Tales from the Watershed – Enoch and the Well

This vivid dream, in 1976, revealed an interior contact, as it deftly stripped away the veils.   It is the source of my symbolism with the well, the wood and the root;  insights which I find also in the I Ching.  “He” gave me later in the narrative, a teaching on the cosmic Law of Sacrifice, which I woke up with, and never forgot.

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The Wisdom of the Fool by a Well (1988)

The Wisdom of the Fool by a Well (1988)

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 Dreams No.140,  14 July 1975

I’m speaking with someone called Enoch.   At a round table we sit, initially with some other counsellors.  At other times a car drives around the area under discussion, these wild orchards.

The name Enoch carries an emphasis from Biblical hinterland.   It is perhaps a collective name for elements of humanity, which conquered death.   But this man is called Enoch Powell – the politician who has strong views on immigration.

politics-conservative-party-conference e.powell

When people or birds – and cats! –  seek entry into a patch of land which is already occupied by others, they are immigrants.   To emigrate is to depart these shores, but as an immigrant you are an invasion to me, until we agree.   Indeed, England’s island history is tempered by issues of invasion and conquest.  Then this discussion around a table, with a view to a patch of land, is about space – the interior space, the balance of fluidic densities between neighbouring cells.   “What do we accommodate?”  “Are we idealists?  Shouldn’t we be more honest with our limitation?”

For a moment now, I see on the curling mossy boughs of the old orchard trees, heavy fruit rosy and golden, the way it pulps down into deep dewy grass as the summer cools.

The political stance on immigration lies at the heart of Enoch’s private nature.   It is where he is vulnerable.   It makes me feel important to be seen with this eminent and public figure.   Enoch is a powerful man with sharp pale eyes and pencil line moustache.  His physiognomy is gaunt and open, his wide jaw reminds me of a vigilant mastiff or lion.   His manner of speech,  impassioned, informed and forceful, is difficult to ignore.

Is he wearing cosmetics?  –  yes he is!   I kept looking, to make sure.   He has black eye-liner traced under his eyes like a sign of his feminine nature.   Yes, for he protests about history and about national rape.    The black eyeliner, a feminine contrivance for emphasis, is a chink of doubt in his intellectual armour.   I think I see his Achilles heel,  his secret fear of losing substance or integrity.   We are being driven around the outskirts of Buckingham Palace grounds, and the topic under sustained discussion is:  “What shall we do with this green-space?”

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bluebell time at broomlands

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“I don’t agree with you there one bit.”   That’s the lively Liberal dark haired lady from ‘Islington Cares’.   “People should go where they like.   We all can go wherever we like, and feel the need.   Young people from the inner-city should play in these wonderful grounds, our national heritage.   It’s criminal to hide them away from the under-privileged.   Would you deprive our youth for the sake of privilege?   Who needs the space to grow –  the Royals or the people?”

“Madam,”  replied Enoch  “we were discussing private property.  Would you like your house to be broken into and occupied by squatters?”

“That’s not the point!   Buck House isn’t private, it belongs to the nation.   What hypocrisy forces the tax payer to support a public institution – our sovereign Family as you put it – and have no access to the – the sanctuary this family enjoys,  on the grounds of –  privacy?”

“We cannot afford to indulge in politics,” said Enoch.  “I’m not concerned with liberal philosophy but with human values – the real values, if you hear what I say.   With reality, madam! –  our  bastion of integrity.   The monarchy represents to ourselves this value, and therefore the need for its own terrain.   Apart from that, think of the pressure of public life upon these people.   Think of the personal sacrifice they make of their private lives to the postage stamp,  to the symbol of moral stability in this country,  look at it, I beg you!   Doesn’t it cry out to you for the human right – to a place of refreshment?

“You are not in the real world, madam.   Do you advocate rape – of our national heritage, the remaining legacy of poets and sailors?   Will you allow burglars and opportunists to despoil and pollute this place?   Have you no heart?”

“My dear Enoch, you must move with the times, we are not discussing nasty criminals but young people – the birth rate.   Have you no heart for the nation’s young,  its children,  and the problems of the inner cities?   This is the young orchard.   And it has no room to grow!”

“Madam, our cities are overcrowded through our poor judgment of the ratio of population density to available land area.   That is why I spoke out against opening our doors to the incoming tide of our Imperial guilt.   Did we treat our immigrants well?   Have we accomodated them humanely?   Look within and ask yourself.   Did they come off the Windrush to a warm welcome, or to a bigoted colour bar?   Did we keep Hitler out,  to let ourselves be conquered by hypocrites’ oath to a swollen Commonwealth?   The sins of our fathers indeed come back to find us.  But I beg you again,  let us protect the soul of our country from further rotting.   The wilderness which lies within the heart …”

“Oh,” said the romantic dark-haired lady  “yes, in olden days everybody had some wilderness to wander, and even some mystical feudal superstition to keep them busy, but today it’s the young, those young people from all the big cities whom you would deprive of the right to leave the streets and take solace in Nature.   Who else has the right to see the laden fruit in those orchards, to walk along the shady paths?   But Enoch, your party and policy is no longer in power.   Times have changed.   An act will be passed …”

Enoch’s face is dark with grief.   “If you do that,”  he says  “there will be nowhere for anyone to go to.   There’ll be no place of such nature left.”

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Queen with child, 1956

Queen with child, 1956

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The grounds of the palace, are enclosed by high and weathered walls.   Within this boundary extends a sylvan oasis of landscaped gardens, and un-mown meadows. Through the woodlands, birds call –  a place of rest and mystery in the heart of the city.   The rougher and more untamed regions are the area under discussion;  here are gathered, in a shaggy garland of luxuriant wild orchards opening one into another, many old trees that slant hither and thither in haphazard rows.   They bear apples, pears, cherries and plums, self-pruning.   Around their knotty trunks grows a profusion of deep sorrel, buttercup, pink campion, royal blue scabious and thorny briar rose;  and foxes trace a magical maze.   Here the butterfly flourishes.   It is a fragrant and secret garden.   It hums with near and distant song and silence.

This is the soul which Enoch feels belongs to us all,  and should therefore be kept inviolate,  and which the liberal dark haired lady feels,  for the same reason,  should be open to the public.

At first I thought she was right.  Enoch’s immigration policy was never popular.   People should come and go,  nibble the fruit in these orchards,  sit and dream or have sex in the natural arbours,  sniff the thorny roses and spot Royals.   Anyone should be able to go there,  to go where they like.

Enoch’s personal distress became real to me.   The domain where time stands still is the real world within each one of us, which is not easy to access.   Here we grow and breathe among the tangled web of our fruit,  our convoluted petalled fragrance of the wild rose;  and only those should enter who are invited.    For it flowers and opens, from a dark and winding stem of thorns.   The pathway among radiant trees and flowers is a briary labyrinth in which the foolish or unwary,  or mere litter-spilling sight seers, get lost,  stolen or strayed.

Should we crowd that end of the enclosure?   It is the private part.   The liberal plan parades a crude ideology.

Enoch noticed that I’m turning from the eloquent dark haired woman to him to listen.   My ambivalent point of view seems to interest him, but there is nothing I can yet say.   She crowds me out.   She talks all the time, there is much, much that I feel and would like to say, the pressure from my heart like unripe fruit on the bough,  I feel for him,  I want to tell him this but not to gush or take sides,  and I don’t know how.  So I am silent.

As I understand it, Enoch would suffer in himself so acute an unhappiness if the Act were passed in the palace grounds, particularly the sacred area of orchard growth, that as in Blake’s “Elegy”: –  “O Rose, thou art sick;  the invisible worm that flies in the night in the howling storm,  has found out thy bed of crimson joy:   and his dark secret love does thy life destroy!” – he too would sicken and die.

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roots at broomlands

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It is to do with guardng the fertile and sacred wood.   Wood and water work together into the fourth dimension as an osmotic cycle.   The welling growth from under the ground to the warm rays of the sun, along a series of neighbouring fluidic densities, is a series also of changing texture in time – through the tender pliability of young stems to the great oak,  and what the old tree returns to earth from the sky.   This is the “now” in a river’s movement of many centuries.

In matriarchal land husbandry, the kings must die, and their seed as generations rise and fall;  but the wood is the terrain of life,  the concentric rings of time,  the uplift and downfall of the waters.   In the wood is drawn the Akashic record for all seasons. This is one of the closely guarded mysteries.  A druid, to her nature true, may approach the power and knowledge which lies hidden in the tree, wisely, and with love.

Then Enoch is a guardian.   Only those may walk in nature’s temple who earned or inherited, by their effort, the right. The wood and the water are a well – the deep sunk root to the high, flowering branch.   Wood and water well an oasis in the mental life.   Our rulers are an elected sense of purpose, but also a private source of refreshment.   How hungry we are for the gutter press, their domestic difficulties.   And when so much is cut down, so much is given out,  how essential is retreat,  for them:  and for ourselves.

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mary queen of scots exiled from france, on a ship - 1957

mary queen of scots exiled from france, on a ship – 1957

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Enoch may be Powell, the unpopular and forceful politician who cares more for principles than for votes,  but who and what else is he?    He asserts an individuated view.   He is  a rugged individual.   He is any individual in any time or climate of everyman who, when over-run with the mere ideas of others,  dies.   The politician is a mask of convenience for a messenger.

The Person behind the mask is universal. “I am.”  How much of this commodity is sacrificed to the mask?  for the sake of being “available”?

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goddess with swan - 1956, copy from Leonardo

goddess with swan – 1956, copy from Leonardo

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Our dialogue has now become intimate.

“I have myself studied sacrifice,” he told me.   “I made, over long periods of time, very many years, a special depth study of all shapes and forms of sacrifice.   When my interest was anthropological, I was drawn to consider first the primitive form,  the votive offering of animal vigour from within the tribe to heaven,  to protect the tribe.   The more valuable the victim from the physical world, the more it focused the source of protection and strength.   Adonai takes the first of the fruit and gives back Himself.  This is psychology.

“You can see then a rate of exchange,  a currency.   It is the equilibrating of fluidic density from one plant cell or dimension of our universe, to another.   See what comes back in faith.   You can see the human victims on Mayan pyramids, the sheep and goats of the Hebrews, the bulls of the ancient Greeks,  and the bodies of early Christian martyrs.   Now, how would you yourself define sacrifice?”

“I think,” I said rather stiffly after a while, straining to hold his attention to my empathy and not wake up in my bed –  “that it is the gift.   I think the sacrifice transfers my attachment to earthly opinion.  It goes to a higher and more subtle sense of gravity.”

“Then,” he said  “you are the chosen container of your sacrifice.   To sacrifice is to give faith to the laws of renewal within you.   It is the offering to the Universal, what I, or you, have earned, and the willingness to change station in consciousness.  Each living heart contains a mystery, which should be guarded – the ability or willingness to do just that.   This element alone is taken alive to heaven.

“In the law of reincarnation, the Tree grows up to heaven and descends as fruit, as seed.  Each leaf put forth from the stem, the woody capillary, is unique.  The seasons are the fountain’s rise and fall:  the tidal breath of Adonai.

“In some forms of sacrifice, a pleasing fragrance is burned from the entrails of animal power and pride, to favour the ruling forces of Nature and persuade their alignment to a human cause.   In the Iliad the gods themselves sat down to feast with the heroes.   But in other forms of sacrifice a Man falls from heaven to earth like an apple to enrich the ground plan.   This, like golden leaf-fall, or treasure from the tree of life,  is the Messiah.   He ‘falls’ into the autumn of each year or cycle of human history, to teach it.

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sleep - 1987

sleep – 1987

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“And,” he went on,  “sacrifice is the slow and welling growth of new wood from the old.   Sacrifice metamorphs the butterfly from chrysalis, the snake of wisdom from many essential skins of ignorance.    Sacrifice is metanoia – the turning – of self’s wisdom from the personality’s temporary possession.

“This is difficult for you to understand and for me to tell.   It is not ordained by a limited mind like ours.  We touch on matters, which the transcendent plane inverts.   To sacrifice, or give away what we have,  is to receive it,  is to be the receiver.   To die is to be born.   To live in light, I cast away concentric rings of the darkness which defines me.

“I have studied these things so deeply, over so great an epoch of time, have given so much of my attention to this independent science,  one body after another,  that if I chose, they could make me a Doctor and put me out to grass.   That would be a solution to the political problem, wouldn’t it?   But in fact, so much have I suffered for the royal art, so much outgrown, sometimes prematurely given away, or died to, that I came to cherish a little too fiercely the remnant I have left.   This is the hardest part of all.   I should have hung onto the old witch-doctor, to salve these old scars on my stem of life;  my devotions and denials.

“Do you understand?   That place where the fruit trees are – is one that I WON’T give up.   It is my childhood.   It is sacred to me.”

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A fairy godmother, 1957

A fairy godmother, 1957

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Enoch Powell is still wearing cosmetic eye-liner with a curious consistency.   Perhaps this is so as to underline his point of view.

“It is very good,”  he says in his former voice “and very necessary to study an independent science.   But do not let the philanthropic philosophy philander you.”

His skin is brown and tanned by the sun in the gap between his trousers and jersey, his hair is black,  he emits to me a masculine vibrancy and seems to be turning into someone else.

Enoch is the collective name of an ancient gesture:   “he who walked with the Lord and he was not:  for the Lord took him.”   His thoughts on sacrifice are like looking into a well.   Everything is upside down.   I look down into the well and see, around my reflected shadow limned in light in the quiver of still water, the sky above.   What is above is in the depths of the earth.

The Hanged Man in the twelfth Tarot Arcanum hangs by the left foot smiling, from a wooden crosspiece over the well.   Why?

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12 hanged man - Version 3

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Who is in the well?   We look up into each other. You returned to earth head first,  to give it fruit,  to be born to die. I can see my earth-brown shadow, deep in the well of life, but not the features, against the light.

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With hindsight, I find the political awareness in this story interesting, pre-dating the decades of Margaret Thatcher’s market-forces policy, the Wales marriage, Prince Charles’s global network with the ecological and humanitarian emergency, the social turmoil, consumerist inflation and collapse.

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Dancing goddess, on the Heath Extension

Dancing goddess, on the Heath Extension

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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/

 

Sacred India Tarot Archive Creation of The Sun card: Surya

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Creation of Tarot 19, Surya, by Rohit Arya and Jane Adams

The full series is at http://aryayogi.wordpress.com; also on Sacred India Tarot facebook

 

Rohit’s Notes – October 2002

I’m sending you an article and a somewhat unusual depiction of Surya in the chariot with a seven faced horse, rather than seven horses.  If you choose to depict Surya as you have done before, then that would be fine with me too.  If he is shown standing, then he should be clearly depicted as wearing knee length boots and, curious detail, copper gloves!  Don’t ask me why, but that is always the case in the classical sculptures.

I would prefer a depiction of a Sun Chariot moving in outer space and illumining it, rather than the typical pastoral landscape version of most tarot packs.

 

The Sun, Arcanum 19 – from Jane’s Hermetic Tarot deck 1991

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Rohit’s Article:  Surya – the Eye of the World

“Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling!”

Walt Whitman

Worship of the sun is one of mankind’s oldest beliefs, and perhaps in many ways one of the most sensible.  For the sun is the literal source of life.

All energy conversions – whether in plants, animal or in fuel sources – are after all, utilizing the rays of the sun at a few removes.  Life would come to an end without photosynthesis, and what is that but drawing nourishment for the world from the sun?  400 million years from now, we are slated to fall back into the decaying star that our planet burst out of aeons ago, though by then mankind will have to learn to find another source of life, perhaps under other stars.  Till now, the sun is indispensable, and has been instinctively reverenced as such.  The Pueblo Hopi Indians have a daily ritual which they claim nourishes the sun and keeps it, and by implication, the world alive.  Anthropologists have indulgently regarded it as a charming oddity, instead of the intrinsically wise awareness that it manifests.  They know where Life comes from only too well;  they merely focus on a preliminary stage in its unfolding sequence.

Sun wheel 

In India the Sun is still worshipped on a daily basis by at least tens of millions of people, and that would be a conservative estimate.  The chanting of mantras to greet the dawn is one of the really genuine ancient living traditions of the world.

The sun god, called Surya, has risen and fallen in prominence over the centuries, but his worship has not dwindled even though his stature has.  From Vedic times onwards, Surya has always been worshipped.  In the Vedas he is the chief source of light and warmth and wisdom, though he is often co-mingled with Aditya and Savitri in a manner that does not resolve itself until many centuries later.  As mythology developed, the great Vedic gods were declared to be sons of Aditi, wife of Kasyapa, and they were collectively known as the Adityas.  It is a name that is applied almost exclusively to Surya today, and is a very popular name for males.  Savitri has now become an exclusively female name, though in the Vedas it originally meant the invisible, hence spiritual aspect of the sun.  This is analogous to the concept of Helios, the invisible sun in Greek myth.  Others say Savitri is the sun at full blaze and Surya the sun which rises and sets.  Clearly, this interpretation has fallen out of favour.

(Jane comments:  I am reminded of the Osiris Isis cycle/relationship in elder Egypt.  The cultures have their distinct stories, but arise from humanity’s common root:  the worship of the Risen.)

keren-su detail

The most sacred mantra in all Hinduism, the GAYATRI, is addressed to the Sun, Vivifier, “the One who enlightens and stimulates the Understanding.”

There is no great body of myth as such, associated with the sun.  It is almost as if Surya is such a visible and even hotly tangible presence, that there is no need to nourish the imagination with word pictures and long tales.  The Vedic Hymns are full of descriptions of his appearance, but they are more enthusiastic exclamations at the brilliant beauty of the sun, than anything else.  It is as though they were not blinded but drunk on light, bedazzled with illumination.

"The All seeing Eye, revealed by his beams 
gleaming like brilliant flames, to nation after nation, 
with speed beyond mortal understanding, O Savitr, 
you create the light, and with it you illumine 
the entire universe."

Konark Temple

The sun is golden haired, golden limbed and, interesting touch, golden tongued.  His eyes are golden orbs through which he regards the world and gives him his name – Loka-chakshuh, the Eye of the World.  If these names sound like titles from a Robert Jordan fantasy epic, that cannot be helped.  The mythical imagination always runs in predictable grooves, no matter if it is 2000BC or 2000AD.

This is the ref. Jane used for the next two drawings of Surya Graha Jyotish in 1998

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Surya rides across the sky in a golden chariot drawn by seven white horses, personifications of the days of the week.  The solar chariot is the oldest hypothesis to explain the apparent movement of the sun across the sky.  The wheels of his chariot naturally have twelve spokes for the obvious reasons.  His charioteer is an interesting personage called Aruna.  This worthy is translucent, and is an undifferentiated mass of flesh under the waist;  sitting down on the job is about all he can do, but that is perfect for his task.

 When the dawn breaks, personified as a beautiful woman called Ushas (see Sacred India Tarot Archive, the Creation of the Star) Surya is supposed to give chase to her.   His light shines through the translucent body of Aruna and that is why we have the Red Sun, Rohita, visible in the morning.

The rays of the sun are described as the many arms of Surya reaching out to bless every corner of the universe and infusing the realms of the gods with energy.

Surya Graha Jyotish 1

In later mythology, Surya is demoted somewhat.  He is now a still powerful god, but less than the Trinity.  This by the way, was not reflected in popular belief.  The cult of Surya grew steadily until it had rivaled any of the gods, and it reached a magnificent peak between the ninth and thirteenth centuries.  The most beautiful temples in India were built for his worship, a roll call of spectacular workmanship – the jewel like wonder at Modhera, the awesome Konark, the totally ruined temple of Martand, the little one at Osian and perhaps many more lost forever to iconoclastic fervour.

It is as though the creative energies of India had a high in northern India with Sun temples, and then sank in exhaustion.  Strangely enough, the Suryavanshi Rajput warrior clans of Rajasthan, claiming descent from the sun, never built a single temple for him.  They worshipped other gods, even though they were very proud of such noble descent.  Go figure!

Surya-Sun at Konark

Iconographic representation of Surya too, reached pretty high standards.  Three eyes, four hands holding water lilies, supposed to be the flower that longs for the dawn, are standard.  The sun is supposed to rise from, indeed be born of, the cosmic waters;  so the lilies are convenient symbolic shorthand.  He is the only Indian god known to be always wearing knee length boots and in some cases distinct metal (copper) gloves.  The boots are an invariable rule in his sculpture as is the atibhanga posture, the immobile erect stance of perfection, the god who is the cosmic pillar and support of the universe.

Surya graha jyotish 2

It is therefore an appalling development that somewhere from the 14th century onwards, a superstition developed that to make Surya ikons, is to invite the curse of leprosy!  In such ways do traditions turn upon themselves when they become decrepit.  Surya was actually once the LORD OF HEALING, a function the Solar gods, the Ashwinis, took over from him, and he ended up feared, as a bringer of disease.  There are no more active temples of Surya left either, except as an adjunct to some more popular deity.

 

The Ashwins, the Solar healing twins – a very rare representation.  See Pages of Staves, later in the Minor Arcana

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One of the widely diffused later myths, seemingly crafted to explain his decline while the other gods rose in favour, has Surya married to Sanjana, daughter of the Cosmic craftsman Vishvakarma.  The marriage is very happy, but Sanjana cannot bear her husband when he shines in full glory.  One day she makes the mistake of closing her eyes and averting her head from this intolerable illumination and the normally gentle Surya almost becomes a supernova.

He curses his wife to bear the god of death, Yama, for having averted her gaze from the giver of life, and for being variable and inconstant in her opinions, to bear a twin girl Yamuna, a river that never maintains its limits – constantly shifting itself.   Fortunately they already have a brilliant son, Manu, who is to become the proto-Adam of the next cycle of creation; and he helps them to reconcile later.  Sanjana is too hurt by his behaviour to easily reconcile, so she leaves her husband in possession of her Shadow, a simulacrum called Chaaya, while she goes to the forest to perform penance and bring Surya’s blaze down. She hides in the form of a Solar Mare.  When Surya finds out, he joins her as a stallion or Ashwa.  The results of this equestrian wooing are supposed to be the Ashwini Kumara, from Ashwa or horse.

(This is a later attempt to bring all the solar gods into one coherent narrative, but the Ashwinis were independent gods in the Vedas.  See our article on them, later in this series.)

Vishvakarma decides to help his daughter, and puts Surya on his great lathe and cuts away an eighth of his effulgence.  This fiery power was redistributed among the other gods, primarily as weapons.  Vishnu got a discus, Siva his trident, Skanda his spear, and so on.  The shifting power structures amongst the gods, and their collectively assimilating the Surya cult, are clearly visible here.  Also notable is the remarkable symbolism of death being the son of the giver of life.  No sooner does life come into being, than death has marked it down.

Sacred India Tarot 13:  Yama

The fiery power was distributed to other gods as weapons

In later myths, Surya sinks even further into insignificance.  In the Ramayana he is the father of Sugriva, the Monkey prince, and can do nothing to prevent his persecution at the hands of his brother.  In the Mahabharatha he is the father of the tragic figure Karna, and again can do nothing to ease the harsh destiny of his son.  It’s a long way down for the god described in the Vedas as the Great All-Knowing Lord.

The many names of Surya somehow still pulsate with power when the panegyrics to the other gods fade into staleness.

He is Dinakara, Day-maker;  Vivasat the Radiant One;  Karma-shakshi, witness of the deeds of men;  Mihira, He who waters the earth (by drawing up moisture so that clouds may form);  Savitri the Nourisher of gods and men;  and best of all, Savitr, the Impeller towards the good Light.

One cannot help feeling that somehow India lost more than beautiful temples when his worship collapsed;  an entire subculture of great vitality and creative energy went with it.  It was, by the evidence available till now, about the only faith in India that did not go emotionally overboard or assimilate so many bizarre aspects of behaviour and belief that make modern sensibilities squeamish.  The Light was sufficient unto itself, and there was no evil thereof.

It is a belief that would be reiterated in another time and place by an artist from another culture.  Many centuries later, as England’s great painter, Turner, lay dying after a lifetime of painting the light, he stated his life’s discovery and faith in four words:

“The sun is God.”

**

Jane’s Notes, August 2012

Our emails and images for this card seem to have got lost.  My October 2002 journal is busy with Kabbalist/alchemical practice and imagery.  I was learning to build a ‘body of light’.

However, I find again some paragraphs of interest, from the time I was drawing SURYA.  My reason for including my recorded meditations in this series, is: not only are they part of the creative process:  they ANCHORED the art-work of the card, energetically.   They arose spontaneously; they are in its future.   It is an opportunity to reveal this strata of the work.  A visual thinker may follow and make associations.  A verbal thinker will naturally relate more to the teaching, mythology and ideas associated with the card.

Sacred India Tarot:  Surya – the Sun

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Jane’s Notes, 30 October –   2002

"If I'd thought about it, I never would have done it, 
I guess I would have let it slide. 
If I'd lived my life by what others were thinkin', 
the heart inside me would have died. 
But I was just too stubborn 
to ever be governed by enforced insanity - 
someone had to reach for the risin' star, I guess it was up to me."

Bob Dylan

..“…on the Tuesday I drew a seal.  The thoughtform during Michaelmas was the Seal of the Soul, and what I had learned with the seals in my sunbody immersed in moonwater on the Coastal Path.   (See SITA Archive, Creation of the Star, Ushas) …

“… Before getting up this morning, I saw in the deep water under my ship, the anchor chain let down and resting in coils on the sand.  It was golden.  Everything was golden around the galleon on the bottom.  I could not make out objects other than seed-like forms or coin-like forms; but it had this sense of goldenness and clarity.

“If the anchor chain is loose, it means there is further to descend.  I recognized this, when visualizing the place like an inner Sun to sink down into.

“Let there be a well of sunlight.  Let the anchor softly drop down through the well (there is a sunflower), to the end of its chain through the strata of darkness.  Don’t expect to see things, for this is very deep;  but there is a hint of rainbow tints or precious stones – the metals of the wise.  Where is this sensed, physically?  Behind the neck, between upper shoulders:  the Path of Awe and deliverance of my teacher.  I am under the sand and in my teacher’s living loving quiet.  I slipped down the stem and into my teacher.  Where am I in his subtle body? – in the stomach – he tastes me, I am his food of the world.  The inner organs which are hidden from sight, are of glorious and startling colours.

“Our vision must go through the colours, it must come from behind their prism, as the pure light of their Source: Self-enquiry.  In Jacobs Ladder, Heaven and Earth interface through Consciousness.  The place of meeting is embodied.

“How is the anchor chain now?  Does it hang straight, in whatever element?  Straight it hangs, with the anchor at the end, golden like a pendulum.  The art of dowsing is in space;  to eradicate any tendency to dis-ease;  the penetration into ‘living with ease in oneself’ which is spirituality.

“Harmony here in the stomach is where tensions dissolve.  Here too, the fountain breath works the diaphragm – the alchemic bellows.  Last night, an acid attack (from drinking orange juice) woke me, bolting up into windpipe, foul fiery taste, ate 3 alkaline pills and it gradually dispersed.  Nearly every night there is a surface break of shadow from the deep, in some form of small shock.

“As we’re busy in this region, the ship isn’t sailing anywhere at present;  a time for those on board to make and mend.  The anchor is in bedrock, but because the Sun took it down, it may by Sunlight as easily be raised.

“A spontaneous visualization is a combined operation – my teacher’s, as much as my own.  We ascend and descend into each other, both, and in it is my teacher’s own agenda, beyond my sight.  Light, like an egg, has a natural tendency to nest in the dark.  It is a vast egg, a pearl.  If planted into the stomach, light naturally passes into the ‘black dragon’ where the transformation happens in ‘chyle’ (the Royal Art of Alchemy.)   So they had to blast up a bit of bile first, out of the way!

sunflower photo

“Sunflower.  My lunar face is dark, and around it are the corona petals of my teacher.  His light is too bright to see, so mine is placed before it.  Admitting my darkness, I see around it the Fire of His Beauty, his lions’ mane.  Find ways of looking in an inward mirror, and being still.  See through a glass darkly, without talk.  He is there, all around.  What does he whisper to me?  A kind of vibration like “Or…..”, a word told me, 12 years ago in Troy’s psychic reading.

Or … arose because of an ancient insight of the esoteric O and A sounds – the long, open vowels.   I hear it deeply sung, like Troy sang it to me, deep voice like a chant.  Or … , sunflower, crown, sword-and-scales.

This old man in grassy field with dark-brown beret, is the shining of the face from behind the dark-brown Sunflower centre.  He says jo napot kivanok – “have a good day”/Hungarian.  Look at those a’s and o’s!   The best way to check out Or … is to say it, vibrate it, and see if anything happens.  Like the sunflower growing by B’s house, it feels like one of those small cosmic prompts which so amuse the angelics, and take decades to catch on;  but then catch a moment.  It needs only to move the light just a little.

“Or … is of course a French word for gold, and an Italian word for Now, and the hour.  It is also the ores of the wisdom metals and in earth.  In Hungarian it means just a row of something – row of chairs etc.

“Or … is a Druidic northern Europe sound, and a golden vibration.  My inner eye saw a little pyramid of amber, and Troy (psychic) was led at once to underground trees and the carboniferous golden river of their sap.  He resonated it for me.  In that realm is sunlight, like under the sea, like Archangel Michael, like in the golden web of the water Peter and I looked into.

“Troy said, about sound:  ‘Sound is the pulsation of each planet at their vibratory level – direct connection of those qualities pulses through the law of sounds/science.  Certain sounds can, by the law of attraction, create the alternative reality on the other side, which is equal in sound and measure, to come back into your life.  Thus, we make a sound, we create it to be pulled and drawn into our lives to come. 

‘’Does pain necessarily have to be the doorway to further joy, or could joy be the quality of manifestation that creates yet further joy to be magnetized at this point of functioning, where quality will attract life?  (We need not be now) so much at the point of our beginnings, where pain attracted the opposite.  We swing in the opposites often, at the beginning of our life.’”

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This is, in western terms, a mantra yoga, and it is interesting to find it linked here to the Solar vibration:  to Surya, and to the Gayatri mantra which Rohit led off with.

Contrasts also are highlighted:  the light and the dark:  the equilibrium which is maturity, the full expression of our solar self.

I also noted, at another time:  Serenity, simplicity, radiance in all directions, the power of the child-like.  In India, the Sun can be also a scorching destructive force, and some jyotish astrologers see him as a malefic.  The seven horses are the days of the week.  Note the chariot wheel and the Yantra on his heart.  He needs no weapons.

Waite and BOTA

In the Waite tarot deck, the Sun is depicted as a child leading a horse.  The resonance with the Vedic equine symbolism is of interest here.

In the BOTA deck the Sun shines down on a pair of children – baby adepts – within a protective stone wall, with sunflowers.  This is the alchemical process beginning to ripen and evolve, and it is called “The Collecting Intelligence.”  Alchemy abounds with the symbolism of cooking, slow ovens and hatching, like under the hens’ breast.  The mysterious work of the Sun is from within, changing everything. The Sun card is benevolent in every direction.

Sun Wheel 1:  the Sun is for us both day and night

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A Poem in "Sharing Expressions", 2005

SUN 
benevolent source of light 
life giver 
well-spring of comfort and warmth, 
healers of aches, of pain of soul, 
silver lining of dark clouds 
today we give thanks 
for your great blessings 
for your bright shining 
which colours and illuminates our world 
for the bird's song 
that mirrors your glory 
and for your gentle radiance 
rising from the depth of the night 
each new morning 
unfolding nature and humans 
to their full splendour 
today 
we give thanks for the sun.
                              Christi Becker

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Rohit Arya

Rohit Arya is an Author, Yogi and Polymath. He has written the first book on Vaastu to be published in the West, {translated into five languages} the first book on tarot to be published in India, co-authored a book on fire sacrifice, and is the creator of The Sacred India Tarot {82 card deck and book}. He has also written A Gathering of Gods. He is  a corporate trainer, a mythologist and vibrant speaker as well as an arts critic and cultural commentator. Rohit is also a Lineage Master in the Eight Spiritual Breaths system of Yoga

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Jane Adams

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.