“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
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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