Elisabeth

dandelionseed, by nextbigfuture.com

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Water and sand: Elisabeth Tomalin, 4 November 1912 – 8 March 2012:  her pioneering therapies.

http://www.thecnj.com/review/2009/102909/feature102909_01.html

What are you up to now, Elisabeth?  Do you enjoy my sand castles?  Oh yes, we heard you in the kitchen, that day in July, as tough and dainty as a tiny turning leaf, and clapping with one hand –  the Olympics, and Tom Heatherwick’s torch of Time.

I meant to sketch you, ever since you died.  Now we are in Scorpio, with Saturn and Mercury across the threshold;  a very good time to find and be with you.  I feel your creative presence, your voice now hale, whole and free from the dragging pain of age and failing skin and nerve-ends:  you give me elemental colours – clear peat-brown water, wet rocks and emerald bogmoss –  for the Yin winter, the seed descending deep under the frost.

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I sat straight down, got out the photo, and drew Elisabeth first from upside down …

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then with my left hand …

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… then with the right …

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… and then as a portrait.   This took a while.

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I felt her strongly.  At moments, it was my Self portrait looking out, and back at me.  She would have loved me to draw her when she was alive.  When she was dying in the care home, I was not kind, I didn’t visit her regularly.  I resented the long bus route and felt dead tired.  Her physical and emotional agony, bedridden and “useless” at nearly 100 years old, was heavy going.  Her busy mind craved words, oracles and philosophy;  she was deaf.  She longed interminably to die, and it kept her waiting.   Companionship could be silence, which she did not want.

I am tired of my “good-likeness” portraits.  How to draw an honest line?  Doing it upside down, or with my left, I have no choice but to really look, and not assume that I know better.

Then, like playing something on the piano, remember to loosen and let my arm as a whole move the charcoal, from the spine;  not just the habitual hand.  My hand with the whole arm movement, is sensitive, more humble.   Be conscious how the human is:  stop,  wait, follow.  Be delicate; watchful;  bold.  Keep looking.   Hear her.

There comes a magical power of connection – the living human contour of my friend.  I see and feel her lifetimes, the young Princess Soaja, the sharp and ageless pilgrim, her bandy legs, Scorpio birth,  a Jewish woman of history, the art therapist giving me, right now, an intense sand-and-water session on my dreams.

I see her in her white wicker basket with her sharp nose in the air and all the lines in her face erased:  the utter stillness and relief.  She got there at last.

Then summer came.  Look at her managing the Olympic Games with glee through her “phenomenally gifted” grandson.  Remove all frames of time – ignite the essence!

When Thomas visited his grandmother he sometimes brought his latest architectural plans to show her.   She made suggestions.  She lay in her sore bed the weary hours, visualising and pondering the buildings and designs.   Granny Soaja needed to control things, and she was very difficult.   Yet she submitted to some of her frustrations with a gentle dignity.

Who knows what dandelion seeds caught hold?  Tom’s Olympic cauldron is a child of his Shanghai Seed Cathedral.  In the nation-wide convergence and goodwill of the beacon  bearers, real people came forward with the flame, the seed of light;  the cult of celebrity began to die.

Elisabeth is active beyond her body.  Her irrepressible child dances through the astral plane “across our time”.  She had a passion for the creative lineage through her family, and its survival.  The tugging worry of all that, is now away under the bridge.  She loves her people, her strong daughter Stefany, and her family, and to tell them what to do.

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Honesty to the life line is a soft and crumbling charcoal tip … slowly along acceptance.   To watch the breath as the Buddhists say, is like drawing someone.   Watch it in that way;  like plain water beginning to taste nice.

To so-called watch the breath as a meditation felt meaningless.  I didn’t know how.  The attention jumped off, like a needle from a dusty record.  But the drawing lesson with Elisabeth showed the way for me.  It comes alive, and is not by the book.

Coda

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

and every where 
I blow, the once 
upon a time it tells.

photo by daviddarling.info

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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.

The Anchor and Hope: Olympiad & Hackney Marsh

Islington tunnel:  from Mark Wordy’s photo stream

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

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

from  world’s worst camera phone.blogspot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poet & his daughter

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1968 jazz

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

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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.

A Vision: the Valley and the Olympic Relay

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The ‘Brellas.  Metro cover, 30 August 2012

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

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

13 February 2012            THE VALLEY AND THE OLYMPIC RELAY

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

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

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

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

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

Parent pentacle – Two sides of the Tree.

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

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

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

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

line dance 1987 – Crossing the valleys of each other

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

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

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

What is your name?   Are you called Lebecq? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

magus equinox 1991

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

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

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

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7 September 2012 …  and so it has!

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

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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.

Para-Olympus – Inspiring a Generation?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

E.T.

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

… a sound of one hand clapping!

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

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

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

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

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Found this column in the paper:

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

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

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

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

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

“From hatred can come hope and love.

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

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

Tony Parsons, Daily Mirror 1 September 2012

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An early figure, ja 1956

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermes vision, 1992

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

 

Cockerel & abandoned child ’87

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

The piano keys are grapes ’87

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

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 Line-dance

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 Dancers

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being? … not conventional lookalike, what ever  ’87

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Stop!  you’re going too fast  ’87

That is a Buddha wheel

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

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Sphinx 1  ’87

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and here is an interesting link …  http://aryayogi.wordpress.com/2012/09/01/rohit-arya-on-kundalini-rising-the-android-helix-of-dominic-elvin/

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Continue … :

notes and keyboard touch

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

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Sense of touch, the place of meeting ’87

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

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Key ’87

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

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In the tree  ’87

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

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Sphinx 2  ’87 – sun, moon and shadow

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Newton’s apple ’87

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

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

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remember all those umbrellas and Grail cup curves …?

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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.

Para-Olympic … Beyond Olympus

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

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

A Poem:  Coda

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

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

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

A wikipedia image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hemisphere perfection:  A photo from Friends of Charles Darwin

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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.