort at the red chilli and both began to sneeze.

 

Ochre spice, sienna and white, near Arunachala

We had supper in a boat on her “river”, drank more Chablis and talked of this and that.

She began to wonder about the wide arena within which human pollution struggles with itself.  What movement in cosmos does this happen relative to, what kind of consciousness is being formed?  Do microcosmic terrestrial developments reflect such things?  She got quite carried away, and her eyes began to glow with the miraculous scent of Providence.  She got out some tasteful utensils from M&S – “there IS conscience in the business world!   Look how this is designed – and even this packaging for washing powder, it’s so neat and pretty, you could put it on a shelf – AND it’s recyclable, yes, it’s all changing so much, isn’t it?  And do you know,” she told me, “they said the other day, about the ozone hole you know?  they’re finding evidence that dust from volcanic eruptions is being “utilized” to heal and close it!   Think of that!   Isn’t it EXQUISITE?  – marrying volcanic lava from the earth-core to ion replacement in its aerial outer wrapping.   How exquisite, how IMMENSE it all is – the poetry of the checks and balances, we have no idea.  Don’t you think it’s beautiful? – alive it is, great organic creature maintaining itself, our human stuff and suffering on earth, just a scratch.”

 

ramana ashram monk

Be that as it may.  When the Buddha and his colleagues walked the earth, was there a hole in its skin, letting through rays of strange nature?  – the ageless wisdom warms up beds of strata deep, deep within, and people on top are scared.   What things seem to be, is never what they entirely are.

How immense it is.

As the body heals and renews itself every day, beautifully … the organic rhythms throughout a body like the Solar System  – or even a galaxy – are too vast for the scratchy inhabitants of the skin of one of its planets to comprehend.

Ramana ashram arunachala ‘94

But … a Buddha can see it.  A Buddha can see the interplay of cosmic livingness … including consciousness on other planets, whose forms our sensory spectrum cannot detect.  A Ramana can see it.  How?   Because they themselves are that.

And therefore so am I and you.

 

Paddy fields

Without doing more than hold up a daisy, or a smile of silence, the being testifies to Grace in which all “I” am healed and whole;  to a Grace beyond the bounds and toil of my knowledge of time.

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Another try, this time in charcoal`;  I want my drawings to loosen up, and to have authentic expressive distortions.  Ramana really is a mountain, or a late-Beethoven quartet:  the human grandeur and beauty beckons anew, as I approach.    Next, I shall try turning the photo round, and drawing him upside down.  That usually gives a truthful draughtsmanship.

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And now, a few more Ashram impressions from 1994:

 

Friends: Bharati and Anna Kim

A torn tree of the soul:  Arunachala inner path

Pradakshina:  He wears His shawl

 and home.

By the way, she loved India and Siva – and “the guy who pours the ghee” (Sri Sundaram) – but is not a devotee.

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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.

Today with Krishnamurti

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K in 1925

Now Krishnamurti’s Notebook reminds me – with him – of the infinite, drifting yet rooted, abundant and alive Consciousness un-furnished … the Presence everywhere, which takes him, he wakes into, all through the night … Lotus.

This actually subsumes and permeates ANYTHING that curdles itself into a delusion on the surface.   Never is it not HERE and EVERYWHERE.   Always.   Whatever I – or anyone else – am doing.

I am not sleeping well;  so I relax when I can, with this space – the living humanity, without thoughts …  for up to half a minute, a minute, maybe;  then it becomes a thought, goes stale, gives birth to thought and multiplies, and has to be re-discovered.   But I know it is never, cannot possibly be absent.  The Silence holds the alchemy of anything that troubles me.   Learn to watch and be, without engaging.  Let it unfold.  The Holy One knows what s/he is doing.

I AM a bad feeling today.  Relax into its fluid Now, don’t quarrel it:  it flows and alters.   Just like K saying “I AM anger”.   I learned things very profoundly with K.   They take a lifetime to mature.

The cover photo on Krishnamurti’s Notebook – does he, do we leave one or two pairs of footprints in the sand? … as in this story:

 

To “I AM” the bad feeling … takes responsibility for it, whomever it attaches to.   Here it is, in my breath as space, and I centre it.   Its nature changes, and it begins to look like a Sri Chakra yantra.

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It isn’t judged as “bad” any more, it loses tension.   Those attributes lose strength and melt as soon as seen, like the way Consciousness melts back into a tiny I-thought capture.   So truly the Real Life is a river, a flame.

Not only do the single footprints in the sand accommodate the Teacher and my burden:  they suggest taking responsibility – coming home – no projection.   Sometimes they are two pairs of footprints in the sand, then they elide again.   Thus is life … the watery crescents.

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Soul

I watched the tide coming in at Kilve … the brown Bristol channel, with faraway Wales and an enormous sky,  the push and power of small ripples swelling together over stones and rocky channels – the miniature tsunamis, the end-game of the ocean wave, wind and moon, as it rises and fills, rises and fills countless fractal neighbourhoods – the occupying power of mind.   All is mind.   There is no conflict in the abundance and withdrawal of the tide;  the circle of the breath, in and out.

The beach is a capillary.  My body is a capillary.   The cosmos is a capillary to its Self.

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Image

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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.

Alchemy: the Work

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Girl, 1954

A few days before I went to the Brockwood gathering in 1974, I read and copied out in précis, this chapter about Alchemy in Jacques Pauwels and Louis Bergier’s book The Dawn of Magic.   It influenced me profoundly, in combination with the Krishnamurti awakening.   It describes in essence, a Sadhana, or way of truth in life – whatever form this takes:

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“The Philosophers’ Stone thus represents the first rung on the ladder that helps man to ascend towards the Absolute.  Beyond, the mystery begins.  On this side, there is no mystery, no esotericism, no other shadows than those projected by our desires and, above all, by our pride.

“But just as it is easier to content oneself with ideas and words than to do something with one’s hands in suffering and weariness, in silence and solitude, so is it also more convenient to seek refuge in what is called ‘pure’ thought, than to struggle single handed against the dead weight and darkness of the world of matter.

“Alchemy forbids her disciples to indulge in any escapism of this kind, and leaves them face to face with the great Enigma … She guarantees nothing except that, if we fight to the end to deliver ourselves from ignorance, truth itself will fight for us, and in the end will conquer everything.  This perhaps will be the beginning of true metaphysics.

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Ribbed sands of the sea:  Eigg

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“The alchemist, working over many, many years, maybe a lifetime, and endlessly repeating each stage of his experiments so that it be open to cosmic combinations of rays and magnetism (sacred patience and the slow condensation of the universal spirit) mixes in a mortar three ingredients, an ore, a metal and an acid.  He then heats in a crucible this mixture for ten days or so, slowly, and then dissolves it in an acid under reflected (polarized) light (sun or moon) – then evaporates, then re-calcines the mixture.

“After the first phase, perhaps several years, an oxidizing agent is added, maybe potassium nitrate, and continues the endlessly repeated operation of dissolving and re-heating, waiting for a sign.  Which appears at the moment of melting, and may appear in the form of star shaped crystals on the surface, or in a layer of surface oxide which forms and breaks up, revealing the luminous metal in which can be seen a reflection in miniature of the Milky Way perhaps, or some of the constellations.

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Universe

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“He removes the mixture from the crucible, allows it to ripen, protected from air and damp until Spring, when he resumes what is now ‘the preparation of darkness’.  He puts it in a receptacle of rock crystal hermetically sealed, and heats, regulating temperature and conditions minutely to bring the mixture of sulphur, carbon and nitrates to a certain degree of incandescence, but without exploding.  The mixture contains enormous energy.

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Sky in October

**

“He continues heating and cooling for many years to procure thereby, an essence, the Raven’s Wing, the darkness.  The liquid is fluorescent.  Then he opens it in the dark, and the liquid solidifies and breaks up, forming new elements. 

“He washes the dregs in the receptacle with triple-distilled water – the water of Life – for several months.  The water of Life, the Elixir, is thought to eliminate ‘heavy water’ in the organism which ages it.

Image 

View of Rhum, from Eigg

**

“He next starts to combine the new unknown elements that have formed, grinding them and melting them at low temperatures with catalysers.  He can thus produce alchemic silver, copper and gold, and at length the philosophers’ Stone, a substance which dropped into melted glass, turns it ruby red, and gives off a mauve or pale violet fluorescence.  This Stone or ‘projection powder’ of itself can bring about transmutations in base metals to precious stones.

 Image

Jewel

**

“The most important aspect of the Alchemist’s pilgrimage is his own transmutation, within his soul.  His endlessly repeated small operations engender what is perhaps partly a state of profound meditation, and partly the imprint upon his psyche of the transmuting matter itself.

“He establishes a new relationship between his own mind which from now on is illuminated, and the universal Mind, eternally deepening its concentration.”

Precis on Alchemy from “The Dawn of Magic” by Pauwels & Bergier.

See also my earlier post in this blog – Alchemy & Self Enquiry.

**

Image 

Flora 1956 – copied from Botticelli’s Primavera

**

**

 

 

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.

Watching Krishnamurti (2) – Brockwood 1974 Continued: Part Three

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I attended the Brockwood gatherings of September 1974, the year of a great storm, with my sway-backed childhood tent and a thin groundsheet.  There was so much mud and rain.  The wind shouted in the trees.  The sweet chill of the sodden grass and earth shocked my bare feet.  Fires were made on the ground, and people sat around them to dry out their blankets, and made love in the tents.  In the big marquee, K, pungently perfumed, small and brown, sat on his hands until they fluttered out in front, and talked in his dancing way about our relationships, about the way our awareness is not limited, but draws on the common stock, and about the root of fear.

His teaching at that time, is central to my life’s effort to come close to the ‘fact of my fear’ – to stand under the waterfall.

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Aurobindo and Krishnamurti

**

“It is part of our conditioning to admit division between the observer and the observed.  The thinker and the thought.   The experiencer and the experience.   But when you see that the observer is the observed,  which is the truth,  then that conditioning is broken down.   You understand all this? (pleads).   That instant it is gone.   Therefore the mind has freed itself from this eternal conflict between what is and what should be, which is the duality between good and bad —  this eternal conflict between ‘me’ and ‘you’.    I wonder if you see this?    Therefore from that arising,  can the mind which has been conditioned heavily through education, culture, religious doctrines, immoral attitudes,  and all that —  can all that be INSTANTLY wiped away?

 “We say it can!   It can be done only when the observer realises he is not separate from the observed.   He eliminates conflict altogether,  and therefore he has energy to go beyond..  You got it?

 “So action is not an adjustment to an idea.   Action is not approximating itself to an ideal.  I wonder if you see this?   Therefore action is always in the living present.   Action then is the movement of the fact,  not what you think the fact should be.  

 “Now this is art!   which is sanity.   Art means — doesn’t it also? —  ‘to fit’.   To fit every thing in its right place —  that is art —  not merely painting a picture or writing a poem or doing a sculpture ;   putting every thing in its right place –  not right according to ‘you’,  but right according to the facts.   The fact is always out of time.    One has to deal with the fact all the time –  not with the ideas.   To deal with the fact,  the mind must be free of every form of image that you have built about yourself and others.    From this comes complete action,  in which there is no regret, no sorrow,  no sense of ‘not having done the thing wholly’.

 “You see sir,  there is a problem,  a question here.   We are educated to pursue pleasure,  right?   We are educated to conform morally,  ethically,  religiously,  to the pattern of personal or collective pleasure.   Have you not noticed how our mind pursues this constant desire for pleasure?   You don’t have to admit it –  it is a fact.   The two principles in our life are fear and pleasure.   Again, when one observes,  the pursuit of pleasure ‘tomorrow’ is the root of time.   ‘I have had pleasure yesterday.   I MUST have it tomorrow.   I am working for that pleasure for tomorrow –  sexually, intellectually,  in so many ways.’    So pleasure implies the continuity of time.   

 “Not that there ‘is not pleasure’ –  that’s not the point —  but the demand,  the pursuit of pleasure –  do you follow?   So can the mind – please look at – investigate this with me! –  can the mind finish each day totally and enter next day afresh?   Do you understand my question?  When we see the fallacy of time as a means of change,  every day must end and not psychologically carry over the next day!   

J.Krishnamurti, Brockwood 1974

 **

Through one fear, K said, trace the root of all fear.  When you are THAT, there is no problem, no conflict.  The central fact of fear, he says, is (of) the non-existence of the observer, of ‘me’.  Myself in isolation is a form of resistance, or exclusion.  “The content of your consciousness is that of the world.  Can your consciousness undergo a radical change?  Only when the central fact – that conflict is not separate from you, you are that conflict – is SEEN, does all division and conflict come to an end.”  On the tape, you can hear the rain drumming on the tent roof, louder than his words:  he grimaces and laughs.  “In true meditation, you are not going away from yourself or following a practice.  I wonder if you SEE THIS?”

I never became a Krishnamurti disciple.  There had been enough of that in my childhood.  But many years later when I started to read about him and how he had grown up, I was inspired by two of his remarks:  one was “Be the disciple of your understanding”.   In the other, he said (concerning angers and anxieties) that the tidal movement of the sea, going in and out, has no end, no conflict with itself.  Truth is the tide, it is without beginning or end, it is not for capturing.  The essence of conflict is truth, which is peace.

Truth is a pathless land.  It has no Master.  K’s “process” in his spine is the dying agony of every moment to be born.  The sacred, beyond line or shape, permeates the worn down toothbrush and the Saville Row tailoring of three-dimensioned space.

It is fashionable not to understand him.  “Get out of the field!”   The field of the world is the tide, carrying back and forth the baggage of time and political priorities.  But what he really means is get into the field, un-judging and therefore un-separate from the pathless movement which is truth.

Obviously, those September days of the storm – a great tree blew down at Brockwood – pinpointed my major problem, directed me to seek out an arena where I should find it, and augured a time, for me, of extraordinary focus.

 Image

Down to the sea

**

At the gathering, I made a new friend;  his name was Daniel.  (See part one & part two.) He came up with an umbrella to see what I was drawing.  He was on his way to Israel;  his dark eyes were quiet, still and searching.  He demonstrated for me how grace flows into restraint:  the exquisite restraint invokes grace.  But he was very young, and so was I.   Our encounter those two weekends haunted my dreams at night for many years.   When we parted, he gave me Kazantzakis’ Travels in Greece, which he had marked in many places.  Here are some more of these passages, and then my reflections on returning home:  being cooked over a slow turning point in my life.

**

KAZANTZAKIS

“Can you never cast off from you, your miserable, earthen existence?  Destroy it!  Set someone free within you!”

“A wind, a song, flits through the human reeds…”

 .

“A nun with a trowel was caulking the walls, and two young helpers, bent over and silent, scraped away at the plaster with religious attention, laboring to uncover the hands, the beard, the calm eyes of some saint beneath the whitewash.”

 .

“… she said , Wait,  I too am waiting.  I touched her hand as if wanting to thank her.  Her hand began to quiver in my grasp, to give itself like a body.  I felt the stern faced merciless law descend again between man and woman.  Ancient mysteries, Christian loves, the orgies of Astarte – the entire mystic identity of God and animal leaped up and came to life within my ephemeral palm, as it led on the woman.  How involuntarily, I thought, does Word become flesh in a woman’s breast!  As the spirit touches her, it takes root like a seed.  For a woman, the spirit is not a winged immaterial power, as it can be for a man;  for a woman it is the primal wingless plastic essence which contains all matter.  It does not have wings but roots.

“At that instant the limpid fervid voice of a child sounded behind us, singing with precocious passion, unknowing still of woman – The earth gnaws at my feet, the wind gnaws my hair, and a little dark haired one is nibbling deep inside me!

“We held our breath.  Suddenly the entire pathway seemed to sparkle, as though the rocks themselves had blossomed.  We held our breath, following the voice as it moved away, to vanish among the trees.

“Ah the song, I said softly.  The essence of creation, the voice of God!

“And for me, murmured my companion, pity for that child flooded over me, pity for myself, for all the world.”

 .

“… the heart is a peculiar torrent which flows uphill, contrary to nature.  Nowhere can a proud soul find more abundant nourishment than amid the wreckage of the world … …  I sat amid the ruins and rejoiced to hear such a voice rising from the stones of Monemvasia.  And for a long time I looked straight down, watching three goats with gleaming black hair climbing the red rock, directly above the sea.”

 “Spiritual purity and intellectual dislocation … …  No one understands their ancestors less well than the descendents.”

 .

“Let all we’ve said be salt and water, I said.  Forget it.  Don’t be glum, don’t dig about too deeply, abandon the theories.  Otherwise you’ll risk studying the Problem without experiencing it.  And only he who lives such problems can solve them.  Don’t suffer that which they tell to mock the learned Germans:  If they see two doors, on the one written ‘Paradise’ and on the other ‘Lecture about Paradise’, they’ll all rush for the second door.”

I don’t have anything, if I don’t have silence of mind.

Travels in Greece

 Image

Red horse dream

4 August 2012

These passages touch me strangely, especially the one with the elemental difference between men and women.  How often do we pause with each other, to contemplate this?

Taking youthful experiences from the cupboard, is therapeutic.  It gives me rest, release and a feeling of moving onward, into a garden or field.

I have a beast of a mind.  This I accepted, as my mother and I saw wild flowers by the sea yesterday – a pageant of them this year, along the low shale-y cliffs at Kilve in Somerset.  Only writing quiets my mind – or mind is quiet when writing/receiving.  The curse of artists and poets, now I am older, doesn’t bother me now.  My mind is like the shape of my nose.  She’s there, prone to conflict and distraction, and to worry about the world and other people;  but so is the quiet creative exercise which opens the skies.

At 25, fuelled by the sex drive of youth, she was impossible to master.  I adventured with her, learned to ride, got thrown off many times, and eventually respected her.  Self enquiry and other spiritual exercises are long-term attritions and refinements.  They uncover yet more wealth for mind to prance around with.  Being built empty, open for the sea, explodes the atom into birth.  In everyday life then, accept her grumbling ways as a landscape.  Thus it is, to be human.   But I call her “The Mare”.

**

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Flowers at Kilve

September 1974

Nothing and nobody is mine.  The feeling is of having nothing.  But why have anything?  What of the unfading flower Krishnamurti spoke of?  If I have something, I – meaning the flower – am not.

Is it wise to write?  Do I write so as to possess and preserve an event like fruit in the jar, or to clarify?  Writing is my emotional bolster and raison d’etre.  I do it so as to retain insights and people I cannot otherwise remember.  On the other hand, if I wish to continue writing – and it is a way of dialogue other than the turmoil in my head – let it be straight and to the point.  Let it be the happening as it occurs.  Finish.

**

This is a tough vigil.  And there’s no carrot at the end, though I keep trying to make one.  Having trouble with my superduperego.

When I listened to K., at the end of his talking I experienced an extreme reluctance, which was either for going out into the thing itself naked – a real terror – or sad regret that my mind had been too noisy and too anxious to listen to him.

There is nobody to see or hear or look critically over my shoulder.  On a desert island nothing can be heard, for there is no ear.  Just silence.  Bruised silence.  A nowhere.  Unknown.

“Meditation,” said K “is like going to a well the waters of which are inexhaustible, with a pitcher that is always empty.  The pitcher can never be filled.  What is important is the drinking of the water, not how full the pitcher is.  The pitcher must be broken to drink the water.  The pitcher is the centre which is always seeking.  And so it can never find.”

 **

Image

As long as I carry around with me the concept of time – in the deeper subtle sense, not as surface activity where as a tool it is necessary – I am preoccupied with tomorrow, yesterday, progress and past.  It all tastes of the night before.  And it is all boring and hard work and going nowhere.

But if I am quite still in this place, there is no time and not repetition.

Deep down I am aware of time passing.  I’m aware of impending rescue and termination of this inactivity – when Akiva has finished getting his visa forms checked at the Greek embassy (he’s going to India overland), where I wait for him in a cloud of foreign languages and cigarette smoke.  I am therefore still “safe”.

But in reality there is no safety.

From time to time, up come tears of neglect, frustration, loneliness, whatever.  I see their pretentious ballast and they are gone.  I have to be more selective with music, because a lot of it is cacophony.   The “seeing” of a problem is its perdition.   I create it anew in idleness, and again it is “seen”.  Perhaps thus in stages, the mind is gently coerced from its condition, like a boat from its mooring.

Boat sea

“If one has a problem in relationship —  and most problems are in relationship —  to carry that problem over into the next day,  implies a continuity of the problem which is becoming more and more complex, more and more difficult;   the mind then accepts the problem inevitably,  and lives with the problem,  and the mind becomes more and more dull.   When you understand the nature of time,  as we have tried to explain earlier,  then that problem must be resolved TODAY,  not carried over the next day.    You understand?   Can you,  can the mind resolve the problem of relationship between human beings,  as it arises,  end it?    Can this be done? —  not as a theory,  but as an actuality?   

 “You see, unless we lay the foundation for all this,  meditation and the enquiry into reality,  into whether there is something beyond thought,  becomes utterly meaningless —  unless you have done all this.   You can go to Japan and sit for years meditating in certain Zen monasteries,  or you can go to India —  I don’t know why people go to any of these countries to learn meditation,  you can do it at home.  You don’t have to go abroad.   It’s a waste of money;  but perhaps you like to play the tourist.   Now, unless you lay the foundation for all this,  and the mind be totally free from conflict, and therefore,  from psychological problems,  unless you have done that,  you cannot possibly go beyond.  What you try to achieve then becomes an illusion,  an unreality,  it has no meaning.   So it is very important to understand that every human problem that arises —  and human problems are in relationship between you and another,  between you and your wife, husband, girl, boy,  all the rest of it — unless in that relationship there is no conflict,   whenever any problem arises in that relation,   to end it INSTANTLY is our question.   You have understood my question?

K, Brockwood 1974

**

There are two problems, which involve not Daniel but my concept and use of him.  They are the old ones.  Firstly I imagine he is with me where I go – to see me, preening, false and desirable.  Secondly I wonder what I shall say when I write to him.  The sound of all those rolling phrases echoes around and around my mind all day long, like prisoners at exercise.

The old pattern prepares me for the worst – for total rejection, and with it, infantile longing for something which then has no life.

Well no, that’s not quite it.

But yes, for the longing, the desire, is not for him but for my idea of him which I recognize as groundless and gutless.  It’s the idea of myself.  Wanting him precludes loving.  To love is on the moment, when you are able to be there – on all levels.  There is no permanence:  only renewal.

He is my cloak to shield me from the strangeness of other human beings so that I can write them off as being boring.

There’s no real joy in pleasure, for pleasure is pending, it is a tension.  Pleasure, the kind I seek – not the good sensations the waking day embraces – is a cop out.  This difference between joy and pleasure!  Joy is total, like sunrise.  Pleasure is conditional.  There is no joy to see a man whom I have made into the fixed building of my mind.  There is more “pleasure” in what is “all in the mind”.

**

You are not to be owned, even within the recesses of memory!  nobody owns you.  You own no body.

The spirit may be willing to give up a person, but is reluctant to part with a painting – truly its own work!

To make a painting is to listen to what is already there, and interfere with it as little as possible.

Please, I want to change, learn to change my position in the boat from the back (with all the illusions ahead) to the front (with the real sea to navigate) – to be with you who lead me.  Not to try, which implies failure, but to learn.    “It is easier to accept a ritual than to gain access to knowledge, easier to invent gods than to understand techniques.”  (The Dawn of Magic)

This IS a matter of life and death.

Breathing like waves of the sea.  Comes sometimes a long swell, and sometimes a short one.

 **

I Ching – “Advance slowly with joyfulness.”  Do not, in fighting, sharpen the assets of the imagined enemy.  The lake rises to heaven.

The I Ching is a guide among psychic currents, landscape and forest, to the awakening of my responsibility.

**

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Marina at night

“Fear.  The most absurd fears and the most tragic fears – can the mind be free of all that?  How do you investigate ‘I’m afraid’? … the observer is part of, not different from, that fear.  The observer is the observed;  and my anger or fear is part of me, not something separate.  What am I ‘to do’ with that anger?  I AM anger!”

K went on to propose – “listen carefully!” – that we now expose the whole structure of our fear and anger;  of ‘me’.  These remarks irresistibly challenge my soul’s most reckless element.  My attention sharpens.  There is a passionate longing to be clear, and to live and speak without decoys.

“Each response recognizes a previous anger or fear, which it reinforces.  Can the mind observe anger or fear without this re-cognition?  Deeply, we are violent beings.  The observer himself is part of the violence.  The idea that I must separate or go beyond it, is CONFLICT.  My structure of ‘me’ is violent.  So what takes place?  What actually takes place, with no desire to overcome it or suppress it? – (those are wastage of energy!)  Only energy can take place, can go beyond itself-which-is-violence.  And only fragments can create violence.  The observer is the observed!  No escape, no interpretation – THE THING IS!”

“Can you be aware of your fear,” K went on, “as of the colour of the jersey next to you?  … see that there is only one central fear with many branches, which wither away … and can you look at that root now, can you invite it?   Whatever you fear among the many of them, each one is still the root of all fear.  The observer is the observed.  If the idea is not, if the ME is not, where then is fear?  Please, please, are you following this?”  His voice breaks.

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Pebbles in Devon

I wonder what the sadness is.  Nights asleep I am so busy in many different places, that I wake worn out.  I dream and dream and can’t let go.  Rock climbing last night with my father.  And losing my bag with all its precious contents, including this story.  What a strange thing, to “have”.  How curiously hard to relinquish.

What is the sadness?

Is it Akiva going off on Saturday, three or four days time, to India?  Does this parting go deeper than I knew?  Or is it a distillation of four years we spent together?  There is here, till Saturday, a small chaos of packing.  Perhaps it is I who wish to go to India myself, thus grief?  I tidied places this morning, and threw out years of accumulated rubbish.  Afterwards I’m going to – I want to rearrange things, the furniture here.  I know how it’ll be, I will move the bed back to the end of the room by the gramophone and the books, I’ll put the table where the bed is now, in the alcove, and pull the sofa at a slant along the big bay-window, and focus it all with the big green plant, and then there will be great space, oh SPACE, in the room, all over the grey carpet, to dance and play in, and have people to visit, full of that lovely view of the gardens that comes in with the birdsong.  This is Greencroft Gardens.

Akiva is doing Turkey, Afghanistan, Ceylon, Nepal by overland bus.  I am left here.  But mine is no less of an adventure … to the end of my nose!   We’ve been sharing various gargantuan feasts with all our friends and been to the pictures to see The Last Tango again.  Room filled with light, and soon to be mine alone.

I’m tired out, I don’t feel like eating.  I’m pale, thin, supple with the yoga asanas that Daniel showed me, voice feels a little deeper, can sing as well as dance.  And started a painting of me, it is called ‘Question’.  In it, I wear my long green and blue Indian gown.  And sent off ever such a long letter to Daniel, together with the K drawing I’d promised to give him, and which I rescued more or less from its state of desperate confusion.  I miss Daniel.  I need the feel of him in my mind.

I walk around in a bog of Akiva and my whole trip together.  I want to clean the slate and start a clean drawing.  I want to curl up and sleep somewhere, and not undertake anything.  Daniel’s Kazantzakis book has a lot of him because he gave it to me, and because of where he marked it, so I turn the pages in blind exploration, rather dazzled, not knowing what to expect next in this slow movement forward.

Love has no expectations.  How to be open and naked enough to let there be love?  It is in the here and now.  The frantic running away in the dark to cinemas of the soul, a buzz to be occupied and filled with some nice story of myself … and the realizing, the seeing, the stilling of those urgent and stinging surface waters.  Stay empty … the darkness, the nowhere … until it gives no longer torment, but peace.  Dive then, dive down through the stinging water, immerse.  The torment is self taught.  But peace needs no teaching.

**

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Vera Moore (see also  http://www.myspace.com/lipatti/blog/245826085)

Sleep and dreams again the whole night long … of mens’ delighted embraces, of me arriving in places to paint, but too apathetic to do so, of driving a gigantic combine-harvester to reap ripe standing wheat in rows of a tremulous order, which became a painting of a paddock and trees never to be finished … and of Vera Moore and my closed-up piano (playing).  She was my teacher in Paris when I was fifteen.  She opened up so much music to me, and I haven’t played for years … and of a disorder everywhere, a pile of I Ching stalks, a bacchanalian bedroom feast with others, and losing all my clothes.

So do I run about here and there.  The pool parts reluctantly with its storms.

**

The I Ching gives tongue to the intuition.  It is a contemplation deep and unhurried as the days pass, for within the intuition is sprung from timeless source, the surface turbulence that preoccupies me.  So don’t consult too often.  The lesson must be given time to unfold its flower.

Wisdom is unhurried.  Wisdom is heard not in haste, but in the slow unravelment of the voices of the mind, in the way the waters become calm.  In this stillness lives no longer desire for what is not there.  It is rest.  Do not run to a “contemplative” refuge.  Simply SEE that the suffering cannot be.

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question

Plotinus:  “This universe is a unique animal that contains within itself all other animals … without coming into contact, things occur and are bound to produce an effect at a distance … the world is a unique animal and that is why it must of necessity be in sympathy with itself.  There is no such thing as chance in life, but only a harmony and an order which governs everything … events on the Earth are in sympathetic relationship with celestial things.”

There is an inscrutable harmony behind all the events of life, if I but listen and hear.  In levity I have for years, called it “The Divine Regulator”.  My Divine Regulator is a recognition that all things experienced, no matter how tough or painful, work out for the best in the end, according to some fundamental Law of growth or expediency or tuition – even totally frivolous things, like a missed train, or a disappointment.

Even Krishnamurti dwells in a mobile ivory tower, with his inner ring of devoted old trouts, who organize, protect, clothe and broadcast him.

Brockwood, with its extraordinary clarity, compactness and intensity of light, is like a monastery.  People find there a retreat, where their concern with aspects of being alive can be brought into high relief.  It looks like a hospital.  For some, it extends their game of chess.

As K says, meditation is something for which there is no specified time or place.  It happens as well riding in a bus, as sitting under one of those ancient lofty, singing trees in a park of purity.

 portrait, circa 1974

**

Daniel … I could use your help.  I am silting up a little.

Akiva and I saw The Sting last night at the pictures, at which I greatly enjoyed the movements of Redford & Newman outwitting Shaw.  What a fine ballet.  Before that, we had Akiva’s elderly friend Dr de Silva for supper.  He then took us to the Hampstead Cricket Club for drinks.  Akiva cannot stop singing Dr de Silva’s praises, the brotherhood of man, what a marvelous person and all that.  He is a pleasant and rather lugubrious old gentleman whose loquacious cadences of speech are endlessly predictable.  I knew the Cricket Club would be an ordeal.  In a place of no stimulus, my mind faced with her own BLANK, devises phantom stimuli chatterboxing from the future, and it’s such a battle, and it depresses me so.  I am trying to be Just Here, but I don’t like it Here.  When we came out at last into the smokeless starry night, I thought No more Latin, no more French!  No more polite mediocre places which Akiva appears to enjoy but I DON’T!

There is the doubtful pain of growing, this desire for refuge, to run into the male who’ll protect me and occupy my fantasies.  Trouble is, if he occupies my fantasies, how can he ever occupy me?

No!  This is a time, a valuable time, to be out on the limb of the tree, and stay there.  To stop postponing.

**

My period came as the lovely blood cleansing of a whole period, a loving, a pain, an impulse.  I don’t mean only in the purgative sense.  I mean the way it washes away with inexorable lunar rhythm, the built-up tide or lining of the dark womb, and clears it completely for what comes next.  If there is no period, the consequences remain in you physically, for ever.  The making of love becomes the embryo of a lifetime.

Even in these days on the Pill, where I don’t have to worry about conceiving, the onset of bleeding carries an inner and secret renewal.  Blood is like tears, but these are tears of tenderness.  The womb weeps, aches, with a kind of compassion, joyful, unhurried and liberating, all of it running out from the contracting sponge.  That sponge in the inner dark – how like the two plump sides of a seed it looks;  and then the seed lets itself go.  We could learn from this a thing or two.  I AM this movement of my body, and these movements are not my spectacle but my truth.

**

Image

Balsa boat (made for my grandmother in 1962)

**

**

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.

Watching Krishnamurti (2): Brockwood ’74 Continued – Part Two

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Perhaps few of us would tackle spiritual Reality, were it not for its underside – the pain when we are unable to be in relationship now:  with what is.  The passion of “the speaker” illumined for an instant, the blindingly obvious.   Then we must find it for ourselves, chipping away beyond thought.  Only life can do that:  life and the chisel of decades from within.   For a young person with insight, this is peculiarly painful.  We are a work that is incomplete.

I find it valuable here, to honour the pain.  We all know it.   It is as crucial to spiritual growth as “the understanding” and “the creativity” when the sun comes out.  Some of us wail into our notebooks;  wisdom may come to this focus, as to any;  here is a little of my workshop of the wailing.   What follows is, in essence, a fairly typical “ashram” or guru-bhakti story:

**

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Krishnamurti portrait, 2nd version

“Can the mind remain with sorrow,  AS SORROW,  not rationalise or run away from it?   Can it remain motionless with this feeling we call sorrow?   I hope you are doing this as the speaker is talking about it;  otherwise it is no fun at all.

 “Is there an action which is not based on an action?   Action based on an idea is time.   There is an inadequacy,  a lack of complete identification,  and therefore a conflict between the idea and the action.   What is seeing?   The act of looking brings its own order.   Looking at the fact of sorrow.   Look at that feeling,  without a single image about yourself,  or interpretation.   This requires tremendous attention, concern,  discipline.   This seeing then,  is the acting in which there is no time.   The moment there is time,  there is conflict.

 “If I act according to an idea or ideal,  I am insane!   Of course I am!   Real action at any level of our life is not the future according to an idea,  but seeing,  without the image of oneself.   That is instant action.   If you listen,  that very act of listening itself,  is an entire action.

 “Our entire moral structure is based on our pleasure and fear,  which is immoral …

J.Krisnamurti, Brockwood gathering, September 1974

**

September 1974

Today is the back slipping of my heart.  Don’t know what to do with it, this body.  All cells a-dancing in a question mark of wanting.   (But started a painting of Krish. which is very like him, and re-drew the portraits of two lads from Yorkshire.  Hungry, and now listening to Liszt …

Tomorrow, to Brockwood again for a second weekend.  Shall I see Daniel again there?  “Shall we meet in London this week?” he asked.  “No,” I said, “I’ve got things to do.”  Truth was that, and also how to manage seeing him with regards Akiva;  and in any case there was that “there’s all the time in the world” feeling, even though he’s off to Israel in ten days.  I feel at such times, almost bewildered, contained, basking in and trying to digest the present, no plans to be made.   But oh, on Tuesday night, I cried.  And still it rains, with an endless wet whisper.

A gust of wind rocks all the people on the platform back like a wave.  In South London the train rides among the chimneys.  I love the way he cleaves me with that deep tender thrust of his, and fills me up, sweet pain.

Doing my best to steer away, with the company of other people, thoughts of this human being, whom I don’t want to load with my ludicrous heart-storm.  Heart-storm destroys the ability to relate to him, or be friends.   What a lot of insane energy is spent, trying to materialize things in the mind.

I don’t want to be addicted to his comings and goings.  I want to enjoy the full tapestry, all the people, all my self.  When there is no thinking, there’s no problem, like when you wake from sleep.

And desperately anxious about hypothetical exchanges with Asher, re my going away again this weekend – we are still living together, right up till the time he goes off to India – what if he wants to come too?

As I keep trying to grasp, there is no problem until the problem is invented.  There is in truth, no problem anywhere – just situations.

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Tree conference, Brittany 1987

**

It is Friday morning, and the sun is out.  Night of dreams.  Phone rang and it was Daniel.  We arrange to meet at the Theosophical bookshop … but we don’t know at what time, because the pips ran out and he had to catch a train!

Today or tomorrow?  Both are aspects of eternity.  There is a terrific discipline with Daniel, like clear waters.  Dreamed last night about Yorkshire and my father, and curious drifting creeks of land and sea.  And dreamed I was kissing Daniel who was in his sleeping bag, and he was very vague as to if or when we would ever meet again, and I was trying to keep my cool.

**

So strange a thought pierces sometimes the clouds.  It is about Krishnamurti giving talks at Brockwood, and sleeping in the house.  Around him coasts a profusion of individual dramas – pain and personal turning points – of which my own is but one flighty little cell of anguish, among it all.  Rather macabre!  Why does K attract all that, like a magnet?   What happens around him stings.  “The observer is the observed.”  How far does that go?  That phrase reverberates from my childhood, from the searching of my father’s path.

WHAT, through the dim opening in my clouds … observes?  “Whom” does it observe?   Krishnamurti is the hub of a wheel turning around him.

I only grasped for a moment, that I suffer a fragment of what preoccupies all and everyone on a revolution of that wheel.  There was some comfort seeing this.  But such comfort was immediately removed from my hand and I “see” it no more.

Every individual at Brockwood is the messenger of his or her absorbent and urgent tapestry of life;  each alone, and insoluble.   Poor K – sitting in the middle of all those bees – would-be’s – that buzz around him!   “If only one could just concentrate on Krish…”  – on the entirety of the garden, the open walks in the wet windy woods.  What a feast is lost through fear and anxiety and the complicated management of this.

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Buoyant boats, Brittany 1987

**

“What is the problem in relationship?    (Thunder outside – tent rattles)   Attachment?  detachment?  and so on.   Attachment to WHAT?   Do, please go with me!   Attachment to what?   I’m attached to YOU –  my wife, my father, my mother, my sister, my – wife,  my girlfriend -whatever it is.   God, I’m glad I haven’t got any of those.    Thank God!   (laughter)   Sorry!    Don’t impose them on me please!   Heh!

 “Attached to what?   Dominating what?   Jealous of what?    Attached to what?

“Attached to the image that I have built about her and she has built about me,  out of her loneliness,  out of –  whatever it is.   You follow all this?   Please,  watch it!   because we are going to –  we are showing that a problem that arises in human relations can be dissolved INSTANTLY.   Not carried over.   The carrying over is the INSANITY.

 “What is the mind attached to,  when it says “I am attached to my wife”?   “my house” – whatever –  attached?   (Thunder)   Attached to the image I have built about her?   Am I attached to HER –  please listen! –  or to HIM?   or to the IMAGE I have built about her or him?    Obviously,  to the image!   I can’t be attached to the person,  because the person is living!   moving!   has its own desires,  its own ambitions,  its own problems,  its own – pettiness,  its own –  shallowness,  its own –  emptiness.   But I am attached to the image that I have built about her.   And that image becomes MUCH more important than her.  (Croaks)

 “Can my mind be free from building images?   You understand?  (Pleads)   because then I’ve ended the problem.   Are you moving with me?    Can the mind empty its images about her?   She’s hurt me,  by word, by gesture,  by some – act.   The hurt is to the image I have about myself.   And I am attached to that image and to the hurt.   And that is non-relationship –  which is insanity!   I am living according to an image I have built about her,  about myself.   An IMAGE –  you understand? –  which is an idea ;   and therefore has nothing whatever to do with relationship.  

 “So can the mind never build an image?   Which means —  be aware at the moment of hurt.  

“If you have no image,  you won’t be hurt.   It’s only when I have an image about myself that I can do something about it,  kick it around.   But if I have no image about myself,  you can’t kick it around.   So can the mind be free of image building –  which is the ideation?   which is the same thing in other words –  so that everything that the man or the woman does is instantly perceived and dissolved,  so that there is no image at all,  which means every incident is over for the next moment, and the mind is young,  fresh  and innocent.”

K, Brockwood 1974

**

Brockwood.  Hearing Krishnamurti speak again, I dived into my little capsule of pain, and have only just climbed out.  Capsule is all it is.  It exists, but it isn’t ALL, unless you choose to have it so.

DON’T RUN AWAY TO I-DON’T-KNOW!

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Squall approaches, Brittany 1986

**

It is a bit of a cult around here.  Daniel and his friends bubble around the hot pot of Krishnamurti talk and Krishnamurti tapes (so do I at times, just to keep with it) like a gang of schoolboys.  I’ll go home tomorrow.  As to Daniel – I haven’t said an honest word to him all day.  End of affair.  Too much romanticism and starry nights on my part.  All bullshit.  He’s more than a fraction “precious”.  I mistrust every word I say.  Must learn not to invest emotions, or imagine what our kids could look like.   Leave him be.

There is no fact in suffering.  The fact is a circumstance that causes suffering, but the suffering itself is phantom!  a mind storm!   To cling to what happened, and declare it responsible for what I am feeling now, is to live in unreality.  So what do I bloody well do about what I’m feeling now?  If there is just the fact, there is no pain.  Pain’s a waste of time – to rub sand into a wound, just to exist.

The quality of open attention which is living, is fouled up by the intrusion of my injured self, its smallness, the way it picks away at all the idiotic, tense and embarrassing things I have said and been, and at every nuance of rejection.   That little injured self … is all I know;  that is what is meant by having to die to oneself!   I’m not afraid of my body dying.  I’m afraid of the death of my state of consciousness which in all its labyrinth is so essential to me, but so meaningless when applied to being with others;  to the world, in short.

Recognise no authority.  No person.  Become aware of the moment, the total pulse, and put the other thing away, the thing which through its hurt, recognizes my existence … and what is that false flat existence but a dream?  There are only the facts – as I heard over and over again as a child.  They are plain enough to see.  But I do not find it interesting enough just to see them, I cling to this Hollywood drama about them.   One has to be so tuned in, to recognize and strip bare without comment or commentary all those fleeting escape runs back to fantasy and what-if – within the quick of their instant.

Don’t-run-away-to-i-don’t-know!

And it isn’t a goal to seek to achieve.  If it is, it sends me right back into the falsehood.  It has to be the right action by WHAT IS.  To act as NOW, shrivels the monstrous shadows my memory prompts from the stage wings.

Keep the door open!  (Daniel said.)   “Keep the door open!”

There is in fact, no door.

The reality I want is health.  I want an active, not a passive condition.

See it, when the phantom comes billowing like a huge wave, a monster of importance with black patches all over it, just let it come, and SEE it.  It cannot withstand those Medusa eyes of truth.  It is no longer there.  And the future isn’t even here yet!

And there’s no value either in glorifying the insight which helped me to see.

The cross is no longer with us.  There is but one Way.

**

“Now,  without stress or strain,  can you be aware of yourself?   Can you watch yourself?   Can you watch the content of your own mind —  the beliefs, the national feeling,  the pettiness,  the shallowness,  the desires,  the anxieties,  fears —  all that is a part of your consciousness —  identification with a country,  with a name,  with a property, and so on,  so on.   And the hurts which one has received from childhood.   Now.   Are you aware of all this content?   And content makes up consciousness.   Without the content there is no so called consciousness!   Right?    Let me put it briefly.   Meditation is the emptying of the mind of its content,  as its consciousness,  and going beyond.   We will discuss and talk about meditation some other time.”

K, Brockwood 1974

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A Meadow in West Hampstead

**

I have so strong an urge to keep him with me, by whatever means.  The state of “in-love” is a self engendered state of fear.  At the beginning it is not there.  There is encounter, the ebb and flow.  It develops through absence and threat of ‘losing’.  I make of him an emotional possession though nobody owns him.  From that point on, the relationship is false.

He, seeing this, will not be drawn into even a compassionate involvement.  Owning and being owned by no one, he is clear.  Friend to not just one, but everyone, he has no frontiers.  It is worthless to give time, company, body, talk, into a vacuum.  There is no filling, ever, of my vacuum “from outside”.

I went through many gates of anger, bitterness.  Every time I saw Daniel around the grounds of the house, it was agony.  He has time, space for everybody.  He is deeply and humanely involved in the Krishnamurti set-up and all its relationships, questions and internecine events.  Why shut himself away with one sorrow, from the tapestry?   Ah … but what I am seeing, and this breaks my heart, is what I wanted to be, when I first came here.  I wanted to be a free agent, a celebrant at the feast.

Then I am robbed of my self.  I stand outside the window, I am lost.  It is no longer my garden.  I spent the day alone, and very hurt.   Krishnamurti talked about suffering, this morning.

I went off afterwards and cried at the senseless conundrum of it all.  Towards the end of the day, I understood it was my craving and dishonesty which made relationship with Daniel impossible.  So I sought him no more.  No more did I clamber around fields and through woodlands and strain my eyes through knots of people.  Finis.

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Cloud fortress

**

I spent the evening sitting in the crowd around the bright fire near the kitchen tent.  Out in the wind, which still blew great gusts, sparks flew in the intense darkness, and the flames lit up our faces as we tried to warm ourselves for the night.  I knew an extraordinary articulacy and fluidity with the people of that moment – a superficial skating, a temporary reprieve from the blow.  Perhaps my dreams of flying are pain relief?

I know this. When I suffer, but have decided to bed the pain into the embers, the words flow.  Always.  Talking.  Writing.  Manic perceptions and comedy.  Like blood.

Why is The Speaker such a talker?  Why is there this tremendous sound and activity around him?  Why, he is fire, fire, fire.

Something burns him.

I come face to face with the deep, unutterable shame of my personal being.  I become alien:  the Outside, looking in.  It lacerates whatever form it takes – right up through the core.  It is because Daniel is joy and I am not.  We are camped among scruffy trees and bushes.

I did not know whether or not to expect him in my tent that night.  When I went in, I found his sleeping bag there, with mine.  Earlier I decided to sever all connection, but then this seemed just a pose, and I decided to accept whatever happened.  At about 11.30 he arrived, I was in bed and still feeling cold.  We talked unsuccessfully, and had sex even more unsuccessfully, from the communication point of view.  At last there was no more pretence or theatre.   I took the lid off and let him see what went on, not just its noise, but my actual unspeakable problem.  He gave to this an attention which was total and uncompromisingly loving, his arms around me, listening.

Since then, when we talked – moments snatched from the river in which he flowed – he reiterated this attention, the urgency of “now” – to “stay with this thing no more!  Keep the door open and always go through it – do not close it round yourself.  When you feel it shutting, even just a bit, put your foot in it, your hand in it, push it, push on and through, that same door is habit when it closes, and truth when it opens, but you must work at it, every moment.   This is emergency!   NOTHING is more important than to open the egg.  Nothing to defend!  Keep watch.  Listen.  What is it?

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Sky, Brittany

Daniel is very young, younger even than me.  Various entanglements of wine, woman and song, which I needn’t talk about here, advised him to steer his course clear of the romantic monogamous envelope, and from the pollution of possessing.  His wing is down also.  He is very young, with the ruthlessness of a growing tree.

You smile with the no-nonsense joy that is verily your own.  When I am with you, I am self-critical.  But I don’t want to be.  At moments, a terrific pulse connected us, and other moments disconnected it;  and other moments still – like now – we lay together talking.  There’s a light in your eyes, in the night’s damp pallor;  and you held me to you with much warmth in the morning, and there was no need for me to try to flop about and try to kiss you, try to be a seductive siren.

But I wanted to stay in his arms – fact or figuratively – all day. Only on the face of it, could I accept he must come and go.  As soon as we left the tent, the old grief flooded back, winding its envelope around me – the senseless, paralytic jealousy whenever I saw him with someone else.  Do you know why?  It’s because he looks like an insider;  and I want to be one of “them”.

I want to be seen by everyone he knows, being cherished and claimed.  This is the pathos of my snobbery to this imaginary prince.

Knowing there is no other way.

To go around with Daniel all day, would be having him.  And what is the having of that gentle beauty and hard truth for my own, to separate from the rest of the garden?   Illusion!  Illusion and therefore rot.   He has the clarity to stay out of the scenario, even when, as he said, there were times during the day when I looked so lost and empty he wanted to go up and hug and comfort me, and almost did.  We had agreed on something.

And once when I’d been walking everywhere looking for him, I came back from somewhere and found him, he’d been looking for me too, because someone was going to take a photograph of us all together, the inner circle of this camp, and he couldn’t find me, so I wasn’t in it, and I could have been.  Perhaps … when the next Krishnamurti bulletin comes out, it’ll have the photo in it, and I shall be able to see Daniel in it, among the people?

Something to hold.

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Two boats, seascape

I never knew what to say to his eyes.  My mouth was nervous.  And in a dark place, a barn perhaps, sheltering from the rain with some others, I looked at him and thought, “you’re not so handsome really.  Your arms are under developed.  You’re not really manly …” and other nit picking things.   He was off to France that evening, and then to Israel.  Were it to continue, there could be no truth.  Michelle – the woman with whom he shares the tent and some travelling – and I, we spoke sometimes in a brittle way, and I watched her closely.  I sensed in her a feeling which was worn out, but maybe that was me.  She’s his travelling companion.  My jealousy, what’s it like for her?  She has a son, Louis, in his early teens.  She has shaggy hair, and she lives in the warmth of Daniel’s world.  I went up to London on the train with her, Louis, Daniel and several other people from the field.   Daniel and I shared more insights.  He was committed to bathe our encounter in as healing a light as he could summon up – which stripped me further of my hopes and left me humble and lame.    The lameness and exhaustion brought back in its turn more of that false hope in him as my comforter.  He told me I am too sexually self-conscious.  “It’s the way you put your eyes on me and dwell on it, just like that.  You know, you’re just FULL of feminine wiles and devices, you are!   What am I to do?”

He stood for a long time as I found my way through the ticket machines, seeing me off with love, or whatever it is that shines steadily in his eyes.  He gave me a book he carried with him for a long time – Kazantzakis’ Travels in Greece.  He said it could be a portrait of himself – he has a way of being a hero – and he chuckles disparagingly with his own weaknesses, flinging them often away as the ruthless young sapling does, to grow, to wander and be alive.  “Write to me,” he said “the address in Israel, it’ll find me.  Write me lots of letters!”

That is the way he comforts, and it is genuine, it is Consciousness to Life.  Life is devastated by the increment of Consciousness.

Does Michelle look weary?  Has she been through all this – was she still …? Yes … so he told me earlier, how much she too wants to hold him with her, some ligaments of their own hold them close, he cannot leave her, but nor is he “with” her only.  “With her, you see,” he had told me “it is a little different.  She has a son of her own.  She needs a kind of protecting, Louis needs it, I need it, I suppose.”

For that night, for him, Michelle and Louis, the boat, the crossing, the luggage, the trains, the clash and confusion of conveyences.  For me … home to face Asher as if nothing had happened.

In the Kazantzakis book are many passages he marked.  I turn the pages, a little dazed. Here are a few:

**

“Whoever has a field, says Buddha, thinks of the field, dreams of the field, becomes the field.  Only he who has nothing can be free.”

“The sternest emotion, the most daring fantasy in order to live – or better still, in order to be born –requires a body.  The creator discovers the body only by looking about him, how the light plays, how the mountains stand immobile … The quality and resistance of matter – marble or granite or mud – determine not only his methods but his heart as well.  There is no closed impassable barrier between artist and landscape.  The landscape penetrates the artist’s body through its five portals and fashions his senses;  and as it fashions them, a likeness is formed in their image.”

 .

“Only through struggle and selection would some few bodies achieve the lofty victory of the flower.”

“We have no more than a single instant at our disposal;  let us make eternity of that instant – there is no other immortality.”

 .

“The timeless Greek landscape, cut to the measure of men, flooded with light.  At each instant, it is slightly altered, even while remaining the same;  it shimmers, flourishing its beauty, regenerates itself, and so does not tire you.”

 .

“Auntie Lenio, he said, died day before yesterday.  Our hearts constricted.  We sensed that a word had perished;  perished, and now no one could place it in a verse and render it immortal.”

“Socrates would never go fishing for the soul in today’s gymnasiums.”

 “Quickly I left, mocking my heart, which was ready once more to break.”

**

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Harbour ‘86

**

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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.  

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