THE GIFT...The Wood Turner and the Unexpected Gift

                                                     A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS

                                                The Gift 

IN AN OLD AND DUSTY workshop one day I was enjoying watching a wood turner at his skillful work. As he bent over his lathe his countenance bore a look of serene contentment, born of years of toil and uncomplaining hardship. Peace and kindness had become his garb and a deep and mysterious joy his inner portion. He worked with confidence. Stability and love exuded from his work, and in a gentle wisdom beyond his own. I watched, entranced, unaware that I was soon to receive something wonderful, which would lead me to understand a little more of the paradox of life and bring peace to my struggling self.

   The wood turner made beautiful bowls, and platters, and cups; and also trinkets and tiny spinning tops for children, which he gave away to them freely. He had several times asked me what I would like him to make for me. I always told him I did not know. Let it be a surprise. I would let him choose for me. This particular time he looked long at me. And it was strange, for I felt he was seeing deep into me and that somehow he knew me there, and even better than I knew myself. Then he took up a longish block of wood from beside him, and fitted it into his lathe. He was quiet in his actions; and somehow I perceived that he wanted me to watch him carefully, and to take note of what he did. I don’t know how I knew this. I just did.

   Before he began he looked at me again. Then he switched on the machine and bent to his work. With his chisel held to the spinning piece of wood the wood turner plied his craft. Spirals of wood were being shaved off, and the curls went falling to the floor. Steadily the square-sided block of wood was becoming round; and then it shrank, smaller and smaller. A beam of sunlight was shining through the small window above the lathe, and we were both in its path. It lent an ethereal nature to the workshop and a golden hazy light covered everything. As I watched, captivated by it all, I began to feel deeply buried emotions rise; and I felt more fully the feelings that I had had lately. Though things were going well enough, on the surface in my life, and all was fine around me, inside I felt like I was ‘dying’ somehow.

   Twists of fragrant wood, a light red-gold colour were still falling in a continuous stream to the floor. But now as they fell, a stream of bitter-sweetness which had risen to my consciousness was also falling to the ground. I had been letting my own hopes and desires fade and diminish for another’s to flourish. Letting others have their way over mine and stepping back and not demanding my own way in a matter; and letting another save face, at my cost. But swallowing my pride was choking me. Giving up what I wanted so another could have what they wanted, and giving up my pleasure for theirs, it was hard. And this, constantly going below others, this going underneath and always yielding, was it even right? I wanted to be like my friend the wood turner; but perhaps I was only being a doormat and acting simply stupid really? Perhaps I was wrong to walk this way? I felt confused and not sure what was going on; and I was allowing it to get to me; and it was starting to hurt.

   All these thoughts and questions were whirling around in me as I watched my friend at his spinning lathe; all the wood steadily being whittled away. Bright spirals of wood shavings were still falling to the floor. The air was pungent with their pithy fragrance. By some irresistible force I was being drawn into them. And once there, as though I was being exposed; the diffused light from the upper window working; lighting not just the outside things of the workshop, but somehow the inside things of me. I could sense resentment rise, and even anger. Where was all this giving leading to; and what if it was wrong?

   Suddenly a picture of an elaborate chair came to mind; and the knowledge that that was inside of me. It was as though, if it were possible for a person to sit on a throne inside their innermost being, then surely I sat on a throne inside me – one from which I was steadily being deposed! Yes. That was it! It was like I was being dethroned! And that I was dying – my reign coming to an end! And I didn’t like that. No, not at all! ...And yet . . . I did; and suddenly I knew it was what I wanted, very much.

   Spellbound I continued to watch the wood turner. But now he seemed oblivious of me intent upon his work. Would he never stop? The piece of wood was now so small it was only a fraction of what it had been. Then all at once I understood. And I wondered that it had taken me so long to perceive.  It was all happening, right in front of me! As it always is!  Here I was being whittled down in size, in my innermost being! And ever further and further! Losing more and more of me, just like this piece of wood!

   The lathe stopped. There was almost nothing left of the original block of wood. Carefully the turner removed the remaining little object. He held it in the palm of his hand for a moment, gazing at it. Then he turned to me with compassion; and with a quality of love which I had not noticed before, he looked deep into my eyes as he handed me his gift.

   I took it. I looked down and stared at it. It was a tiny bowl on a pedestal. It was shaped like an old fashioned wide brimmed Champaign glass. But it must be a cup for a fairy, for I was sure it would hold less than one teaspoon! Suddenly it was all too much, and more than I could bear. The wood turner had seen me, too deeply. I burst into tears at what he had made of me. But he was right! I was nothing. And less than nothing! I threw the thing down. Immediately it disappeared amongst the wood curls; and died in the sawdust. I ran out of the workshop. Was there no help for people like me? Did no one care what became of us; for surely, I wasn’t the only one?

   And it was so that away in eternity...always as near as one cry, or even a sigh...the angels of heaven were gathered; and they spoke with one another. They had been given a charge. They were to find amongst the children of men those who would receive a gift; a rare gift. They were to find on the earth all those who would accept heaven’s treasure, and most costly cup. But who would? Who could bear it? For it was despised amongst humankind! Who would accept it? Who among them would welcome such a thing, and delight in the gift of the least? Throughout all the ages the angels had walked to and fro across the earth in search of any who would receive it.

   Though they found many, who did at first appear to accept it, and even to welcome it, often something was not right. Contrary to all beautiful appearances they saw that beneath the surface the cup was despised, and refused. The glory was desired, yes; but only without the suffering of it! The angels were saddened that so few understood the things which heaven valued. For it seemed that everywhere they went they were turned away. How few there were of the children of Adam who recognized their greatest blessings and what truly was to be desired in this life; the outworking of which could only be found in this world.

   Then, one night, one of them entered a poor wood turner’s workshop; and laying in the dust buried beneath the wood shavings on the floor he saw something which delighted him. Stooping down he picked up a tiny little object. He dusted it clean, and then set the thing upon the wood turner’s table; beside an open ledger there. Then he stood back, and waited to see what the wood turner would do with it; for he knew the man would soon return to his workshop. By and by, and before the dawn, the angel left well pleased. His mission here was complete. He saw heaven’s gift being truly understood. Not only was it accepted, in loving meekness, it was delighted in; and through and through! ...Oh, to be delighted in – this, this! It was the only way for the gift to truly glorify its receiver. Here was heaven’s secret, seen; and learned! The joyous delight, in the turning of the lowest and most despised thing into the greatest! 

   It was late evening, and the wood turner was at home. As he sat in his chair beside the fire, and looked into its flames something began to stir in his heart. Presently he got up, left his house, and returned to his workshop. He unlocked the door and turned on the light, and went over to his desk to check his ledger. As he opened the book, and turned over the page, suddenly he noticed something. There, on the table, was the little thing he had made that day, which had been thrown away and lost. He stared at it mystified. He could not understand how it had got onto his desk. It was simply not possible! He knew the young woman had not returned; and no one else had entered his workshop, or so he thought; and the door had been locked. The thing was just not possible!

   The wood turner continued to stare at the tiny object; and as he did so, strangely deep emotions began to well up in him. He wiped a tear from his eye. No one, he thought, was there to see his foolishness. After a time of deep thought the dawning of a slow smile crossed his tired but gentle face. He got up and went to the wood pile at the back of the shop. From a shelf above the stack he picked up a few small pieces of fragrant red cedar; and set about making something new.

   As he worked he thought. Though, more truly, the cup was better to be kept hidden, the thing was something which he saw the girl would need, that she might know the truth, and be comforted. And learn to value that which the world despised of ‘stooping love;’ which in its stubborn pride it called stupid; and even wrong! Not realizing that the throne within had not been designed for self! That thought, that it had been for self to sit upon, had been the world’s worst and most devastating mistake. And the root cause of all its suffering, throughout all its history from time immemorial.

   It was well into the night before he had finished what he was making. And all the while he had laboured, inspiration and love had worked through his heart and his fingers as never before, and what he fashioned was beautiful. When it was done he took it to another bench and beneath a bright lamp there, took up a tiny tool, and began to carve into the wood an intricate design of a chalice, held in the heart of a tree. When he was finished, and satisfied with what he had made, he took from the rag bag a small scrap of red material, and with it he lined the bottom of the small object he had made. It was a little cedar box; in which to hide the gift. He set the tiny cup inside, and closed the lid. The exquisitely carved little box he put on his desk. The one to whom he would give it would perhaps come by that day?

   He knew she would soon return to ask him to forgive her. He knew her heart and the spirit which was within her. As the craftsman looked once more upon the gift before he turned to leave, he felt a pang as of a sword piercing through his own soul, also. An unearthly joy filled his heart and lit his face; touched by the true gift, which was within. And the glory of selfless love, which ever observed above, was treasured there; and in secret living forever kept in heaven’s blessing.

   In the workshop, later that same day, and in preferring one another in love, two received there the gift of the cup of the least; while heaven...ever as near as a cry, or even a sigh...heard all and saw all; and rejoiced!

                                                               *

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

A Candle Under a Jar . . .

                                                A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS

                         A CANDLE UNDER A JAR

     

BEFORE ME WAS A CANVAS.  New. White. Blank. It was large. The largest they had. And there being, perhaps, a painting trapped inside me, longing to emerge, the moment I saw that canvas I knew I needed it.  So I bought it and took it home.

   It was too big for my easel, so I stood it on the floor and leaned it up against the wall in my room. It sat there for a long time. Until I forgot it. Then I didn’t know anymore why I had bought it.

   For too long I had lived in a closed circuit and I could not change without incurring ridicule: my changes were of heaven; and so, they were misunderstood of earth. And having no certainty upon which to stand in order to break out and change, heaven’s new life waiting within me was sleeping.

    Not enough confidence to overcome the fear of seeming absurd or abnormal in the sight of others, life within was being stifled and needed something to wake it up. All the light and life in being brave and different was slowly disappearing. My candle had been too long under a jar.

   A year later. One morning, early. I stood before that thing I had stopped seeing. I was watching how the light from my window threw patterns upon its dusty surface. I did not try to work out what they were; my mind was strangely still. But as the dancing shapes began to move faster, I began to understand what was there---a lacework of slender branches, filigrees of leaves, moving by the touch of an invisible hand upon my long forgotten canvas.

   As I looked, I saw. I knew the tree outside was coming in. And it was coming into me moving inside me. The canvas was my mind. And the light---the light of life. And the invisible hand that held the brush---the wind of the spirit. Slowly I sank to the floor. There I sat and watched what the wind would paint upon my canvas. That there was something for me there I knew it.  I knew too, that it would shake me. I felt the faint scary pressure which was its mark. But maybe, that was just what was needed to set me free. Change, was ever an uncomfortable fit, at first.

   After awhile, a range of mountains appeared on the canvas. Then beyond the mountains---sea. And beyond the sea---a land of great abundance, where the voice of every fiery stone is sealed and not understood by any earthly ear. But in that land---I saw a valley. And in the valley were many trees. There, the travelling stopped and I gazed upon the crowded trees.

   They grew and flourished. They spread their branches wide and high. And where they touched each other there they met the sky. Of their own selves they met and formed their own alliance; and there of themselves got, tangled. For the more they touched they hid the sky and the darker the ground in which they grew and the less they saw, only confusing themselves all the more.

   The trees of the wood were somber. But for fragments of dappled light their joy was, still. Dampened. They could not move their arms. At their feet their children stunted or stillborn. For there was not enough light for them to flourish. Shut in, the gloom had dimmed their eyes. So close together, the trees could not see beyond themselves. They had made themselves a roof. But I could feel them yearning for more sky. For, sight. For, space. For freedom where the sun was whole and where the skylarks rise and the wind runs free. Oh, there was a loveliness in the wood but it was as though it could not breathe. Or could not sing. Or, only in a minor key. Too long there and one could forget.  

   But not one spoke out, to undo their ravelled tale; and the valley was all in darkness. None of them could see their own or each other’s light---the light of trees; for the wood had engulfed them; and snuffed them out.

   By tight alliance, freedom is curbed and individuality lost. Truth becomes clouded and distorted wherever by our crowded opinions we hide the sky.

   Each ‘tree,’---each child of light, I saw as a candle. Each one had its own flame of life and light but all needed air and space overhead. A candle does not burn long in an upside down jar.

   Joyful now, my minding burning with the inward vision, I set up four piles of books on the floor, near the wall, threw a sheet over them, and carefully placed my patient canvas on top---and began to paint.  And my brushes flew like shooting stars dipped in the silken oils of the Milky Way. Fleetingly, too, into light's most fiery paints---chance’s eclectic rainbow reflections on the inner sea of dreams---and the picture formed, as though by itself---a light beyond light and a joy unto its own self.

                                            *

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

A Point of View . . . Seeing from the Inside Out . . .

                                                 A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS

                                               A POINT OF VIEW

                                                                                                                                       

THE MORE I LISTENED the more I understood, and the more I saw that I was one thing, and God was another, altogether other. I could see in some ways, but God could see in all ways. And as I learned some years ago and from six year-old Anna: people they have a point of view, but God has points to view, and that makes all the difference!

   Oh, people, and I had points of view, ad infinitum! But I saw them as though I was seeing only one; for I stood upon my point, and I looked at ‘it.’ I looked at it for ages. I looked at it for so long, that the space around it grew smaller and smaller. (I didn’t see the space disappearing.) The view, it went in and in. I went in and in, on it. And more and more till in the end it got so pinned down, that all I saw, had I been aware of it, was only a fraction of what I began with; and I got lost inside; and was stuck!

   I decided that I needed to draw a picture of this to better understand what it was that I was actually learning. So I fetched a page of cartridge paper, and a stub of a pencil; and I drew.

   I drew a large square on my nice, pristine piece of white paper, and then wrote, near the bottom of the page: ‘This is: “my first-thought-square.” It is the beginning of my point of view. It is a lovely big shape. It is a broad view.’ I looked at it awhile, and considered.

   Then taking up my pencil again, I drew another square, of the same shape, but inside the first one, and a bit smaller. I kept going, drawing shape after shape inside the one before it; until I couldn’t fit in any more inside my original shape.

   Now . . . I had a picture . . . of my way of viewing things.

     And, as the saying goes, ‘it spoke more than a thousand words!’ So I added to what I had written: ‘Now I can see my point of view, if I keep staring at it. I can see what happens to it. It gets smaller and smaller: narrower and narrower. And so un-broad, in fact, that I lose my way in it and get trapped: and I’m forever lost looking inside it!’

   I stood back from my drawing; and considered it, again. Of course! It was yet another picture of life. Of the way things are. And how and why it happened that people became shrunk!

   It was like a child’s first thought of: “GOD.” The child starts with all of him. One single thought of him. It is big. It is very big. It is huge! But then eventually the child discovers for herself, (or, as is more usually the case, somebody kindly discovers, for her, to ‘help’ her) a point of view. The child’s freedom immediately shrinks: her picture zooms in and in; until she finally gets stuck in it . . . and, sometimes, for a very long time.

   Yes. Once we all had one big simple opinion. Now we had squillions of them!  But, fortunately, God is different to us. He is the other way around he has squillions of points to view. An infinite number of points to view from; so, having every viewing point that there could possibly be to view everything from, he is everywhere, and sees everything!

   From a squillion standing places God looks out, not in.

   He doesn’t judge things he doesn’t have a point of view.

   He has points he can view from. So, he, who is light, can show us everything, and all the time, and with no condemnation, because he isn’t anywhere standing on a point, but everywhere standing on them all! And that makes all the difference!

  Light! As the light sees things he reveals them: he opens them out, and shows them. He shows them not in opinions nor in judgments, but in truth, truth to view. (It is we who get him wrong, and make him ‘back-to-front:’ forming him in our own shrunken image!)

   A point of view has edges to it. It has become a certain thing. So it has a certain, form, shape: edges. But viewing points have no comprehension of edges; for they are places to look out from.

   My view locks me in. God’s view lets me out. There is no judging from ‘points-to-view-from,’ no condemning: for all seen all known; and all known all understood; and all understood all forgiven; and all forgiven all loved; and all the world, and everyone in it! We see from the outside and look in. God sees from the inside and looks out.

   I picked up my bit of pencil and my diagram again, and beneath the first drawing of my life – of shapes going in and in – I drew a new one, of the opposite, of all the shapes going out and out: and therefore, going beyond the one before, till they went off the page!

   God looks out and out: and, out!  In his vision expanding and wider and wider: he goes beyond! So his view has no end. And in having no end it had no edges. And in having no edges: perfect love: perfect liberty! …His edge-less vision is how I see now, too.      I am inside of him! With him! Seeing from his seeing place a squillion places to see from! It made all the difference!  

   Light, where we are keeps growing, and opening, and exploding! Shooting out and beyond! Through everything, and everywhere! For where there’s no dark there is light!  

                                                          *

___________________________________________________

* ‘The diffrense from a person and an angel is easy. Most of an angel is in the inside and most of a person is on the outside.’                      -  Mister God, This is Anna; by Fynn.                                                                                        

                                                                                             

A Circle of Swift Songs... the Seven Colours of Light...

                                                        A CIRCLE OF SWIFT SONGS

          THE SEVEN COLOURS OF LIGHT

ONE OF THE MOST certain things in life is that we are always free to either shut our eyes and ears against the truth, fearful and afraid, or to embrace it, uplifted and secure in ourselves and brave. In my own crazy way I saw this plainly one day in the underneath writing in the seven colours of light.

   A fine blue sky day it was with a humming of bees in perfumed air; and in a further episode of insights I found myself slowly wandering through the summer garden of the Mission House at Waitangi. Sketchbook in hand I was making very poor drawings of the things I noticed. The garden captivated me, because it was laid out like an English cottage garden filled with old fashioned flowers and of many colours. It made me homesick, in an idealistic sort of way. It was so very far from England …and Wales.

   The heady warmth of late afternoon was making me sleepy and I went and sat down on a vacant garden seat amongst the loveliness, to drink it all in. After awhile, and being in no hurry I slumbered a little, I think; or did I just daydream it. I actually do not know if I was awake or asleep. So, whether I imagined it of myself, or not, I cannot say.

   Looking at the garden, steadily I was becoming aware that there was an awakening going on all around me; which was a bit strange because I was so sleepy. But I was quite sure that everything about me was waking up. For I could see the life within every living thing being turned around to face the inner light, and having no fear was becoming all see-through-ish.

   The breath of the flowers I saw, meet and mingle with the breeze that was wafting through them in the golden light of day. Once again – like I did once when I was high up on a far distant mountain in a foreign land, I saw faint ribbons of light flying, and in many colours. And from waves of another understanding which was flowing through me, and in new writing this time, I was slowly copying them down in the sketchbook on my lap. Time itself was being healed, for I saw there was no hurry in the awakening. It was all rest. If it had taken a few thousand years to come what was another few hours?

   The new song quietly sounding in the inner garden in which I was immersed, I was again being filled with new things that I could not at first understand. It was only now, as I was given to see a second time that I saw there was writing written in the colours of the light – in the flying ribbons of it – and there were many more colours in this light than the seven of the rainbow. But they were so different in nature that my natural mind was incapable of comprehending them, and I was unfit to describe or name them; but, oh, they were of great beauty, and very costly.

   If I should wait now and watch, and trust to my not knowing anything, which was the way of spirit, then I can recall a hue which was like red; yet it was more transparent than any hollowed, hallowed emptied glass it was utterly untouchable! And there was a blue like no other as clear as the sweetest breath that could escape from your mouth on a warm day. And I saw a yellow so piercing it was like the centre of a great fire. But in the writing in the ribbons only the seven colours of the rainbow as we know it were named: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet; and it was from the first letter of each name, that a word was written there which was describing their character: Revelation, Opening, Yielding, Growing, Believing, Inside, Veil. When I looked closer I saw a sentence written in the ribbons in a strange writing, but it seemed I was immediately able to translate it or understand. It read: ‘Revelation Opening through Yielding your heart Given you through Believing Inside the Veil.’ Instantly, I knew. I could only enter into the full glory of the most holy place within myself, through the veil of my pride being torn in two.

   Suddenly I sat up widely alert remembering something and I was taken back in memory to an incident which happened years ago. It was when I was living on an island 54 nautical miles off the east coast of the North Island. I was with a boy in a bedroom; in a house filled with many of us young people. In a tangible awareness of overwhelming holiness and purity I turned my heard towards the window in the room, but the wall and the window were no longer there, and I saw a hill, and two figures standing upon it, a man and a woman, and out of the mouth of the woman came a sharp two-edged sword. So huge it was terrifying and I could not comprehend it. I turned my head away and looked towards the wall at the foot of the bed upon which we lay, and before me there was the appearing of the writing of light, and I saw truth written in the air in large capital letters of light pulsating with life. In the light was the answer. And now I had seen written again, the second time, the truth in the faint ribbons of light flowing from the garden, and the garden inside: light being divided, and made so plain, no longer invisible or to be told in mysteries; even as was promised long ago.

   But nearly every one of us we were running from it, fleeing the light going in the opposite direction; the wrong one because it led only to darkness! Oh, for how much longer would we not hear, I wondered? But there will always be those of us who do not wish to hear; those of us who prefer to shut our ears to the new song, and our eyes to the writing hid in the seven colours of light.

   I lifted my head. In the red light of day I heard a sound. It was very late, and all the visitors were gone now, but before any custodian could chase me away I opened the sketchbook on my lap and quickly drew the things that I had seen, and wrote down the words of it. But what was the point, I sighed, as I got up to leave the garden, who would believe me? Who would ever read these story-letters which I wrote so endlessly? Was there only, my Fynn?

   Was there no one else who was, same? ….Oh, not same in any outward way! Not by beautiful words, or even by lovely actions, but only by the spirit in us did we know and recognize one another. We cannot hide the spirit that is in us: there is no creature which is not manifest to the light. All things are naked and opened unto the life that is the light of men; which life is in us only by love; the love which seeks not its own profit.

   As I was leaving, walking through the garden towards the gate, my sad thoughts as to who would ever believe me seemed to be leaving, too. I was looking at my shadow on the white shell path in front of me. Although with the dying light of day the shadows were lengthening, my inside shadow seemed to be doing the opposite! Barriers to the light: my solid pride, and my thick self pity was evaporating; the blinding covering veil of my unbelief being taken away! The more I knew I knew nothing, and had nothing, and was nothing, the more the flying ribbons were becoming clear and the writing in the light explained. And I knew that life-giving revelation could be as near as my next breath; opening to me wherever I was, by my yielding up my heart. Its continually being given me through my believing I was so utterly forgiven all and everything that I could face the bright light inside with joy and not fear. The only barrier was my pride! For just a moment I thought what it would be like if it wasn’t there; why, I would be so clear of clouding clutter the light would shine right through me!

                                                            * 

Why Was One Lonely . . .

                                - from:  Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume Three

Letters from the Tree of Life . . . 'the Leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations' . . .

                       - from:  The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume One

I Think We Travel through Our Lives Half Blind . . .

I think we travel through our lives half blind

We see! ---And so, we don’t---

For it is, our eyes with which are seeing

And they are yet of the earth

And see not that which isn’t

Our eyes can never see in darkness

For they are dark to the light there

And call it darkness

Being not made of the right substance

With which to see  

We think we come to the light

And that we do not cover our heads

From its reach down into the depths of us

But we hide below the surface of the sea of life---

Not knowing that we can be seen---

Yet the water above us

Is become as clear as crystal

And there is no where we can hide

Why do we run from the light?

Lest we be seen and have to change!

Not realizing that the piercing eyes

Which see into us---love us utterly

Yearn to take us out of night and into day

The eyes that see in darkness

Are those of the substance of day

                                    *

                                       - Written today

The Shaping of Today . . . Lines were there behind the scenes our silent story written in air . . .

            The Shaping of Today

Lines were there---the shaping of today---

Our silent story written in air---and never lost:

The things I must do---

And the pauses before they’re done

As I lift them up and offer them to you---

And the things to let loose---that they may fly away

Things to see---those that wake---             

That make the substance of life’s story lines

Lines---created---each moment recorded

As is---each strand of hair---

And the telling of story:

Strength in him---in weakness---gifted life---

In each thought lifted up as prayer

                                    *

- Written today