Under the Grass and Topsoil

 

“The Prime Emanation … is the Revolution inside our being. It’s a process that’s going on in many of us now, making us more and more uncomfortable, and that’s a good thing. It’s a mystical cleansing of the emotional system and it’s why many people who begin working with the Gene Keys quickly lose a lot of weight and others fill out to just the right amount. We’re coming into balance, because we’re throwing out old genetic patterns. It’s about pruning back our desire nature because the solar plexus centre needs a new kind of environment. It needs a cleaner, more open environment, less cluttered with old frequencies. 

“One day we’ll return to the source. It won’t happen because of anything we do but because our particular story has found its way home. All we can do is follow the Emanation of our Love. We think we’re travelling into the future, but we’re really travelling back to the beginning…”

Richard Rudd Excerpt from the 64 Ways

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“Mend what was broken. Rekindle the Children’s Fire … We call this work ‘village building’ or ‘culture repair’.”  I had an email from Mac Macartney responding to my request several weeks ago, how can I find my pre-Roman “Angols”?  In his book The Children’s Fire he made it sound rather straightforward but now he says it is a matter of dowsing and resonance as there are no records.  The Roman conquest destroyed our indigenous Druid infrastructure.  How these tales echo through history!

In Mac’s book and journey, a map he drew of Wales shows evocative names of Celtic tribes and elders: Gangani, Silures, Demetae, Cornovii, Ordovices, Deceangle … which spread across the land.  I shall look at these names reflectively from time to time.

I feel profoundly rooted English, uninclined to move from HERE.  I hold the ground like an oak or elm; an Angle Sea – the Mona.  I loved what Tolkien wrote about the elm groves in his Lost Tales.  Tolkien was one of the Elder Ones, reproducing the mythos.  I have this inbuilt interconnectivity; the neural and nitrous fibres throughout the ground which I return to.  The body of Light Emanates. It is not a mere sponge.

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So in this moment in the earth I have a staff which illumines and is positive.  Let it lead this direction when and where it wants.  Let it shine.  It is a seer.  It sees through all conditions and fractures to the embracing Wholeness of the emanation.  I’m reminded of my painting of the light – the heart – within the earth, and a hammer, a geologist’s hammer which gently taps the geode.

I grew up in Kent, Scottish Highlands, Yorkshire Moors, south Cornwall, Surrey north downs and Quantock Somerset – all before I reached my teens; for we moved house a half-dozen times.  That is a landscape map provided!  I have walked it so much and flowered, that there is not much need to “know” the names.  The essence and loyalty and continuity are here.   It is like looking at the Geological Wall Map of Great Britain in my father’s room – the extrusions and worms of colour told us where and on what rocks we live – north Yorkshire was pale yellow.  And I became a painter for a time.

The gift awoke by the sea in Cornwall Caerhays age six, and that marks probably my descent from the Western peoples, touching ground.  It encompasses my long-ago walks in mid-Wales (tent by the Severn river), Snowdonia and the Pembrokeshire coast … and recently, along the Hertfordshire Way and Chilterns north of London.  The Hermit’s staff is a dowsing rod and also a blind person’s white stick! – for in this lifetime in those places I did not know consciously what I touch.  But they made me an artist.

I live all my adult life in the city which the Romans developed and called “Londinium”. Here I hear through the urban density, the heart of the country and its winter birdsongs and noble river.  Here staying at home for the last 50 years I find space for the soul to wander and flourish; and my present tribe.

My room is an untidy sanctuary of peace with a few trees outside, a busy railway to the north and a street to the south.  This morning as usual when writing, I feel the root of light sink deep, the silken stillness.  At Manor Farm in Somerset we had a giant elm down by the pond whose roots, I was told, spread right across the field under the grass and topsoil.  And so I know the tree’s root-system mirrors its bole; and I feel the Spirit moving into flesh through the stellar fibres of my body’s capillaries;  I am nothing other than this network of the fields and streams and woods;  I am this un-tapped and immense human conscious potential which – after millenia – we awaken into, again … and again.  My Druid knowledge lives today in the core wisdom of many esoteric languages which thrive.  It has a singular pulse in the veins:  I love.  I love.

The old alchemists said simply – don’t drop the wisdom (dew) on the ground.  Most persons cannot understand it, they break it up into cities and beliefs.  Carry it in the vessel which perennially and quietly mends itself with the Sun.  The wisdom is osmosis and photosynthesis: the Sun, the rain and the Earth.  No matter how apparently concealed, the same magnetic shines in each one of us.  It is in process of opening its dimension through our temporal fantasy of destruction.  As the living creature awakes and yawns it cracks the scales.

How tiny is my surface understanding within the solar system and each of its planetary gems.

The silence when the wisdom river is coming and when the oak is flowing is deep.  The magic we know is so immense that the essence transcends and permeates the particles which are knowledge.

There is no need to “know”.  There is every way to “be” and to recognise the flavour.  Taste it.  The animals, the trees, insects, birds and flowers taste it, un-obstructedly whenever they pause.  Wisdom dissolves manufactured outlines and provinces, and for humans this is hard.  Take a step back from the unfolding history and see the process.  The wisdom is invincible and the DNA awakens into this mutation now: frail dragonfly nymph on watery stem – its thorax burst open with the sun’s warmth into wings.

Illustration from Richard Rudd’s book of poems and prayers – ‘The Spring of Dreams’

To remember this is to collect together with Mother Isis the scattered limbs of Osiris and breathe on them with love.  This is perennial in our condition.

Quantock dancers

Seven sisters, High Point, Quantock hills

 

So the Quantock hills at present are my “walking country” where my mother still lives.  There is a long Somerset settlement in my life.  My home was there from age 9 until 20. Later, my father moved to North Devon and discovered in the next parish his Yule ancestors, with whom he had himself buried.  In Somerset and North Devon were extensive explorations, our home and our adventurous family holidays at Hartland.

These places where the heart is placed and soaks up the land are pointers towards my ancient tribal locations and relationships.  The seed is blown from tree by the wind or carried by bees to fertile ground by the laws and movement of Nature.  My father was an organic farm-manager, bee keeper and musician.  When I grew up my first regular job as a portrait artist took me all over England and as far as Gordonstoun in Scotland.  In each place I worked, there was first the need to go for an orienting walk and understand the landscape, roads and contour.  My early work is scattered around the country’s living-rooms like seed – many hundreds of portraits of children.  This was Providential.

This brings me to the inner meaning of our children’s fire.  Although it is threatened, there are in many pockets of the land, oases where the healthy seed is cultivated. In due course the whole seed will overcome the adulterated and even take into itself what is good in the latter.  Why else is there this incredible enriching mix and mulch and ferment in the human gene pool – through the overwhelming agony of frontiers, fear, bordering and displacement – why else the cross-fertilisation and upheaval of racial roots?  An innovative and gentle power of the seer is being born through these generations.  The environmental threat catalyses a revolutionary Symbiotic caring.  The animal and plant kingdoms in Gaia no longer agree to be our mere playground or unconscious prey.  The new Consciousness – already sprouting through the ground – is to unify and to nurture.

My mother’s garden in the early spring

The children’s fire?  It is this transformative glow of the quickening, the seed.  On the Underground in London I watched yesterday a father with his sons – he had an interesting lined child’s face, an elder Saxon with soft tired eyes, an artist perhaps with the sky; and one of his boys sat with him and stroked the back of Dad’s neck and untidy hair.  Love and care.

In the seed is the fire which is Life.  In the Upanishadic wood is the latent fire; in the grass the cow and in the milk the cream.  In the hen, the egg is our solar system.

Parvati waters trees. This image is copyright The Sacred India Tarot deck published by Yogi Impressions in 2011

The healing way is for those of us who have access and liberty, to attend to the quantum particle on behalf of the majority.  The consciousness is what there is.  Each root in the ground illumines and connects with all the others.  The quantum, homeopathic in dilution, is beyond prediction’s enclosures.

The needle’s point of Sufi thread pierces vertically the dense horizontal matrix: the tapestry.  What do I sew?

Light the fire for our children.  Be warm of heart.  Make this picture daily with the thread through the tapestry.  The only disease – the root of all diseases – is any form of our excess.  Balance is inevitable.

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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. See also Aquariel and Gene Keys Diary.

All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012-2020. 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 – Two Family Albums

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babuschka

These sketches were made in 2007, to celebrate a family book created by Kay and Ursula Schlapp.  The family tree descends from Lutherans.  Nowadays they are all string players, they play the lute. There is also a direct line from the 15th century portrait painter Lucas Cranach –  a ‘leonardo’ and successful merchant who pioneered the German Renaissance.  Another of Cranach’s descendents along a different string, is Goethe of Weimar.

My great-grandparents Otto Schlapp and Anna Lotze took a walking tour through south Germany for their honeymoon.  They carried these integrated talents, philosophy and love of nature into the academic life of Edinburgh university and the 20th century.  Settling there in 1889, their home became a cultural oasis, where music was played and kindred spirits found refuge.  These values unobtrusively bridged and helped to heal, in a grass-roots way, the warring countries, England and Germany.

The same subconscious gift of dedication remains fertile through their descendents’ activities.  After the first Great War, their daughter Helene married Jim Ede.  He was to become the creator of Kettles Yard in Cambridge – a gallery, a way of life, an avant-garde cultural and spiritual oasis.

During the 20th century, particularly during and after the two wars, there were many such private initiatives to keep the peace.

The Cranach sketch is a copy from Durer’s drawing.  I included Beethoven in the album, because his late Quartets were Walter Schlapp’s inspiration! –  and his sister Helene’s, the way she played the Waldstein Sonata.

With special thanks to Kay and Ursula …

FIRST ALBUM

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alan's magendovid

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The second family album was created at about the same time, in early 2008, to celebrate the 80th birthday of Rachel Levi, in Haifa.  Here too, I rove around in time :  the old are looking back, while the young become older.  What prevails, unchanging?   It is like fishing by a river, keeping still.

The human landscape far transcends the individual.  The genetic tapestry across a family,  springs to life. Catching life to draw, they are for that time my flesh and blood and hinterland:  their features emerge and converse:  a passion to keep the record.  I give them a dash of poetic license:  family life is a mixed blessing.

As a portraitist, I see the parental essences develop in their children and childrens’ children, subtly suggested.  I reflect on their history back through the Book.  This family has roots in Iraq, Israel and Kurdistan;   a surviving sacrament to keep the peace.

Rachel

Rachel

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akasha tejas

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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 – a picture book

When I am moved to sketch someone, I reflect deeply on their situation and travel a little of their journey with them.  Nowadays I reach a likeness with great difficulty  and much rubbing out and re-doing – so I no longer do it professionally – or very rarely!  It is a labour of love.

Soldier with child

Soldier with child

This soldier with his child or grandchild was a long road this morning.   For a long time it would not come right.  Approaching the likeness, it just began to breathe – it is never exact;  but then I could let it be:  the road with him, so travelled – the connection is honoured.   I pondered soldiers I have known – their families, their destiny, their duties, and whom they have to protect;  and what it is like to be a soldier in today’s civil-war zones, when hell breaks out in one’s own soul at what is done and seen.  I had to stick more paper on, for his hands and the way the child rests on him.  He has been written all over:  the child is still an “empty” book, and was easy to draw.  Portraits are windows of the soul.

The following poem is his.  It is by John Coyote – a veteran of Vietnam and Iraq.  He knows and tells it from inside, through ways of love:  the passion to be kind to each other in the human family paradox.  Here is the link to his work.  I love this poem, recently posted:

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An empty book.

Poem by Coyote Poetry

“Need to enjoy life. A good life is many friends and a lot of laughter.”

An empty book is a lonely story.
The great writer’s lived their life with gusto and no fear.
You can read in their stories a life filled with sadness and happiness.
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Hemingway went to war as a Soldier and a reporter. Learn of death and fear.
Kosinski roamed Europe as a youth learning the truth about the nature of man.
Neruda wrote about love with experience of knowing the paradise of the kiss
and tender touch.
Gibran wrote with love and kindness. Trying to teach the world a better way.
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We must travel blindly into life and chance with no fear.
Open new doors of friendship. Have long conversation about everything.
Need to dance on the edges of pleasures and take what we can from the gift of love.
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Don’t waste words on people who do not want to hear them.
Learn from regret and move on to better places.
Forgive the people who hurt you and try to seek forgiveness from mistakes made.
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Great writer’s must live and test life.
Need to swim in the great oceans.
Stand with the clouds on top of the splendor of the powerful mountains.
Walk on sandy beaches.
Hold sweet lovers tightly till morning light.
Don’t surrender to fear.
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Good to laugh and cried often.
We create our future and need to make sure we balance our life.
Work and money is part of life. Can’t take worldly things with us.
Love and friendship are what will matter when death is upon us. A complete book is filled with pleasure, pain and story of family, laughter and
great journey. Today is a new day. Enjoy life. Be kind and make a new friend. Coyote
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© 2013 Coyote Poetry

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We meet across blog-land … making friends.  That is the wonder and transmission of this creative global medium.

And now a collection of my own, from old photos.  Some of these – whose names I do not know – were done for a humanitarian society.

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Portrait gallery for Human Rights Foundation

Portrait gallery

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ruth and zak

ruth and zak

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Bryan Herring

Bryan

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Moira when she was young

Moira when she was young

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Paul

Paul

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Marisa

Marisa

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David

David

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Rachel and her son Chaim

Rachel and her son Chaim

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Hector Berlioz

Hector Berlioz

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Black belt teacher

Black belt teacher

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noah and mark

noah and mark

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winter

winter

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The lady in red below, was a child prodigy on the harpsichord until repetitive stress forced her to take her life apart – a born Aries however:  courage.  She too is a freedom fighter.  She became a very interesting artist.

GALLERY

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Here is Ros’s story.  Because she is allergic to paint, she uses strange gritty materials to touch her human essences into life, like sounds from piano keys.  Her portraits and inner landscapes look like rocks.  Each individual is instantly recognised by all his or her friends.  They are her sensual life.  Her life is painfully allergic, destroying her hands’ mobility.  Her psyche is playful, smearing water and the sands of time.

She was a lonely and gifted child in Lancashire.  She ran out of the house and talked to bundled up shoppers and babies at the bus stop, because she was curious about human beings.

The soul’s DNA through the afterlife glows in a magical horse’s eyes.  She worked the horse’s head from wax and dental dust.  It seems to canter eternally by the sea;  it emerges through the mist.  Her creativity thrives on accidentals, and on a wash of mud with sky.  Rocks, essences – her finger pads.  A local miracle, tenderly placed, transcends the public galleries “out there”.  The wider world is not aware of Ros, because she had to give up her music career, but her circle of friends are touched and gilded with her vibrant, bare faced honesty.  When she has an exhibition, those ruthlessly exposed rocks on the mantelpiece come to life.  They arrive from the street outside.  As human beings – her friends – they struggle down the stairs – some of them are very old – and into the room for biscuits and tea, to greet, to recognise, to appraise and perhaps to buy one another.

When I met Ros in 1987, her scarlet specs matched her lipstick.  She inspired my odyssey, because she had twenty years of psychoanalysis, and talked to me openly about it.  Her frustrations and adventures with her demons, her frailty and the playful gleam in her eye, gave me the courage to turn around and look at mine.

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I searched all over the house for the drawing she did of my head, like a rock on the mantel piece, but cannot yet find where I put it.  Maybe tomorrow.  Meanwhile, here is a drawing I did for her:

Hades and Chinaman

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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/