An extract from the Introduction: part 3 / A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE . . .

  Where did the Idea of ‘a Book’ come from in the first place? How did the idea of ‘a book’ originate?   

 Where does any idea come? ...From the life that is inside us. How does it come? ...It comes from the openness of our innermost being, unconsciously reaching out to that which is beyond, and hearing. But for as long as there have been people, and language, there have been books, in one shape or form. We are, as humans continual communicators of our thoughts. It is in our nature; we cannot help it! Those who were born with this natural passion to the fore seemed to be compelled to give out further than spoken language could take them; and naturally they sought a visible and tangible means  of communicating, which went beyond their own bodies and out to others everywhere! There was a need. And where there is a need there is always a means of meeting that need and fulfilling it. So books were born! 
 From their first appearance on dried mud tablets, and beaten bamboo, the skins of animals, parchment and vellum, and on to rag and wood paper, then to personal machines, the written word has gone out into the whole world!

  What were the First Books?

  In the Christian world, tradition is that the first book was written by God, himself; his account of the days of Creation, (Genesis 1 - 2:4) which he then gave to the first man Adam to pass on down through the generations. The first books were mostly lists of genealogies: and so and so begat so and so, etc., (and later, lists of dynasties of kings.) Then going beyond this necessary information to pass on, the pre-Flood descendants of Adam were given a deep fascination with the stars, which led them to write the tale they saw written in the constellations of the heavens, which they believed were telling the story of the world . . . its struggles and triumphs and its ultimate redemption . . . books in the sky . . . books which anyone could read; needing no publisher but God. The first books were the stars! 
  Other cultures and religions that did not have a written language had oral traditions, and passed on their wisdom and knowledge by memory, by word of mouth, and for hundreds of years. Some early peoples became the bodies of books: speaking books; trained to carry around inside them invisible, intangible volumes; rehearsing them over and over before groups of knowledge-hungry families gathered around their sacred tribal fires. The first books were people!

   
   

  What of the Imaginative Expressions of Humankind?  

  Perhaps the longing to express personal ideas in some lasting share-able form came later?  But how do we know? We were not there to see. Once again, as long as there have been people and language there have been attempts made to record thought; and imaginative thought. 
  Maybe some of the earliest stories and journals and diaries were created in picture form in ancient caves. And, in even deeper marks upon stone, strong messages carved in various kinds of cuneiform writing; which although they could not be mass distributed through the world, of course, standing in one place only, they could for hundreds or thousands of years have told their especial tale to all those who walked by them. 
  But for us the mists of time past lift, and rising above the standing stones we see their engravers, their writers. And as we look closer, see a deeper truth that all people are themselves books, known and read of all men. Not just passing on rehearsed tribal knowledge, but the stories of their own lives; not written with a chisel, or with ink, but with the spirit of the living God; not in blocks of stone, but in the fleshly fabric of the heart as they live out their lives.
  As soon as there was some sort of easily transportable, inscribable material, or some early form of paper and instruments to make marks upon it, those who could read and write recorded their folklore and kept journals; often having to hide them away in crevices in the walls, or under the floors. Elaborate diaries and journals were kept long before the well known beautiful, handwritten books that we see now in museums . . . those highly decorated, colourful volumes of the Scriptures; that were all laboriously hand copied on vellum by cloistered monks with quill and handmade inks and lighted candle. But the many imaginative forerunners of these magnificent books have not survived; they may not have been considered sufficiently holy. Sadly, they were not treasured enough to be considered worthy of the effort involved to preserve them down through the generations. But they did exist once. 
  And just in case we should consider ourselves more intelligent now, than way back then, the beautiful handmade books written before the emergence of such marvels as The Book of Kells, and the Lindisfarne Gospels were extraordinary; illuminating such ethereal themes as we are now returning to in our ‘more enlightened age.’   

   What of Higher Forms of Books?  Or, what is a book like?

  A book is like a sacred isle. A safe place to learn and dream in. A circled realm of wonder, to set us apart. A seascaped rock to insulate our lives, and to allow us our wings upon the ocean of life! 
 And then, there it was! The catching of that which was not caught before! The spirit of books . . . the abstract equivalent of a book . . . its lively essence . . . and its immortality, in its ability to convey an indelible message capable of far outliving the life of its author. And suddenly I saw a book as a thousand different things! A book was a bird! As a feathered thing! And it was singing – its story ‘telling’ in another dimension.  

And What of Higher Forms of Writing?

Continued/

An extract from the Introduction: part 2 / A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE; A Rain of Booklight . . .

  How have Books Impacted our World?  

  Without books where would we be? 

  The answers to these questions are truly mind boggling! If you really thought about the extent and reach of books it would blow your mind! 

 Books have been the single most powerful means of changing the way we think. In enlightening our minds, helping our hearts, even in reforming our lives in time books change the world and the realm in which we live. Bearers of radical thought, explainers of mounting facts, harbingers of change, capsules of intellectual entertainment, or hosts of proverbial ‘pots of gold’ at the beginning of a million rainbows books have impacted our world more thoroughly and entirely than anything else we could ever think of. Multiplying thousands or millions of times the reach of a single manuscript books have the potential to take one person’s thought to every corner of the globe.

  Almost everyone can think of books that have changed their lives in some way or another. They have confirmed things in us we didn’t know we knew; led us on new pathways, given us exciting sparks of insight from a host of new ideas, brought encouragement and understanding, or simply taken our stress away for an hour or two.

 Books mediate human culture; carrying within them, and spreading the imbibed particular fashion of that particular era in which they were written. Carriers of the present they soon become the bearers of the past as mankind's basic assumptions and ideas change with the times. Books are the means of the evolution of society; initiating all forward movement according to the loving will of God and the universe. 
  But we need not indulge in any chronological snobbery, and think that the books of the present are superior to those of the past. It is in seeing through the eyes of the authors of the past, as they saw their present, that we are able to step back enough from our own immured, unquestioned assumptions - of our own innate, imagined superiority - to glimpse beyond ourselves and initiate the things of the future. 
  Authors help to inspire other authors. One book is a stepping stone to another as unconsciously writers influence each other. In an enlarging of basic understanding and knowledge one book will build upon another; inspiriting and enthusing other writers to expand upon the concepts or imaginative ideas they read of, and digest; to present them again to the world, in words of another shape, and form, in another book. 
  So the progress of joy, and life, which is ever steeped in current wisdom and knowledge grows, and turns; and being ever refined, turns further corners, and grows again, and from one generation to the next. And this, whether it is fiction or non-fiction; even to the stretching and expanding of our comprehension of genre, as broadened subjects overflow their boundaries, gradually branching into new kinds of books not previously seen or thought of. But these new book-ideas will seem foolish to us at first! Just as this delightful Chinese proverb intimates: 
  'People are open to new ideas . . . as long as they are identical to the old ones.’

Where did the Idea of ‘a Book’ come from in the first place? 
How did the idea of ‘a book’ originate? 

 Continued/

A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE... A Rain of Booklight

A Book is Like a Sacred Isle 
A Rain of Booklight... A Book about Books

(There is a link to the manuscript of this book, below...)

 The Quest Alight  

What is a Book? ...Or, what is it like?

  This sounds like a crazy question, doesn’t it? Of course we know what a book is! At least we believe we do. But I have come to see this as having many different answers; and perhaps not ones we would ever suspect. One day I found myself pondering this nonsensical question.

  I happened to see an open book, lying upside down on the grass beneath a huge spreading tree. A forgotten book; accidentally left behind, I presumed. I looked about me but there was no one around; there were no people to be seen anywhere. It had been a sunny day; but now it was grey, and cold, and lightly raining.

 As I stood there time seemed to cease. I remember this strange sensation; it had happened to me before. It was as though I was there for hours, and yet I am sure it was only for a moment or two. I was standing there under this tree just staring at the upturned book. It was laying on the outer edge of a little protective ‘harbour’ in between two great buttress roots coming out from the base of the trunk. There was still no one around, but I felt shy at the thought of picking it up. I walked on. I tried to forget about it.

  But later that evening I couldn’t get the thought of the open book out of my mind. For awhile I kept chiding myself for not picking it up and taking it. I could see the book so clearly in my mind; the attractive colours of its cover picture – yellow, gold and white, and purple. I was reaching out to it. All at once it was like I was seeing a translucent mist rising up from it. I saw this mist was its energy. Light was shining within it, sparkling, speckled with gold and silver and many soft colours; it was beautiful! Suddenly I knew, with a flash of insight, that this was its ‘spirit;’ and that all books had ‘a spirit.’ Immediately this thought came into my mind: ‘What is a book?’ Strangely, not for one moment did I think it a foolish thought. On the contrary, it seemed to me to be infused with wonder! It filled me with excitement!  

 How astonishing the potency of one tiny instantaneous thought; a question coming to one, from out of nowhere; from ‘out of the blue:’ it set me upon a path of introspective questioning, leading to the writing of a sequence of poems, and a piecemeal series of articles and stories; which fully occupied me for a few months! This book you now have in your possession came directly from just that one tiny spark of light and life!

     

           A link to the manuscript... a pdf word document

               A Book is Like a Sacred Isle
                       A Rain of Booklight: A Book about Books

                                     *

Story: 17. ) Star Books & Serendipity: The Coffee Table Book . . . from: A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: A Rain of Booklight; a Book About Books

Star Books & Serendipity

  Books come in many different sizes and values, and with an infinite variety of ways and means in which they can impact our lives and captivate our soul.

  While we are in the midst reading them, or are intending to read them, they largely live on low tables somewhere or other. But after their having been ‘eaten and digested’ by us the majority are quite happy to live out their lives on our bookshelves. But, our most heavenly books, no, these are too lovely to be kept unseen on our shelves. These beautiful books sit in pride of place on any appropriate table in restful rooms in our house. They are mostly too large to fit on a shelf anyway; but not always; there are some gorgeous tiny books to be left lying around the place.    

  Perhaps, there were books even purposely designed, not to be tucked away when finished, but to be put on display, to bring continuing pleasure to their owners, and to any discerning visitor.

  In an intriguing way these books are saying who their owners are. In their visible place in our homes, they have become not the expression of their authors there, but of us their owners: speaking of the things we are interested in, and of our inner lives, giving out what makes us tick. Here in seemingly quiet leisure these dynamic volumes are living out their lives as an intrinsic ‘presence’ in the room . . . actively enhancing the room . . . contributing to its energy . . . spiritually adding to its elegance . . . functioning in it as its mystery.

 Sometimes these volumes can be attractive tomes of pseudo antiquity; but mostly they are oversized glossy picture books on every subject under the sun.

 And, yes, the books are changed, from time to time; especially the library books; and that is fun seeing which books we feel to leave on the table. It is no coincidence which we leave, or put away; there is a purpose greater than we can see in all our actions.

  Left lying on the lower tables of our house, made for times of mind resting, these books can touch and reach our heart better, by bypassing our mind; which has been put on hold a little while, as we sit and rest.

  And, of course, such books have even been given a name, a genre: ‘coffee table books:’ volumes which have been pre-dedicated to their own peaceful surrender; mildly wondering who will pick them up next? Being as they are available not only to their owners, but to any casual observer left to while away the time; leafing slowly and mindlessly through them, as they perhaps wait for someone to come and talk to them? Opportunities for these books to touch people are almost endless! 

                                                      *

Star Books

I sit – not hiding –  

And wonder – if any man will ever find me?

All my babble is there –

Going undefined: unreasoned

Hidden in my opened pages –

This book I am –

Unread by the fearing human eye 

But of angels known – and understood      

              *

                               

Story: 16. ) The Diarist: The Book of the Self / from: A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: A Rain of Booklight; A Book about Books...

 A Selfie Book a Hole in the Wall

       “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

  

    There are probably quite a lot of people who have their diaries stashed away somewhere amongst their papers or bookshelves; and, most likely they will be partly finished, like mine – evident signs of our good intentions – entries kept for anything between ten months and ten days – all as unfinished as life is!

  There is something irresistible about a diary. I am not talking about appointment diaries, engagement diaries, and our daily business ones, but about ‘a Selfie Book:’ i.e. the journals we keep of our own innermost thoughts. The private books we write working through our joys and sorrows, our struggles, and our hopes and dreams. These are the realest books there are; the truest books of all; the person who we are indelibly formed in words!  

   In diaries such as these we are intelligently working through our own lives: we are ‘trying and testing the waters:’ experimenting with ideas, searching out what is in us. The more we do this, and the deeper we go into our own psyche, the more we come to know our own selves; which, strange to tell, is how we come to know anything…! “Then shall I know even as also I am known.”    

   There’s nothing like a diary to sort ourselves out and find out who we are!  Our diaries are our ‘workings-out.’ They are strictly private places of personal discovery; sheltered venues where we can come to terms with our issues, while building up our own philosophy of life and finding out who we are and what is our purpose in this world.

   “The unexamined life is not worth living.” (Con Keogh.)

   This is a key quote I have carried about with me for years now; and I feel that I have thoroughly found out its deepest truth; the greatest happiness I have found has been in me; in myself. (And if you think about it where else could it be?)  I guess this sounds hedonistic, but it is not:  for we are not pandering to ourselves in our diary workings-out, rather we are un-afraid-ly examining the thoughts and intents of our own hearts; even ruthlessly at times: we are valuing the truth in all things and have no wish to deceive ourselves in anything.

    The only concern with journal writing for sensitive people is that we could become overly critical of our selves. But if we keep wholeheartedly to the truth of us, we will learn to love our selves, and enjoy ourselves through this daily exercise of diary keeping. Journal writing is hugely healing; and the reward: “having the rejoicing in ourselves alone, and not in another:”    

   We know that our diaries are private and that we can’t share them with others. But, personally, I find it delightful to keep my diaries on a bookshelf to surprise anyone should they happen to pick one out!  I have nothing to hide; they already know I’m crazy! And nothing is by chance! Maybe one’s diaries will fall into the right hands and help other people? I know for sure, that if our diaries should survive our passing away into the next life, they become a treasure to those left behind.

    And I have in my possession such a treasure!  

    I have my Welsh great-grandfather, Daniel Thomas’s pencil written diary of his trip across the Atlantic Ocean, from Liverpool, U.K., to New York, U.S.A., in 1909. This beautiful little diary is over 106 years old!  It begins: “D. W. Thomas and James Edward his Tour to America USA on the 22 day of October 1909.” Daniel’s old fashioned handwriting is a bit hard to read; and his spelling is interesting! His descriptions are quite startling! He talks of his brief visit to (our now unknown) relatives in Pennsylvania; and life as it is happening . . . he speaks of his being present in the room where his aunt suddenly dies minutes after he arrives at the door to visit her . . . having coming all the way from Wales to see her!

  This little diary is also full of miscellaneous trivia, which to me are fascinating and interesting details, such as the prices of food and things, and the brevity of his stay in America!

    I must scan this treasure, which is now an historical document to preserve it in digital form for posterity; and to share it with the rest of my family.

   We do not know the extent of the influence of our lives!

   It is good to know that the written word will always out live us. 
   How wonderful to leave behind us, more of who we really were through the agency of our precious diaries no matter what they may contain! They are as . . . “a hole in the wall” through which one's lovely inside life can be seen. (Every person's inner life is lovely, because all of a person is accepted, and understood, forgiven, and loved unconditionally.) The insights to be gained from the written thoughts of a person’s inner self, no matter what they are, are always fascinating and always very valuable; they are helpful towards the personal growth and spiritual development of any reader. Marvellous rewards await the brave: those who are not afraid of sharing themselves for the benefit of others.

                                                   *

Story Diary.) Words of Hope . . .

      I've recently been thinking about continuing my book: A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: A Rain of Booklight; a Book about Books; I realized that I had only written and posted them here on this Blog site and that I needed to collect them into a manuscript; so that is what I've doing for the last two days.

     But as I was working away I wondered why I had bothered writing all this ‘Book about Books’ stuff anyway:  nobody would ever read it!  (My irrational fear of approaching publishers has been growing lately, rather than shrinking!)

      Then yesterday evening a dear friend of mine, Ray, texted me that he had just finished reading all the poems for this proposed book, which I had sent him over two months ago, and what he shared encouraged and comforted me . . . for I know that Ray only writes circumspectly, truthfully, and is careful with his praise of anything I've written:  so that when he does write a kindly critique I can be assured of its veracity!

     ‘. . . I really loved the ‘A BOOK IS LIKE...’ poems . . . quite amazing wee things!’  

     I’d been seriously thinking that I must have been crazy to write over 40 poems on the same theme!! ...When I asked him if people would get sick of so many poems with the same opening line . . . ‘A book is like...’ ...he said:

    ‘I thought they were all quite different and unique so that makes them good.

    Then after Ray texted the above he reminded me of 'The Bookmark Project' idea....I had almost forgotten it!  I must give it some more thought. He wrote:

   And if they are printed on bookmarks then it’s a good thing that there are so many, like ‘collectors’ things!’

    Just a few words of hope . . .  and a little bit of encouragement go a long way!   J

                                                          *

Clear as Glass . . . and See-Through in the Light . . .

     They are all shining now the crystal wine glassed on our Welsh dresser. I suddenly felt this morning that I was to dust the dresser, beginning with the top shelf; and ending there! I washed a dozen delicate glasses in hot soapy water. Now they sit back up on the dresser positively beaming with shining light and delight. The sight of them has made me happy and as light as air! It is like I have been washed and polished, too!

    Every natural thing I do speaks to me of its spiritual counterpart and teaches me of my inner life. It is not something that requires any effort it just comes to me. I am always being taught . . . we all are, if we want to be.

     I sit now on our pale blue painted verandah, on our pale blue covered sofa, and rest. I am watching a strange green caterpillar creature on one of the purple candle flowers growing through the balustrade in front me only half a metre from my face. Its movement so slow it is almost imperceptible; but overnight it has moved a massive distance of twenty centimeters from one flower to the next. I cannot figure out which is its head end and which its tail. But as it now seems to be drinking from one of the little flowerets, perhaps I have discovered its head end!

     Much of my life seems to be upside down, or back to front . . . my path one of losing knowledge to gain it . . . and of not knowing something in order to know it . . . inner-life being given me as imperceptibly as breathing.

     And in all this, I am constantly being misunderstood by my friends . . . what is light to me is darkness to them . . . and our fellowship now is only in pleasant discussions about the weather.

     Although going unnoticed I am always moving from one level of understanding to the next; and it is only, and always in decreasing.

     Below the verandah is the driveway. Fine gravel with weeds and grass growing in patches and going un-sprayed . . . all living things are beautiful to me, even the weeds.

      The driveway is dappled now with sunlight trying to find its way through the trees. It is always carpeted an amber-brown colour from its sprinkling of fallen leaves from the huge pohutakawa tree leaning over it.

     This area of the driveway is an afternoon’s activity place for our five hens. Here they scratch and peck in the sunshine, and fluff out their feathers, digging out little shallow sitting places beside the hedge at the edge of the drive. Here they bathe in the dry dust and make themselves clean.

     I, too, bathe in my own dust and it also makes me clean: seeing myself as I really am: totally nothing and scum in the eyes of the world; and yet the more I see that, the happier I am . . . made free in seeing my own dust.

     I look up. The sky above matches the colour of the verandah, exactly . . . and down it bends . . . and gathers me beneath its soft protective wings . . . as a mother hen does caring for her little children. And I am loved and comforted . . . and lifted so free I rise again with my mother the Sky. And more in Heaven: Heaven is more in me; and I laugh, and dance on tiptoes inside me.     

         

                                                             *

The Pearl of Great Price . . .

     When I was young I was always writing ‘books.’

    ...The fact that they never exceeded a few pages or the first chapter never deterred me. I never gave up beginning, only finishing! But when I grew up I did eventually progress and now I have finished a few.

The Pearl

When I am old I will write a pearl.

The pearl will be 25,000 miles wide,

Because it will circle the world

In one second.

It will be the smallest thing

Which can do that –  

Small as a pea under 20 mattresses,

That is why it will be a pearl.

Then the world will know what it has

Forgotten,

And I will be gone.

                        – Age 7

Dancing in the Light . . .

ALL THROUGH THAT PARTICULAR DAY had been a ‘shaking’ of all I knew; and then, asleep in bed that night, in what must have been the early hours of the morning, there was a kind of small ‘explosion’ in me, and I suddenly I found myself filled with delight and doing cartwheels of joy inside me; and, almost at once, I was moving up and up and up on a wide and brilliant beam of light where angels were . . .

  DAY WAS JUST BEGINNING! Joyous from the womb of the dawn, the newborn skies, first clothed in pale amethyst, then amber, jasper and gold, sang as a young sun arose to conquer the whole expanse of the heavens and to welcome the arrival of a new Day! Very soon its robe of softest blue would spread out as a canopy, holding above for all the promise of truth and comfort. 
   On the earth a mist was rising from the ground. Like a floating bridal veil of purest white it was; brilliantly shining from the light and energy that was within it. Slowly moving along, and towards a wide glassy river, it was watering the ground as it drifted a little above it, and then beyond and away. In the air the music of Morning, silver sounds of life mingling with the songs of birds and the voice of trees, each living thing adding its melody to the welcoming of day, and in all the beauty the awakening of hope in a fulfilling of answers. Emerald deeps of love flowed through the whole valley and embraced and blessed the green-lit pleasant Land.

   Beautiful living beings, which inhabited the arboreal realm, and bright angels, and people filled with jasper fiery light were everywhere. And in all the ‘dancing’ in the light, and in the music, such harmony as would make you cry! All pervading love, warmth and comfort filled the entire Valley; and in ‘running’ delight embraced everything there was!

   In the midst of the Valley and beside the glassy river – the river of life – were many fruit trees growing, all along its banks, and on both sides. Planted at the edge of the living river, these trees were trees of life, and so their fruit was new every month. The fruit, when it appeared looked like apples . . . magical ones, too . . . for no matter how many bites one took of them, they were never any less. This was because the life they gave was real, not an illusion of life: knowledge about life, but life itself, and so it was always replenished.

   And the life they gave was ‘back-to-front’ to us, as it took away shadows of knowledge to give us the life of it. And so no one ate of these trees who would not brave the ‘seeming darkness’ which was life!  I was shown this by the angels, when they said, the life of the name of the fruit:  “elppa” . . . or . . .  “helper” . . . the fruit of the trees of life beside the river of life . . . helped us . . . in life!

   So, too, the leaves of the trees. They helped in life, also. And the leaves were the writings which taught the way of life, which no one could read who would not embrace the light. The leaves could be found in the books written by those whose names were written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. And the leaves of these books were as medicine, for the healing of hearts. 

   All of a sudden, it was as if there was a small ‘explosion’ of bright light, with an ‘earthquake.’ (It was a little like the first ‘explosion’ when I had first seen the Sky, and come into it . . . which was either many eons ago, or just a little while ago; I don’t know. 
  Perhaps it is impossible to describe . . . but I will try.  (And if my words come in a 'different' order, it is the order in which they are meant to be.)  I was in a tree, and the tree was in me! And the pages I in it wrote were emerald leaves hovering and dancing in the light in and about the tree which was in me and I in it. And the pages which were leaves went flying about and travelled far and wide although they were always ‘attached’ to the tree; and in some sense I could not understand, never left it. And . . . it was as if the tree had always been, and was always known, even before the beginning, although it was new every moment. 
  After a timeless time I slowly became aware of the sky. Soon, all there was was sky; and it was beautiful, beyond description. Founded in the softest blue, it seemed that all I wanted to do was eat it!  To eat the blue sky? How funny! How can you eat the sky? But that’s how I felt. That’s what I found I was trying to do! 
  In fact I wanted to ‘eat’ everything there! Perhaps it was knowing I was a part of it all. And, most of all that I belonged in it all, or that it all belonged in me . . . even crazier, I suppose! But so full of love and joy and delight it was, all the Land was irresistible to me! And I could not help but dance and move about on tiptoes which were always leaving the ground, for a lifting rising was in me and everywhere, and in everything: life as light as a feather and buoyant as a helium balloon on a sunny day! 
  Then suddenly there was one of the 'apples' in my hand, from one of the trees of life beside the River of Life. I was holding it before me and looking at it closely. It was truly beautiful. And so I found it exquisitely shaped and formed. And it was of many merging, changing, transparent colours; all the colours of the rainbow and many more besides which I had never seen before! And as I continued to gaze at it; accepting it, loving it: so shining did it become it was as if it was a globe of fire! . . . In it was LIFE!
   And just as I had wanted to eat the Sky when I really saw it, it was the same with this amazing 'fruit of LIFE' when I wanted to eat it: all at once it was in me - all infused inside me - and in my hand it became as a bird that flew up from my hand high into the air! And as it was with the bird I found I was moving and dancing above the earth even higher in joy and delight! Something had fallen from me when I 'ate' the helper-apple . . . like a layer of skin, or a discarded cloak . . . and I was freer and lighter . . . moving onward and further through the shining bright light and through the centre of the garden in the midst of the beautiful Valley.
   And I knew I was loved; and the feeling of that love grew and grew; and I was comforted above and beyond all I had ever suffered. 

Angels on the Ladder of Heaven . . .

I imagined that when I should turn a page, or walk the next step in an ordinary day that I would come across something that would make it less ordinary and me more alive and awake to whatever was in the air . . .

I didn’t want much; just a glimpse of what was there that I couldn’t see with my normal eyes. It was always being offered: I knew there was always more: I had already found a host of lighted things. I think I was always looking . . . 

One thing led to another, and that would lead me on to find the next thing. And on this beautiful day as I was walking along the path past the house I turned the corner and there before me was a ladder . . .

And it was in my way. I looked at it. Suddenly I knew the ladder was in my inner way within me; and I stopped and listened. And I saw heaven open, and the angels of God which are always with us ascending and descending upon the ladder of heaven as we increase or decrease in the light . . . 

Joy in the light increased by degrees as I decreased . . .

Degrees of climbing down the Ladder of Knowing: losing more and more of my own tight-held opinions as I descended . . .

The less I had of my own, the more I had of his: there being more space in me the more I descended and decreased . . .

The rungs of the Ladder stepping down were decreasing barriers to my knowing more and increasing lifts to stepping up within the light . . .

The more I descended dying to myself, the more his light could enter my heart and ascend the stairway of heaven . . . 

It was shown me, also, that the angels moving up and down the stairway were the thoughts and intents of my heart;  or that they were the bearers and carriers of the thoughts and intents of my heart . . . in the light . . . that glorious beam of light that was the stairway and relationship with God who IS LOVE . . . it was the way of Life!

 

                                      *

A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS: a spiritual allegory

                 

     In writing THE BUTTERFLY STORY I had glimpsed that one way to enter Life! was by a sort of ‘not-doing:’ in simple surrender and rest; but that there could be another way, which was by virtually doing the opposite, and that it could be good, too, I had not been able to bear; for I had crossed over, so completely and any method of acquiring wisdom and knowledge which was by human effort I had long ago learned to abandon within me. But, after a long while of more dying to self and waiting, I was given in a waking dream the hint of a greater truth which I had not previously glimpsed. I was about to discover a deeper level to seeing and perceiving truth; and a greater, or more true dimension of love and peace in which all the sensibilities and giftings of others were fully provided for and there could be no cause for offence. 

                                                           

                                                          *

A Circle of Swift Songs

  TEARS HAD FORMED A POOL. And through them it was as though I was looking from above and seeing down through the clouds. Mountains and beautiful valleys with cascading rivers and areas of dense forest were below. Then appearing in the far distance, amidst a great wooded wilderness, I saw a most beautiful lake. Around its edge were natural grassy places; flower-filled meadows, the haunt of fallow deer and forest creatures which came there to drink. But in one place the lake was bordered by the sheer rock wall of a great high cliff.

    It was very still. Not a breath of wind. The surface of the lake was smooth and clear and shining as glass. It was all was so quiet there breathed a sense of eternity.  Or as if time itself stood still, while angels watched.  

    Suddenly, a Stone is dropped, and from a great height. It plunges into the still water. From its fall, a vortex is caused in the centre of the lake, a hole greater than the size of the Stone and a huge fountain of water shoots skyward in the upheaval. The waves caused around it swell huge at first, then grow successively smaller and smaller as the ripples extend on and on; until, imperceptibly, they reach the very shores of the lake.

 So clearly did I see this all happening that it seemed to take a very long time to happen? I don’t know. It is hard to explain in words. But it seemed as though I was seeing everything in slow motion, for every detail is precise in my memory.

    It was only a dream. A fleeting waking vision. But I remembered it vividly, and I wondered what it meant. As I pondered, I saw again the fall of the Stone. It was the Central Thing: the Stone of Stumbling and the Rock of Offence. Then I recalled the circles of the waves, slowly decreasing to become ripples, until they were so small I could hardly notice them. As I weighed these things in my heart I drew closer, and after a moment I heard the following words rise from within me; they were not audible words just a silent knowing of something I did not know.

         A circle of swift songs: 

         The melody of degrees;  

         Fairly apportioned the glory

         Of the kingdom of heaven

    Then as I listened there was an opening in a once shut place, and I could see something of the meaning of the dream. I suddenly realized it spoke as an answering picture-story to the pain I was dealing with in my innermost being: the pain of being rejected for speaking the truth that no one wanted to hear. Then the picture unravelled . . .

   The ripples, they had had no meeting place! In that pattern of concentric circles, not one touched; not one wave or ripple, met!  There was no link between them. No bridge. Though they followed one after the other in perfect pattern, they never touched. They had no direct interaction with one another though they came from the same source and the same power moved them. ...For a moment I was devastated. All my longings dashed to pieces! No one would hear me who wasn't in the same ripple as me! I was separated from others! Alone! I really was…all alone! A sense of grief manifested in the centre of my being, and a sob rose up and came out of me; and for a moment I cried.

   And then Love stooped, and spoke. Love bent down, and looked upon me; and said, ‘I have made it so.’ My response a baby’s tears; and I just cried some more. But then the glint of a dawning:  ‘It was meant to be that way...?’ and I marvelled. As usual my natural, first-sight arose next, to steal away my dawn, and cloud my insight over, as my own thinking always does. ‘Oh, but why did you make it so? Surely, that can’t be! It is, too, cruel!’

    Clasped of such earthly thoughts the pain increased, and to breaking point. Yet, Love’s grip was stronger. I yielded. Trusting completely to Love’s own goodness I looked upon this given ‘picture-story,’ the second time; and wondered at the incomprehensible wisdom so black and dark as night to me. Immediately there came a greater dawning: ‘And it was made, for the extension of the glory of the kingdom of heaven; to which is no end, either way.’ Then I saw it all clear and bright as day!

   Every ripple received what he gave it. And all that he gave it was what it had. The power in the falling Stone was in each circling ripple the exact amount of power that he intended it to have. There everyone in that particular ‘ripple’ had all things in common! They had a kind of kindred fellowship one with another: ‘they talked the same language!’ Rarely did they grossly irritate or offend one another. They couldn’t. Their light, their knowledge, was equal.  So there were no micro-explosions of revelatory light by paradox by the interaction of opposites, to rattle them and embarrass them, and unnerve them, with too much light . . . too much glory, which was beyond them, and which could only make them burst, and spoil, and make them blind! ...New wine in old wine bottles; it doesn’t work! It harms. 

     It seemed this design of un-linked concentric ripples was a picture of how God chose to distribute his glory once it had entered the world; that it might be seen, and examined, and delighted in – in each degree that he gave it. ...I saw that in each was a potential for fullness, for all kinds of personal discovery, and peace: each having its own swift song: its own allotted glory to delight in, which could abundantly satisfy! 

      ‘And who are you to say which ripple is best?’

    

     My own heart smote me! To think that I had thought that I should be able to reach across the ripples, to swamp others with what I had, and put upon them my passionate desire that they should have what I had, regardless! Oh, I ran to Love’s ever present arms. There came my blessing: the loving rebuke and chastening which I ever embraced, and cherished;  for without it I could only be left behind; blind, clouded, lost in a wilderness of my own imperfect judgment, and my own stubbornly held onto opinions! Opened to the core, and out from the depths of me, my broken heart spoke and in Love’s own voice...

   ‘How do you know which ripple is best for each person? Do you know my thoughts, or my purpose in each ripple? Who are you? Don’t you know that I can give my glory, which I wish for all my children to delight in, within the faintest ripple as much as in the greatest wave of the upheaval? If I will that those who delight in the merest hint of my glory are to do so because it pleases me, does it not please you? Who are you? My glory is so great that the least touch of it upon man’s spirit is without end. And unto the smallest degree of it shall I cause it to fulfill their joy and my purpose within them unto whom I give it. If I wish to give to the least as much as I give unto the greatest, what is that to you? Follow me.’ 

    The first ripple reached the shore first; but though this first swift circle of a falling Stone is the most tumultuous and suffers the most upheaval, he gives as much to this least as to the greatest for it becomes the least, first; and so on. It was a profound paradox! And I did not think that I understood it. Then to my mind there came this: ‘There was the one which was the beloved; there was the three; there was the twelve; there was the seventy; and there was the five hundred; and there was the multitude; and the whole world.’ But I saw that all were beloved, whatever I thought; for all were given all they could hold; and all they could hold was all they desired! Enter peace; and love! And smitten, knowing I knew nothing, I fell softly. And, mercy, kissed with truth, I landed in Love’s own embrace.

   A circle of swift songs: the melody of degrees; fairly apportioned the glory of the kingdom of heaven.

                                                     

  

                                                *