Story: 18. ) The Book that was an Island . . .

(from new manuscript of short stories about books:
A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE: A Rain of Booklight)


The Book that was an Island

  Idly I picked up a stone from beside me where I was sitting. A small, black pebble. I toyed with it in my hands awhile, deep in thought. The pebble was cool and smooth; mindlessly handling it was somehow comforting. A kingfisher flashed by. It shot from one side of the inlet to the other. It disappeared; leaving behind it a trailing image of blue and green. 

  After awhile something made me turn my head again, and I looked down at the place from where I had picked up the pebble. I replaced it. Beyond, about a metre or so away I saw a larger stone, roughly square-shaped, with a faint split down its centre, almost dividing it in half. It was a very unusual shape for a sea stone; and it reminded me of something. So I stood up, and went over to it. I lifted it from the ground to look at it more closely. The split was actually a line of white quartz.

  Help is never very far away. Suddenly a string of instantaneous images flashed a path through my midst like a kingfisher’s dive opening and lighting a hidden story to tell; the truth that was in me suddenly given shape and form; a body and a substance in which to express it. I was amazed. I smoothed the book stone, and gave thanks in my heart. Gently I returned it to its place and walked on down the shallow inlet towards the beach. Walking along the sandy shore I noticed the few sea-tossed stones scattered there, and the strange sequence of images I had fleetingly seen; of people being like ‘pages’ and books being like ‘islands.’ After awhile the images fell into an order, and made sense: infused with love. When I got home I wrote the story. (It was from this that the idea came for the poem or ‘ragged writing:’ A Book is like a Sacred Isle.)

  It was in the beginning. And in the beginning was a vast sea. Up from the midst of the sea I saw an island appear. The island was one great stone made of many pages which had a lived history written within them, and so they lived. The pages had been gathered into one place. Sewn together they had become the book which was the island, which lived.

  Time passed. The island grew. For another whole set of pages was found. These were gathered and sewn together as the first were, and they were added to the first which then became one single book. And the book was as a mighty rock, a sacred island, and became a stone of stumbling in the world, and a rock of offence.

   In time an explosion of light shook the world. In the fiery light the island was split, and divided, and multiplied; and became as millions of tiny islets which went into all the world. Each of the tiny isles were as parts of the book that was an island; and they were people.

  The islets began to understand their pages; and they were very pleased with their understanding. The more they thought they knew and understood of the history of the world written on the pages, the more they were separate and the sea increased around them and they were further away. They did not know that they could never really comprehend it.

  The more they studied it the more they gathered themselves together and became separate from the world; for the islets unconsciously measured everything by their knowledge. Wherever their measure was their own knowledge, there was not love. So the world filled with millions of tiny islets that held tightly to their own knowledge, and wouldn’t let go.

  Time passed. The sea grew. The world grew. Some of the islets had learned in the explosion of light the true way to know their book – by letting it go:  so that it could ‘go!’ Their pages were full of the energy of love: and light. They had learned this ‘back-to-front’ way to understand their book, and they were no longer separate: bridges went from them across the sea into the world.

  Now there were two forms of islets in the sea. Those which clung to their knowledge, their light was dim. But those which released their knowledge, and let it go for love; their light was bright and shone as a lamp all around about them.

  People and the ancient history Book, which are understood by the mind alone are only half seen, and limited; but those understood with the inner spirit of love are seen more, and are limitless; but, it takes a miracle for it to happen.

  It could be that miracles happen if one probes and questions the boundaries of one’s world: believing that what lies beyond its horizons is really there and waiting. The doorway is real because we know it is there. The haunting is real, too; for there is ‘an unsatisfied desire’ in us, ‘more desirable than any other satisfaction.’  (C S Lewis)

                                               *

Wondering . . .

Faltering Steps

Faltering the steps I take in festive forays

Through the Lantern Brights in books . . .  

To find in light the strength to pass through dark

To loose the oil I find there, beyond the spine

Amidst the unseen streets I walk through gold

Find there my sight that turns my heart to see

My goings helped, and known and sheltered

And entered there: simplicity, and new happiness!

The Lonely Poet . . . in a World of Books . . .

                                         The Lonely Poet

The breeze that lifts my autumn leaf

That bends this silent flower stem

Tears from my midst the finished page

That cannot see what it shall be

But joined with life’s own rifling wind

Will write within the heart it rends

                        

                          *

In a World Books

From a lighted centre a beam goes forth:

A line in amethyst shooting depths of sight;   

Through a world of books it travels,

Finding stories in the river of life --- 

Thought open: the light beyond fills it

And a flow of angel’s tears are in me, pearled --- 

Falling softly in streams of insight burning bright

            

             

Where Next...?

A Rain of Booklight

Where next? What then follows on?

Through an inner mist I wander onward

Through a maze of speckled cloud

Not knowing if I’m right or wrong

Or where I’m going –

Trusting blind to the inner gifted vision:

Alive to the lonely dream alone

What next? Where then shall I write?

That any hear what I was given to say

A rain of booklight is in me - 

A pouring of oil but against the grain

In my centre, my way I find: not-knowing

A torrent through any subject flows:

Alive in light and life, I fit through all

                

                      *

An extract from the Introduction: part 4 / from: A BOOK IS LIKE A SACRED ISLE . . .

   And What of Higher Forms of Writing?

  In thinking more deeply on the secret of books and the best way to go forward with revealing it, living and writing within the world of poetry came to me as almost the only way I could do it. As I fell in love with this whole subject of ‘books’ I began to see parallels, metaphors and analogies, which would only be free to rise and be freely expressed in me, in poetry: our inner language: spiritual language being needed to express spiritual ideas.
  Poetry seemed to bring life to any subject, and to lift it higher and higher. And here, poetry not for its own sake, but as being a better means in which to express higher ideas about books. So this not ‘a poetry book,’ per se, but simply a book about books that just happens to use poetry to tell its tale and bring out its light!

   In keeping with this idea, the poems for this book were purposely written in a light traditional lilt, and kept as short as possible, being intended for a general readership; and for those who recognize a poem as ‘a poem’ by its touch of musicality, and by its containing a truth that can be turned over in the mind and recited to oneself. Whether we care to admit it or not, carried over from our intuitive sensibilities usually left behind in childhood, there is within us a positive response to any hint or any recognition of rhythm.

   When the avalanche of poems that kept coming to me on this one theme of books, slowed down and finished, I suddenly found I was free to see that this was only half of what I could say, as regards the love of good books and reading; and I turned to prose, and wrote short essays, articles and anecdotes to my heart’s content …Seeking to inspire a furthering delight in the thought of ‘a book,’ and the world of books, to enthuse within us a renewed recognition of their power. 
  I tried hard to confine myself to prose, and so only a few of these pieces slipped through the noose and merged into poetry. (Or ragged writings, as I call them; I had once been so hurt, that I had stopped calling them ‘poems,’ and used the term ragged writings instead.) *

   *  (As explained in the foreword of The Ragged Writings of Everland; an Illustrated Collection of Poetry.).  

  Why a Book about Books?

  Why not? Why not go crazy about a favourite subject? I've been loving them all my life! I never thought, though, that I would write so many poems and articles about them! But in me I longed to promote books and reading, as a whole, and not for my own ends but for the benefit of all.

   The idea is of a beautiful book about books to CELEBRATE BOOKS; to encourage us all to fall in love with them again, but in a deeper way; a way which would bring us greater joy; and joy’s own ‘child:’ insight!   
  I saw this beautiful book would live out its life, openly, on a pleasant low table perhaps, inspiring us to pick up a book there, any book, and spend the evening reading, instead of watching! …To engage our mind actively, rather than forever passively; for our spirit learns and searches, hand in hand, with our working mind; becoming more alive as we wrestle with words and delve into the written world! 

  When is Nothing greater than Something? 

 One day when I had nearly finished writing the material for this book I suddenly remembered it’s starting off point, and I saw the incident a second time . . .  the quest alight! 

  I saw the book lying on the ground beneath the beautiful camphor tree in the old Stone Store park in Kerikeri; and was feeling again the sensation of my being ‘frozen’ in time. Now in remembering, and in thinking through that moment of a few months ago, I was illumined within and became aware of my unconscious knowing inside me not to pick it up; and of my ‘frozenness’ that I couldn’t even had I wanted to. Suddenly, I understood it! 

  I realized that had I picked it up and taken it, I would have missed out! I would have had it, but only in the natural, the physical; and I would have been satisfied there, and would not have had the extensive vision and insight which led to the creating of this book. 

   I had been prevented from one small natural action, in order to be open to a deeper one, and a larger understanding of books. Stopped from doing something initiated by myself, to receiving something, not of myself but from beyond me. 

   Not having something in the physical realm seems to make room for having something in the invisible realm . . . where everything is much larger.

  When is ‘nothing’ greater than something? When it replaces the old and multiplies the new and we have more than we began with. Like as air is as nothing to us, and yet it is greater than anything; for it is everywhere - and essential for all life!

The Lighted Quest . . . where was its Source? 

  Every bit of development in our inner lives seems to happen only little by little, like our bodies’ growth; one part of us slowly growing more alive and younger as the other gets older! Little bursts of intuitive light that cause this growth can happen any time. But it is astonishing how easy it is to miss these serendipities, these ‘little dips of stars,’ and happy coincidences, which once recognized contribute to our inside growth tremendously. I wonder how many have gone unrecognized in my life; but I am learning; learning to be more aware and to hear every whisper of life in my heart, and to see the world around about me. 

  So, I began to understand even more of the incident under the tree; and why, perhaps, I had been so ‘taken’ there. Something kicked in recently and jogged my memory, and again I remembered it; but this time, what had happened before that strange afternoon in the park several months ago. 

  A week before that particular trip south into Kerikeri, I had gone for a walk along the creek, up into the beautiful bush clad hills behind our house. All the water for the house comes, gravity fed from a spring at the source of the stream up there; and sometimes we have to check for breaks along the two kilometers of water pipe. I very rarely go up there; it’s quite a hike, and I’m not that fit. It is my husband who fixes the pipeline; but this day I went. And not to mend our natural water supply, but my inner one! 

  It took me quite awhile to walk to where I was headed in the bush, because there was no path and the undergrowth was fairly thick with moss covered boulders beneath huge pururi trees laden with epiphytes in the crooks of their thick branches and festooned with long hanging ropes of black supple jack. With the pururi trees, were tall nikau palms, and manuka, and punga tree ferns, and many other native shrubs and trees, making this a quiet, soft green world here unique to the Far North. How very different is the New Zealand bush from the Welsh woods I knew and walked in as a teenager in Wales. 

  A fantail darted past. It went dipping and dancing before me up the narrow valley. My soul entranced, reached out to the little bird; and love enveloping it, it stood out for me and seemed to take me along with it. When it chirped and sang it suddenly appeared to my mind, like, ‘a book’ . . . leading me. 

  By the time I reached my destination I was physically exhausted. I sat down and rested; my head on my knees, my eyes closed in deep peace. The quiet was in me, as well as in the bush all around me. I was in a place of beginnings; at the source of the Lighted Quest; at the source of Life, as well as of our water. 

  I opened my eyes and gazed absentmindedly at the spring: the small pool before me, and the narrow stream which ran from it in which were several black pipes. As I looked I think my imagination took over – it seems to work by itself sometimes, without conscious effort, even without my noticing it – and the pool began to get larger. The stones beneath the water grew larger, also. All at once I knew that in another realm they were actually ‘speaking.’ The stones were books! The little bird was, too! And I was given to ‘read’ them. Then I saw the whole world was a book, and everything in it had a story that could be read! 

  A leaf fluttered down, and landed in the centre of the pool sending tiny ripples running across its surface. A stray ray of sunlight piercing through the green branches overhead glittered on the spring; and up from the pool rose sparks of light, like drops of water spreading out like a fan. In a flash of insight, I saw books were like rivers, and swords, and pourings of oil! A rain of booklight was through a host of different things! I stood. I felt on the threshold of a new thing. Of possibilities, only an eye-blink away! I sensed a new, deeper, more satisfying way of thinking and living. And it was, oh, so close. An unspeakable sense of intense longing was there, caught up in the light streaming down to the pool and up again. 

  I was at a watershed; both literally and spiritually; and wondering what was next. In that magical moment, I somehow knew, deep inside me, that something would happen, through a book which I would one day find, that would change the course of my life and heal my hurt. 

  This knowing had been so fleeting it had escaped my grasp; but under that camphor tree in the park, the following week, I believe a hidden part of me, must have vaguely, half-remembered it. I was set upon a course of thought; sent sailing through the writing of this book; that I didn’t know I had been meant to write, until I was nearly at the end of it! There were a few more stories that I needed to tell. And I was so excited as I caught a glimpse of what they might be! We never know what will happen next; but whatever does, there will be a joy in it just waiting to come to the surface!


                       *


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Contact author if you would like to read this unpublished book as a pdf.
Email:   judithdeverell@hotmail.com        

                                                                                      

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/