All We Really Have . . .

   

All We Really Have 

                                                   

The living matter of the moment is all we really have---

Our creative clay to shape life in the moment

Nebulous impressions nibble at us beneath the surface---

Have power to mould the clay of us---

If left unchallenged---bring us down

See, from what a seeming-nothingness of thought

Our lives are made!

Life is difficult---

But if at each moment we deal with our besetting sting---

The unquiet thing that tries to swamp us with feelings of unpleasantness---

Let go of hopes and dreams---

All longing draining us of what we long for---

For what we haven’t yet---

Cast away fear, not let it grip

And rise above the insidious pull of gloom---

Then light is in the moment we are given to create with!

Darkness vanishes---

Gloom disappears with the ease of a shadow when the sun goes in

Golden words---fall from air

Lifting light seeping in warms and heals 

                                                            *

                  -Written today, in: 'Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume Three

The Rescue of the Shining Cuckoo...and Serendipity . . .

      You never know what lovely thing will happen next! 

    And ‘what happened next,’ after my return home yesterday was one of those experiences one treasures and never forgets . . .    

    I love birds. Every year I listen carefully for the first heart-stirring call which signals the arrival of the shining cuckoo to Totara North, New Zealand; where I live. It seems to be in the last week of September that I first hear it. It is now the 22nd November and I have been hearing its beautiful, memorable call, every now and then, ever since. 
   The shining cuckoo returns to New Zealand every spring from its winter sojourn in the tropics. I have always thrilled to its song; and I stop whatever I am doing to listen and pray that one day I might see one. They are known to be very difficult to see; it seems they like to hide. These unusual birds lay lay their eggs in the nests of other species and let foster parents raise their chicks.
    As I was walking along the path to the back door, I heard a strange rustling noise coming from my bedroom window. I turned and saw a bird inside my room, caught between the net curtain and the closed window. I quickly dumped all my packages and ran to my room.

     I had left the south window wide open. The little bird must have flown in and then tried to fly out through the other window. It was trapped and fluttering frantically; and it had a long tangled thread caught on one of its claws. 

     I waited a moment until it was a little quieter and reached up. The sun was reflecting the most beautiful green and blue iridescence on its wings; the flash of colour was stunning! It wasn't a kingfisher; I had never seen such a bird before. It was a little larger than a sparrow, but smaller than a thrush; and it had striped bands of brown and cream on its undersides. I didn’t know what it was. 

   With my own heart beating and fluttering along with the little bird I reached up and caught it gently in my hands. Carefully I untangled the 10 cm long cobwebby thread from its foot. It didn't struggle at this point; it was as though it knew it was being helped. Slowly I carried the exquisite little bird to the south window. And just as I had finally freed it of its impediment I lifted it up in my cupped hands, and it flew up from them, and flew away into the garden.

      Sometime later I learned that this little bird was a shining cuckoo!  

    I was touched by this experience; it meant a lot to me; and spoke to my inner life. I felt it was a gift, for I had prayed that I should see a shining cuckoo one day, and I did!

      You never do know what lovely thing will happen next!

  

                                                   *

The hidden wealth of secret places; the treasures of darkness . . .

PROLOGUE      

ANOTHER KIND OF MINING               

I THINK WE PASS through life mostly half blind; not seeing the loveliness in the things near us we walk empty and what we are looking for remains always future and beyond us.

True, we dig for what we know of inner treasure, but finding so little of it we think not to go further and mine for that which we seek, right where we are. For we walk through life in the deep ruts of a cart track, locked into a treadmill of thoughts which revolve round themselves endlessly and don’t escape to discover new things. Along this rooted path of thinking, we are on the same plane and scale as if we thought that visiting a real gemstone mine would provide us precious jewels handed out on a plate. Forgetting how hard and long and tedious is the work of excavating choice minerals and gems from the dark ore of a gigantic mine.

   We have become conditioned to things being instant and easy; but just as there is work in the retrieving of a miner’s bounty, so there is for us, though it be of an entirely different nature. For mining can be along other lines than in ‘rock,’ and the excavating of satisfying gems, from the rich ore of the things which are within our reach; even the living wisdom . . . the hidden gems . . . locked within the rich layers of the things we see every day, all so familiar to us we don’t even notice them.

   The profits of these two kinds of mining are essentially the same. Except one makes us rich on the outside and the other rich on the inside; and though the digging work in both seems so different, again, they are essentially the same. Except one will make our physical muscles strong and the other our personal ones: our inner spiritual muscles; those which shape us into the person whom we are.

   And as the work in a flash of illumination, making truth clear to you in the instant is more energizing and life-giving to your inner eyes than the flash of a beautiful gemstone to your outer eyes, so is inside mining more truly enriching than the outer kind.

   And the work: The opening up of your heart the deep mine inside you.

                                                       *

from:  A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS; A Circlet of Inner-Life Stories

A String of Red Beads . . . The Prologue to the Book: A Circle of Swift Songs: A Circlet of Inner-Life Stories . . .

PROLOGUE:          

A STRING OF RED BEADS                                         

I SAW A ROW OF ANCIENT BOOKS upon a shelf. Of course, I had seen them there many times before, but this time I saw them: drawn to them. I took out a few and stood them up on the bedside table where the lamp was and turned off the main light. The lamp’s golden glow lit up the books and seemed to give them life shining on their gold-leaf writing pressed hard into their poor spines; broken, or about to break. I loved them. Not because I was interested in their stories. I did not know what they were. They were too hard for me to understand and I had never read them. I just wanted to absorb what they were missing; write what they could not express and yet be just as beautiful but in another dimension.

   I think I had stepped outside the boundaries that imprison the child and make of it an adult and had escaped: I could do as I imagined I could do. So, very small, I slipped inside the books themselves; and, with their pages all around me, their pretty ways of stringing words together became an oil which poured itself into one of my many corners and quickened me. Suddenly that which was impossible, I could do; for I was a child and ‘a nothing person.’ From then on I wrote whatever popped into my head; and I was pleased. But it was not always easy.

   One day with inkpot and loosed feather I found myself writing what seemed to me a string of ripe-plucked cherries. The hard things I knew were their red, stone hearts; and the oil, fleshing out their inward parts in dreams and visions, the succulent part beneath their skins. Once eaten, there, strung on a black ink thread of words was a string of red beads. A living story-bracelet left me of life preserved by death. A gift of inner-life stories strung on a string of light. The light that shines in darkness. 

                                      *

                                                

A Circle of Swift Songs; A Circlet of Inner-Life Stories...

                                        FOREWORD

IN BEGINNING AT THE END OF ME I saw twice as far. But I was so used by now to coincidences happening almost continuously---synchronistic ‘chance’ seeings happening whenever I looked out at the World around me, and wherever I was in it, that in my stories here I take it completely for granted. It was only today, some while after I had finished compiling this small book from my larger one, The Light Tree Journal that I suddenly realized that I needed to add some perspective to what was happening in my life in most of the stories. I saw I needed to stand back a little and explain my filling-up process which was constantly going on replacing all I lost of me through the flow of insights I was given.

   Simultaneous with the losing or the taking away was the filling-up---the rushing in---in the exchange of my dross for high energy delicious inspiration---life; which was more than doubly replacing all I ever gave up of me---hence, seeing twice as far. This instantaneous process had become so second nature to me that in my stories I didn’t often stop to give an identifying perspective on what was happening, which would have, perhaps, enabled the reader to more fully partake of the life going on in this---exchange.

   Like many people, I had become so connected to the source of all things that in the living things around me I was aware of what properties they had within them that would tell me about myself: to help me grow in light and understanding in my inner life with God. And this, that I might be one with him, who is Love, forever. For the invisible things of him from the creation of the World are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made; so that, the World, so imbued, had become my mirror---to show me myself, as I really was!---to bring light in my darkness---for I knew I was dark where light had not entered.  And the exchange was all entirely personal and delightful.

  Long ago I had discovered that not only was the living World made to provide us with the physical necessities of life---for our outer body---the air we breathe, and food and water, and warmth etc., but with the spiritual necessities of life, also---for our inner body---the dynamic ‘upside down’ provision of the natural World in its spiritual equivalent of ‘air,’ ‘food,’ ‘water’ and ‘warmth.’ I had been given to understand that we were not complete with just the physical things given to us from the natural living World, we needed its inner gifts, too; which were always abundantly supplied.

   I enjoyed an interaction with all created things, being as I was nothing. And while they would always tell me, only the inner truth, the truth which went against my natural earthly self: against my pride and my ego---it was always entirely enchanting to me---for I loved the truth more than I loved myself.

   The stinging-points---of humiliation where I felt something to be against me, showing me up, challenging me toward change, became---the living-points; where I found life by light in action. And they became the most exciting places in the World for me! For only at these places could you see the way forwards on your intimate journey in light and life. They were the seeing-places where your life lit up in love and energy, so as you could see beyond. They were the gates to inner growth and greater meaning in your life in the ongoing revelation of your deeper purpose upon the earth: lifting you from the first, natural sphere of life, into the second, spiritual sphere---and from first sight, to second sight. Intuiting the higher meaning in the unfolding World around you, that undid you a little every day, filling you with all you needed of happiness and love. It was all in quick turnings-again in inner cartwheels of joy, in a deep and secure knowing of your direction and purpose in him to whom we are intimately connected in glorious liberty: Love.

   And now as I rewrite this FOREWORD, a confirming perspective of all this comes to me---that, somehow, when we walk through life, the way that is described throughout this book, that mystically and impossibly, we actually own the earth. We had inherited it. It was incredible, but true. Not only had we been given ears to hear, and eyes to see, but we had been given to experience---live out---this truth within us: ‘blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.’

   My heart yearns that these simple, inner-life stories of light, fill you with all joy and hope in believing---that you are known and understood---that all things belong to you---for you were loved unconditionally. And that not only heaven but the whole earth is telling you that had you a child’s eyes to see and ears to hear.

                                                         *

FOREWORD to: 'A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS; A Circlet of Inner-Life Stories

Heartbreak and the emerging light . . .

                            

                          

Arkiahh’s New Rags 

Arkiahh’s new rags---

She sends them out---confident of being heard

But as the old wine is found---best

The flash and sparkle of the new goes untaken---

And they preferring the fragrance of the old

Recoil unceasingly from the new---

It takes! ---It takes from them all they knew!

They cannot see the glory in being left with---

Nothing---and a new way of knowing

The dazzle of new wine has a strong hint

Of foolishness when first proposed

Every breakthrough of the light---

Is first a break with tradition---

The casting aside of old ways of thinking

The shedding of the shadow

For the substance---

Old ways of knowing---for new

                                                 *

 ‘Perhaps the sentiments contained in the following pages are not yet sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favour; long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason.’

- Thomas Paine; Introduction to 'Common Sense;' 14, February, 1776

The direction of the heart and the imprint of time . . .

            The Tread of Our Aching Heart

The tread of our aching heart’s blind dreaming

Is never forgotten---

Imprinted our footprints upon the sands

Of time’s glad use of us---

His crystal glimpses will softly tell---

And forever---of all the stories hid

Within the places we have passed through

And are yet passing through---

Their bright footsteps are never lost---

Indelible the mark we leave behind us

Upon time’s shoulder---

Our story perfectly told---

The whispered secret-gold within them

Is---heard and seen---our being infinitely loved

In the son’s own deep working in us---

Pressed---infused---forever held in his keeping

We are not unloved in any of our thoughts

Neither do we go unseen---in any place

Where we have trodden the grapes of wrath---

Our footsteps a pattern of light in time---

And when time closes his book---we are whole:

Our story a perfect gift of unconditional love

              *

In the Quiet . . .

In The Quiet Cloisters of Your Soul

In the quiet cloisters of your soul

You walk silently---listening---dreaming---

Wisps of hidden incense draw you on:

Silken threads---gossamer strands of peace

Palatable to the inner searching spirit in you

Calling you onward---

And to lands unknown but long desired

Upon which the spirit feeds:

It is its haven---and its essential sustenance

The day unravels---

You hear the intrinsic music---

Its silver sound within ‘the things which are not’

As it reveals its inner treasure---

You walk on---

Silently through the quiet cloisters of your soul

                                 *

The Pear Tree . . .

                                                       1.)    IN THE DREAM OF THE PEAR TREE

The Pear Tree and the Sun 

THE PEAR TREE uprooted from the earth

Branches thin and angular...

Its roots dangling...

Moving in its transit through other times

Receiving life...

Suspended in rays of sunlight

As it made its journey above the earth

Anchored in the ground of dreams

All it bore...

Was filled with the light which gave it life...

The fruit of perfect answers... past and future

Ever present...

Given to the winged who partook... where were

No laws to bridle life... 

Nothing could limit what it could be, or do

This tree replied to dreams no man ever knew he dreamed

                                             *

2.)   IN THE DREAM OF THE PEAR TREE 

The Bridge to Everland

  

IN A THING of love, nothing but wonder

A breath of home in believing the impossible

You had found the bridge to Everland...

The spread of its gossamer threads

In hidden leaps of silver...

And the space of time it took

For the bridge to be extended along the leap

One single fearless heartbeat on winged feet

It could take you, from here to there

And to where the pear tree was

Inside the place of answers tucking you in

Enfolding you in holds of whispered love...

For at least a few seconds...

Ecstatic lifting second-sight, knowing you

Had seen...

For these were... live...

And so, lived always, never forgotten

                                     *

3.)   IN THE DREAM OF THE PEAR TREE

  

Wheels Within Wheels

TIME WITHIN times where was no time

Wheels within wheels

Moving in four directions all at once

Where the priceless fruit of perfect answers were

Myriad returns of lost things found

The heart’s first dream and least hope was

Seen and dwelt there

In all the pear tree’s travels to distant places

And other times

Ground by windmill stones beside the sea

Those tiny pips in pairs the pear tree grew

My answers lost and found

Made bread and meat

And I saw what it meant to be loved in the lover

Taken with him there, where life was

Bruised and crushed for the food of life

 

                                       *

                                From an eight part series of ragged writings within: 'ARKIAHH DREAMING; 
                                The Ragged Writings of Everland;' Volume Three