This post begins with two oracles or “moments” in early December, for the Solstice. The three cards are “present”/centre, “past”/left and “future”/right.
It is also “sewn together” with my recent posts Sacred India Tarot Buddha 8,9.10 of Pentacles, Today is a Special Day and Bardo – a Buddha Atom Awakes on my primary blog. Here are the writings and reflections from my journal, behind them.
12.21.6 is the pure hexagonal movement of the Seal of Solomon, my universal heart key. The 6 is half of 12, i.e. the date. Add the three numbers, they are 12
The Heart Drop and the Lineage Tree fulfil the beauty. The Heart Drop is a landscape of silver rippled sand, a buddhist stupa and a ruby. It is in the tantra vajrayana tradition. The mind stops and enters yabyum. The Rainbow Buddha is in the Tree of Life. And Time’s wheel strikes the moment.
Oracle of solstice. Ora, oasis of solstice. This is profoundly real, striking the ora, hour, the moment through the clock’s face in the Real Aquarius.
Alignment flows the ease of being. The force is imperceptibly vast, like gravity. It seems likely that forces arraigned against it, suffer an increased violence and implosion. The core through evolutionary crossroads, is uncompromising. The root of the uncompromised, is … to Align. Turn. Submission. The Merciful. There are stars at night in the sands. The resistance is the old tribal vendettas and their murderous sentiment, brother against brother, civil war, humanquake.
What about the true Islam, invisible behind the televised tension? I … am.
View the present crisis historically, as a fence, a hurdle of an old world with the new. Solar atoms pass through it, like the current through the Buddha’s enlightenment.
13 December – in Nether Stowey, Somerset
My mother drew my attention to 12.12.12 yesterday, being absolutely unique and unrepeatable, as there is no 13th month. So I did a piece on my blog about this – with some difficulty as the signal/internet dongle here comes and goes. Discovered it is strong in the morning, and gradually deteriorates.
With my cher ami, I have decided to stop trying to get things right, and certainly not to worry when I don’t. That just gives power to him and makes a loop, which he doesn’t want either. Nobody can be exactly right with another person. It’s just a fantasy, and a deconstructive one. This is a good realization. I always tried too hard and got entangled. Human beings are not “right”. We are just the way we are.
It is very cold in Nether Stowey, and I am having a good time with my parents, both nearly 90. Ah well now, a morning moment … the quiet. Lord thou art God – the Rose: the infinite moment inside the beautiful 12.12.12: my Tarot oracle 12.21.6 – Hanging Man inverts the World-way, and becomes the mutual understanding of the Lovers.
I am looking through the window, a skylight in a roof. I will not give power any more to other peoples’ opinions and closed houses. I accept them as they are, alongside the way I am.
I played some Bach on the piano, and I begin to remember Vera Moore a little. What she gave to notes and music lessons, was love, of a specially irresistible kind. I felt her loving presence, transcending every mess of humanity, in the muse; her voice, her laughter, her authority, her magnetic sparkle.
This moment is her receptacle. A sort of painting of her is inside me. I don’t know if it will happen. The moment of settlement is complete in itself, and all-extending.
14/15 December – The Ravening Curiosity
The devas are joyful, come what may.
When I was in the Quantocks above Nether Stowey, I moved at a fast lope down Bincombe because it was very cold. Through the soft brown autumnal drift of crisp leaves, my hips, knees and ankles danced loosely. All the small oaken witches danced. I became suddenly the silence. The silence of the wood sings in the blood and the bones. It is utterly quiet in the valley, as the descending waters begin to flow in their leafy bed. Further down, they arise through the ground, they sing and sound. Water is a miracle, the movement of the Stone, water of life.
I’m reading a book Into the Land of the Snows. It is by Ellis Nelson. It describes in one mountain scene, the exposure of a dead human to vultures – a Sky burial. The organs are taken out, the bones crushed and mixed with meal to make the feast clean, complete and appetizing. Life is renewed in death – another human gift. After reading this, I felt the iron piercing cold of the Himalaya, and the strange bastrikas which generate heat and keep the monks warm up there; and there came over me that purity – far from the ravening curiosity of the mind. In the stillness I see the shallow, ravening curiosity of the mind, for what it is; the trouble we all share and subscribe to. I am stepped just aside a little. I become the enigma of rocks, of valleys. Round yellow disks of the Sun – chakras – are placed on sensitive parts of the earth – my body.
Ramana’s presence bestowed peace – the felling of the curiosity. Buddha’s presence bestowed that same vital, ringing peace. Both carried their great quest through death’s door. It is night. I am back in London now. I am in bed and I hear the sounds of feet in the street and a distant fox yelping, as pulses without time. Solstice draws near – a solstice which tenders an infinite silent Life, the polar axis, a simplicity of being. There is an alteration in our composition.
The opportunity – in the atomic core of sinew, blood and bone – steps aside from the ravening curiosity which suddenly, subtly, is viewed objectively. The everyday mind is a ravening curiosity – my human curse and cross. As soon as it is seen, it is no longer so. Or it remains, out of habit, but compassion permeates it. Let it be. It seems to slough, like an old snake skin.
The Buddha in Sacred India Tarot Disks 8, 9, 10: the teaching and the maha Samadhi and the Bardo – see my other blog. It is all linked, like the trees in the wood.
Buddha and Ramana, and all great sages, gathered crowds of devotees to their death. Maybe Jesus had witnesses other than the gospel scribes, who watched him pass in deep peace, and came away with that; but no one read or canonised them. This is quite a thought; that the death of Jesus was not an agony.
The deaths of Ramana, Buddha, Jesus, demonstrated an exquisite eliding of the planes of life and liberation. Their deaths were seamless with life. We attend a death as we attend a birth; the sliding water in the woods, the kites that soar in the sky, the atomic interchange of consciousness.
Some of my stories of the Watershed contain kernels of the unending Life. In one of them, the living white sunflowers ate the dead ones. (The story is at the end of that post.) A blue radiance came in through the window, and played around the noumenon. Seeing something like that just once or twice, changed my body’s depth-expectation for ever.
Insight last week: in the capsule and story of me, I don’t perceive the truth of a person or of life. Same-ways, in the collective human capsule, how can our magnification of ourselves and guilt perceive truth? The truth is simpler than the pain we believe and measure.
Wisdom residing within our soul’s atoms unconsciously, and in just a few places awake, perceives the cosmos. The cosmos is what we are, as we wake from the dream. It is bound to be rather a surprise.
My mother’s piano is tres sympathique. It was easy to imagine Vera Moore sitting with me, and what she would say about this note or that note, wrapping my fingers round it like a baby in a shawl. I remembered her way with poetic images, and her LOVE. That is the magic – her love. It makes me want to go on playing, and keeps me focused. I remembered her instruction to play what I am learning, like a chorale, without any inhibitions – sing it inside, with the touch. I shall put that postscript onto the MusicLessons with VM.
This is the time of the slide through solstice tipping point, which means different circlings to different soul types. I hear its simple silence through my antakharana valley. I am sleeping badly. I think this is due to an intensity in Yetzirah generally. The stillness stretches time – re-mind it under the “ravening curiosity”. It is always slipping through the valley. It never ends.
Today I have to do a Buddha SITA post. I shall parallel it – link it with last night’s piece, here.
I got a little download this morning, but didn’t manage to write it all down. The voice said “You know I would wish you to. When you have piano lesson, take your jacket off literally, and listen.”
There was something important before and after this, which slipped away.
The flavour of the woods, the winter ground, the wet leaves and thawing frost is the Buddha nature flowing through, and in my black “snowdrop” diary of 1988, is the bit about the passing lorry-cosmos – my actual “enlight-in” … drop some of that into the new SITA post.
My parents, the old people, still young at heart … this is sad. Their door closes. They are conditioned to see ONLY the mess which humans have made of things, and the inevitable demise of the race. I feel this is but a point of view, as I am consistently made aware of other wavelengths, other views. The endgame AND … the endgame contains something quite other which prevails, through that dream. “All is happening as it should.”
To be a Kabbalist is rare. My father is rather closed and opinionated in his way – at nearly 90. Pessimism. My mother has pessimism, some of it rubbed off from him; but she has a child inside who still wakes. His connections are intellectual. He worked on himself magnificently, all his life: Jiddu Krishnamurti was his teacher. Hers are organic, and spark me off. Anyway, I am so glad I spent this time with them. So are they. And we remember the older generation behind them, as we pour the whisky and wine.
We watched a film called “Weeping Camel” about the Gobi Desert nomads, and their tenderness with child and beast. They used the wind’s note through a stringed instrument to awaken a shaggy young camel’s maternal instinct to her abandoned calf who cried. They caressed the mother, while drawing the bow across the strings, like a mantra, to the exact vibration of the wind. It was a lullaby. In those wild parts of Mongolia, they use their vocal chords in this way too. She allowed at last, her homeless calf to suckle, and the bond was born. The camera team gave a TV and a disfiguring satellite dish to the family’s small son, who had seen one in the town, and begged for it. Progress is paradox.
Cosmos – the God-cosm – is rough and hard when we struggle against it, and gentle when we move with it.
During those long, slow breaths with the camels that evening, my childhood Himalayan hero died of a ripe old age in France. I found this out, two days later. I am growing up.
See again, the Sun’s silent veil of vibrant life; the pattern of the cloth upon the deep.
Aquariel – an angel of the waters and of the air through the woods of life.
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