Another old wives’ Watershed Tale – (See under Categories in sidebar)…
But first …
Celebrating Easter, last week’s equinoctial Full Moon, Pesach? My secret of the golden flower is buried somewhere in the grim weather here – a biting cold, sad wind, grey like a gravestone, the trees have nothing on, and are shivering, little birds are huddled under their wings. Holy things are shrouded.
My ingredients are basic: visualise fluffy yellow chicks and daffodils: the full Moon radiance through my window. In London, she blushed silvery pink. Symbolically unleavened bread suggests its opposite: the Presence, the yeast: Ascension, timelessly. The bread of life is pounded down to wait, to rise. The spores are stars. In Hebrew, Bethlehem was the House of Bread.
Both faiths – Hebraic and Christian – combine great loss, grief, rebirth and joy, within the elder pagan Spring Festival … the Passion of the Passover and of the Cross. For every woman, childbirth is her Passion and Renewal.
The symbolism in the Hebrew Names for the Moon, including Levanah, is for me, breathtaking: see the above link. But I might add a more Kabbalistic one later.
Part One: “House Life” – Dreams No 275 November 1976
IN THE kitchens of this large house, we romp about and slide down chutes of dry mud. Many people live here among great rooms and staircases, and the place is semi ruined. In the spacious warmth of its untidy mysteries, great chunks of life are lived and games are played, as in the womb.
Once it was a house I wanted to rent. It had then a large clean kitchen. I rode my bicycle very fast up the road and back again to talk to a priest about it – to Father William, whom I asked to instruct me in the catholic Faith – a stout, red-cheeked Jesuit at Farm Street. He is jovial, for he knows he’s on the Rolls Royce escalator to Heaven. He strolled with one of his wealthy Mayfair parishioners to and fro along the road by the trees, in his smart black cassock and heavy gold watch. He told me, alas he could not receive me into the church, unless I promised not to have sex with my unborn baby’s father occasionally – to whom of course, I was not married. My logic to try and keep the relationship stable for my child to grow up in, went further than the Jesuits’, and I’m afraid I was angry, and very rude to him. The J’s were touchingly kind, however. They passed the hat around. They gave me a pram, two dozen terry nappies, a pile of babygros and two big boxes of groceries from Sainsburys, so I didn’t have to spend a penny. That is logic!
Father William changed his job. He now belonged to a church next door to the house, which was both Catholic and Anglican, and more permissive.
And in other dreams, the house belonged to an elderly Jewish gynaecologist whom I have painted portraits for. He is a wealthy gnome, performs abortions safely for very distressed ladies, and loves to keep a woman on his arm. I had bad dreams about him being a terrible dentist – all my teeth shouted and hurt. He is a bright magpie with his possessions; every treasure he owns must be of great market value, and he was sure that I would be, one day. He showed me and some other visitors around his lusciously furnished domain. The property was vast. It covered the area of many streets. It was a great field. It was busily inhabited by anxiety, hope and drama.
It is easy to get lost in this house. It has staircases, galleries and big musty rooms at different levels. The opulence is tarnished, it developed a patina of neglect. It is rather warm because the windows are not often opened, even in summer.
Then it became another house. I entered it several times through the garden gate. In the sultry night both indoors and outdoors, the house stood four-square and Georgian in its garden or space. It had large windows, some of which were lit up from within. Like the kind of house and garden which children draw, it had a fence around it. It was also very stately. It was alive, big and heavy, and shadows lay with oppressive sensitivity in the worn and flaking stone. On some nights that I went there, there would be only one light on upstairs. My baby’s father lived there. But the night that I remember, three or four windows were lit up, and I could hear the sombre sound of his typewriter upstairs.
I went up the path to the front door. I opened this door, inserting my key into the delicate chambers of the lock and turning it with great deliberation. I could feel the shape and teeth of the key probing inward. It was a Yale, the same as the ones that I keep outside my Greencroft Gardens flat, in the garden wall, and which he asked me to move to a different hiding-place so he wouldn’t know where they were.
The keys to this house were given to me in trust. How long would I be permitted this privilege? As I went in I said to someone boldly, “What a barn this place is.” Some parts or sections of it were not fitted up and lined with a skin of plaster and damp-proofing as a house for people is. They were like the farmyard, with walls of mud. I knew my way. I was fond of the different textures and moods of this house. I never knew what to expect, because the walls within it were porous and unsealed.
A vague, oppressive fear also kept me on my toes. Life in it could change as rapidly as the weather over the moor. Bruised and broken soldiers in the walls, awake and bleed. I reached the upstairs landing. Here several doors opened off a wide balcony or gallery to other rooms. I could still hear him writing. I didn’t want him to stop. I didn’t want to disturb him. He did not live alone here. Other people inhabited this house as well. But he heard me arrive, heard my voice say “What a barn this place is” and he appeared on the landing and might be very angry.
My memory of what next happens is vague.
We were in a room. It was an upstairs dining room, bare, with a long table. I lay on my back along a bench. This house is inhabited by a group of people governed by a matriarch and a patriarch. The old lady wears lace and musty-smelling clothes, the sort you might find in a Victorian fancy dress box in an attic, and she is very powerful. In long Saturnine waves, her dominion increases, because the patriarch, the old man, is now dying. He has a long white beard. He visibly fades and wanes. Lv – my baby’s father – tells me I must, for his sake, and with all my loyalty, concentrate every atom of my strength to resist the persuasive authority of the old matriarch and her mockery. An intense battle of will is developing between him and Her. I try to stay on his side. It is very hard to fight off the dominance of the old lady, which is ascendent in myself; for the old man, moribund, is failing fast. I need to be neutral, but do not dare. If I am neutral, Lv will feel abandoned and betrayed, and abandon me: so I play the old game.
What of the relationship, this three-fold tension between us – the grandmother, Lv and myself? She and he are absolutely opposing forces, yet they work together. He is not shouting now. Centred, quietly decisive, refined, he survives minute by minute, a cataclysm in his soul, which we struggle to protect with conscious spells. He is himself, an unborn child. I might lose the thread, any moment, and fail. He needs me to fight, and not succumb to the old woman, he tests my metal with his fate. If I lose the fight, I forfeit my right to those keys. Because of her very great age, She is stronger than he, but he holds one card : to be beyond the law. To answer to no one.
I have wondered who these unknown people are, in the magician’s house. Are they anima and animus, or are they his parents? His father is dying, is mortally ill in Hungary. He hates his mother, he hates all mothers. He hates Her. The old people and the archetypal miasma that surrounds them, come from a place where I was not. I don’t know whether or not I came clear from this battle, whether it happened in my soul, or in his house. Some of the spaces in that house are not lined, and they are not contained, either. In the extreme difficulty of combating the astral magick power of the old matriarch, I was what she was becoming.
“De Conceptu et Generatione Hominus 1587” by Jacob Rueff (copy)
After this, I began to have dreams about a pregnant lady, as I always do when my bladder fills. The growing womb presses on it. I have to get up two and sometimes three times in the night. She was overdue, poor thing. I transferred to her my discomfort, so that it was she who ran around lonely in the night, though she always found helpers in streets and on country lanes near Taunton. She seemed to have been pregnant for years. This was all very well, but I was still looking for a lavatory. I found at long last a row of them in one of the barn-like scruffy areas of the house – I was desperate for relief – a great big open place of hard earth and timber props like the pigsties of derelict Rome.
Then I found myself in the kitchens – still wanting to go – by the fuel burners and the chimneys. I sat at the table and looked at a book. It was a picture story, like a strip cartoon. The rows of pictures came to life as I turned the pages, so it was no longer a book but happened to me, as botanically described: the story of a penis. He was shown in every state of arousal and repose. He glistened red like a rare flower, he lived and grew within two loamy darknesses of many hues, in a garden. I forgot I needed to pee. “A rose in dark soil is penis love. The penis is a seed. Children grow up,” it said, under the pictures. What a tender, strange thing! I was moved almost to tears. It first repelled, then I rode it. I didn’t know anything at all about sex. I had never heard of it. This was a plant, a botanical process in the garden: my education. I was at primary school – a biology lesson.
I recognised it is his. I began to grow up. In each successive picture, it curled and grew like a serpent. I saw the whole genitalia, in a secret earth among the roots, like an illumined manuscript. He was a sperm, with two “heads” like fishes, one at the growing tip, and one about half way down, like a branch. The long sperm grew some more, and moved its glowing crimson flower in my garden soil. As I learned, it penetrated, the bud grew up, right up my spine to the back of my throat to speak, I desired – pain, pleasure, bad girl, heart’s desire – what if I wet the bed? I need to pee. The occult work is such a LABOUR. But I have no choice. He carries me like a flood. I bore down as it came, I didn’t care if I wet the bed, I pushed out the newborn child to him, the child he conceived from so deep inside. Love.
In the garden, conception, orgasm, childbirth, are One and the same. Fused with heaven and all human history, the One indivisible moment outshone everything I knew. It blew the fuse. I was a child.
To receive is simultaneously to give. It doesn’t matter, if the linear world pulls time apart into different times, and does not see the eros Rose, or if we see for the time being, only our fantasies, and suffer. She washes out for ever deep down, those sad soapy sexual beliefs that rocked us to sleep. A Rose is the risen: the law is for giving.
I woke with it, but slept again and dreamed I bled. The blood came in thick drops, brown in colour. Had it made me miscarry? I looked and willed the blood not to be there. But it was. I made up my mind that this is a dream, and woke at once.
Finally I dreamed again about the house. It was now enormous, of many many storeys. I lived very high up in it, in Greencroft Gardens. I went visiting down the road, and lent my spare keys (the ones I keep outside in the garden wall) to my best friend’s husband the Architect, who wanted to fetch something from my flat. He came back. The keys were sometimes of metal and sometimes of soft balsa wood (for building model boats), and so frail they might break in the lock.
Next, Lv visited me and I gave the keys to him. I was glad he wouldn’t find the Architect inside. In all innocence it is not right that these keys be passed around, for whatever reason. He said the whole building gave him the creeps. He was feeling rather jumpy.
A “Watershed” Dream – November 1976
“Jung looked up at me and said, “When a man’s anima meets a woman’s animus, it is bound to be A HELL OF A BUSINESS.” (Joseph Campbell)
Part Two: Sacred Geometry
The following Easter-bunny reflection is based on Nassim Haramein’s seminar “Crossing the Event Horizon” (2005, published by The Resonance Project), which I just began to watch.
A rose is a rose is the risen: the law is for giving. The “House Life” dream telescoped everything I would later study of Kabbalah and the Tree of Life. It was stored in my cellular memory.
How borderline we are! The language we use is a projectile interface. It moves with light and shadow: easily the Veil is imagined as evil: lived as devil: eve, the level responsible for it all. Indeed she is: She is the subconscious – God’s own womb, no less – the oven to bake the bread; the house of life.
Archetypal forms of the soul, are sacred geometry. Sacred geometry opens the understanding, visually, with less need for explanation. As we can browse beautiful tetrahedrons, blueprints and isotropic vector metrics online, to our hearts content, here are mostly, my old doodles of discovery and photos of nature – of water, wood and sky.
My “House Life” dream gestates the point. A single point – like a full stop – is said to have zero dimension: yet its geometry is of the sphere. It contracts or expands infinitely, according to magnification. No balloon is inflated – the cosmic Doppler shift – without an emptying lung.
Who is the blower? Who blows a black hole into a widening star?
Every law arises from its opposite. We are not nouns but verbs – the transition. Respiration in and out, is the law of Kalpa aeons: cosmic speech and stars.
We are fluid points of transmission, the stars are not fixed. A point, or dot contains in infinite series, EVERYTHING. A circle is a magnified point. When we begin in the womb, we are nothing. But as the interior process unfolds, we are everything! Every thing is ensphered by its boundary which is No thing! A boundary – a circle or sphere – contains the potential of Infinite interior division. This is our union. Each of us centres no thing: the tiny mustard seed when opened, is empty.
“In a painting, as in life, keep the centre empty, for light to flow into it.”
When we are illumined, the dots join up. The relevance of this to everyday life, nature and each other, is love. I am empty for You. I am built open. It becomes intuitive: the natural state. As some of us begin to see things in this way, it tinctures homeopathically the fantastic off-centre slavery of today’s world. Oasis develops, and is gradually contagious, like evening stars one by one coming out: shalom – peace.
Does peace then, emerge from its opposite? – the tension we see around?
Consciousness, and therefore All, begins from one place only: HERE.
This point, which is All.
“The most stable structure in Nature is the tetrahedron.” The nesting of infinitely decreasing Tetrahedrons inside themselves, is identical to the human mind’s manner of mental invention, pastime, panic and creation. Absolutely ANYTHING when focused, creates its own expanding rationale – the menu on your screen. So practice peace!
(This lifetime, I have a private leitmotif – it dropped into my mind when I was twenty. I had a job at a second hand bookshop in Charing Cross Road, and scribbled my thoughts on brown paper bags: “Turn it round. To forgive, I must give way to the force.” It felt very profound. There was a house in a storm. This Karmic theme which reaches a long way back, concludes or bears fruit, now.)
Justice is done, but not in a place where I can see it. Trust is the unbroken love of life, the Underbeing: sur-render. Render unto heaven’s law and rejoice in the fresh clean air. The Point is subtle, and fills everything. Tifareth: beauty.
I meant to write just one para about the Point circumscribed by nothing: the point being everything tucked up inside it, a sleeping child. In India it is called the bindhu, and on it the entire cosmic lattice depends. Today I ran aground in slack water, low tide, I needed to curl up and doze for the day – holy black bare Saturday: tomorrow the little fluffy sunshine chicks come out.
So I awaken through a sleepy bumble bee – black and yellow stripes. Easter Sunday is the last day of March. The clocks change to summer time, with the Risen Bread. That is a beautiful alignment! even with wind-chill frost on the ground.
Remember the Sun’s golden semi-circle, the arc of the day: the secret of the Golden Flower.
This year is a bardo of endings through beginnings. My festival, my true worship, is the Unknown: the no thing: and like the mustard seed, fulfilled.
The full blown Eros Rose is also FOR … GIVE. As you see in the photo above, of the rose in an egg, it spirals to petal from the centre sensory point. Nothing matters or happens, but this. The Chymical wedding is deeper than the human veil. The human veils Shekhinah.
Sperm, fertilization, vesica pisces, gestation of the embryo, earth,
Sol, Star, sacred geometry cycle, you and me
Ready to post this, at last. Happy Easter ! The Sun is having another go, this morning.
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/