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Interglint - King Chestnut Starred

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  • Jan
    One backward glance at summer for friends who have asked. Riding Mobility Scooter Starlight Express this summer past on the Northern Heights , those hills of
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 28, 2005
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      One backward glance at summer for friends who have asked.

      Riding Mobility Scooter Starlight Express this summer past on the 'Northern
      Heights', those hills of North London which are said to call to one another
      across the rooftops; when traveling the 'Holy Hill of Alexandra Palace' I
      notice on looking back that I never take a direct route. Passing Bird Gate
      that opens onto the park, I detour beneath a row of mature Horse Chestnuts,
      awake to blowbreeze in branch, to bright and light interglint of shadow,
      taste of air, ever asking 'Who goes there?' turning cheek to face of Day for
      kiss of kin.

      At the far-beginning of the Chestnut row is a Portal, if one has the sense
      for it, that leads more truly into the Park than man made Gate can ever do.
      Here is King Chestnut, Ur Chestnut, Culminating Chestnut, Tree of Trees,
      Royal Troubadour Tower to the singing Thrush pair that raised their
      nestlings safely here this spring.
      Beneath Lord Chestnut, I do not at first presume to look up. Homage is
      best offered in receptive silence; the first inner response is one of
      infinite peace, a quickening stillness that has no quarrel with the complex
      and perpetual movement of the tree, the ever shifting relationships of shade
      and sky, the lay of leaf on leaf, formflow of sap, invisible wend-rivers of
      cool air..... Then deep awe quiets the mind and gentles the heart to
      ache-receptivity. Because heart must crack before entering counter-space of
      tree-held hollow, break to enlarge, suffer in empathy, in humility, knowing
      oneself undeserving recipient of generous bestowal that is hallmark of
      Christened Nature.

      And looking up.... What is it really, this great green hill, this
      densely shaded cavern of swaying leafy branches, vast crowned dome of deep
      black shadow and streaming, flowing coolness, this living, hollow hill,
      secret wellspring of vital power? What is it really? It is Initiation
      Vault, open secret, holy mystery center in profane world. If one has the
      sense for it.

      If not, it is an old Horse Chestnut swaying in the wind.

      And looking up.... High, highest above, set in very Crown of Royal
      Chestnut Cavern, in the deep blackness of this morning-night interior sky is
      one single brilliant Star of purest light, a space between the leaves where
      dazzling sunshine has formed a five pointed form of radiance, lambent,
      clear, intensely purposed. This is a real star, a star to navigate a day, a
      star safe to steer by. It matters that the leaves whose absence form it are
      Chestnut leaves, juicy, fat-sap filled on this remembered June day, dark and
      heavy, yet light-ether serrated, spread in gesture of open hand and yet
      enclosing shadow, masters of darkness, bearers of light, whose incensed
      blossoms are upheld candles, uplit flowers...
      From this non existent Portentous Star flows a blessing of light, long
      gleaming spear, smoky blue against the black of massed foliage.
      I think of Goethe and Theory of Colour.... I think of Light, the Light of
      the World, shining in darkness, forging a Way, cleaving a Path.... yet
      gently, so gently, harming none, silently.... Everything Transient is a
      Parable. Heart flip of undeserved joy.

      I remember a lecture by Rudolf Steiner, Evolution, Involution and Creation
      out of Nothingness. Must study it further.

      The Christian Initiate purposely gave that lecture at the end of a cycle,
      when people were to break for the summer, for, he said, the thoughts and
      concepts are so profound that a long period of reflection is necessary to
      absorb and comprehend them. The lecture needs to be read in sequence and in
      full, but still, we can take something from quotes. The concepts are indeed
      great, alive and healing, pointing as ever to the boundless, creative
      potential and power of humanity that will bring forth something entirely
      new, going beyond re-cycle to re-source.

      Rudolf Steiner 'Suppose you see a man standing opposite two other people.
      Let us take into consideration everything that belongs to evolution. Let us
      take the one who is observing the other two, and say to ourselves that he
      has passed through earlier incarnations and has developed what has been
      planted in him in these previous incarnations. The same applies to the
      other two people.
      Then let us suppose that the first man thinks to himself; The one person
      looks splendid beside the other. He is pleased to see just those two
      particular people standing together. Another person may not feel this
      satisfaction. The satisfaction the man feels in seeing the two standing
      side by side has nothing whatever to do with the possibilities of
      development of the other two, for they have done nothing that deserves the
      pleasure their standing together gives him. It is something quite
      different, and it depends entirely on the fact that it is he in particular
      that is standing opposite the two people. The point is that the man
      develops a feeling of joy over the two men in front of him standing
      together. This feeling is not caused by anything to do with development.
      There are things like this in the world that arise simply through
      coincidence. It is not a question of the two men being karmically
      connected. Our concern is the joy that the man feels because he likes
      seeing the two people standing together.
      Let us take a further example. Imagine a man standing here at a certain
      spot on the earth and looking up at the sky. He sees a particular
      constellation of stars. If he were to stand five paces away he would see
      something else. This looking at the sky creates in him a feeling of joy
      that is something quite new....... Man is concerned with a lot of affairs
      that have nothing to do with his previous development, but which are there
      because various circumstances bring him into contact with the outer world.
      Because he feels this joy, however, it has become for him an experience.
      Something has arisen in the human soul that is not determined by anything
      preceding it but which has arisen out of nothingness. Such creations out of
      nothingness are constantly arising in the human soul.' end quote from
      Evolution, Involution and Creation out of Nothingness. 17 June 1909



      And looking in.... I knew that silver-blue slant of not-starlight, falling
      benevolent upon personal destiny would illumine a new path of work, reveal
      fresh ground to furrow and seed with think stars. The Archai bide on the
      far-side in-side of such portals, wait upon our creating. To them is
      offered what humanity adds to hierarchical wrought works by perceiving them,
      by bringing them into relatedness, adding human joy, a heart flip, a purely
      unique consciousness, an individual and personal congruity. From them in
      return streams potential of heavenly Converse by night, job offer of future
      co creation.

      The beloved Dead sang, rhyming softly down the starry light-line. Christ
      is Lord of Karma,' they sang, and so, however difficult, however seemingly
      intractable, however hopelessly knotted, our personal karma can serve
      universal brotherhood, be transformed, be of service to all mankind. The
      Dead stream endlessly into our world, into our consciousness through
      human-nothing-creation, seek our co-working, our clarifying of their past
      fragmented work, work that was squeezed, perhaps warped a little, distorted
      by social conditions prevailing in their lifetime, by personal flaws or
      failures and the limitation of thought forms available to them. The Dead
      invite us to partake in their ongoing life, their future incarnating, revise
      their work, take their impulses further. Offer them, altared, to the Lord of
      Karma.
      I knew that it would take awhile to disentangle their spheres-song from
      the soughing wind in the air orchestrated trees, that it would take time to
      hear most clearly. Best to leave it, best allow it to settle in the soul,
      sleep soft pillowed upon it, let it 'wait upon the Lord' Best to note and
      pass on.

      And passing on through heliographic Star Space, I came into the Park by
      Bird Gate, spoke Pass Word, was admitted to outer chamber of Inner Hill,
      rode through land scaped by Faery. Now everyone was in Character. So there
      before me on the bench by the lake was Old Tom. In his eighties, Tom played
      the vagrant; shabby, tall, thin, his clothes crumpled and unkempt, his
      straggled grey hair at odds with shrewd eyes above lumpen nose.
      Incongruously, at his feet, lay an old blind dog, well fed, sleek, obviously
      cosseted.

      We are in Faery, but in or out of Faeryland the true explanation for such
      incongruity between animal and master is that Tom is actually a millionaire
      and though careless of himself, loves his dog Trix most dearly. Blind Trix,
      keen nosed, scented Friend and came to meet me. With concern, I noticed
      that Tom was struggling for breath, holding his chest and unable to gasp a
      greeting. Tom is on the last lap Home, suffers from a severe heart and lung
      condition and is subject to occasional black outs.

      Taking a tobacco tin from his pocket he rolled a scrawny cigarette with
      hands habit-sure but shaking. Dubiously I asked, as he lit up, 'Is that a
      good idea, Tom? Should I phone for some help and get you home?'

      Drawing deeply, a more healthy colour returned to his face, and he managed
      to speak. 'That was a bad one. No. Its all right. I been smoking since I was
      eight. I'm so addicted I'd die if I stopped. Only man in the world with a
      doctor's letter to prove I got to smoke. Keep it here, in my wallet."
      Jerking a thumb skywards he shot a look up. 'Its Him!' he said accusingly,
      'Sending me postcards. Wish you were here. Telling me get ready for a trip.
      Warns me I'll be traveling light.' As the thin cigarette flared and burned
      down between stained fingers his breath steadied and we conversed, Trix
      settled her head on my lap as I scratched the favourite spot behind her
      ears.

      Tom is eccentric in the old English tradition, a very wealthy
      artist-philanthropist who part-owned a large construction company and got
      his hands dirty in real work, engaged with rockface, dealt with London clay,
      knew treachery of sandy soil, underbubble secrets of water table, all the
      hidden seams and springs beneath the city. Tom tells most interesting tales
      of the problem ground beneath particular buildings and roads of Britain and
      how he solved such challenges, intricate stories of pumps, of reinforcing
      concrete, aggregates, bore holes, even of erecting Palaces in the Arab
      Emirates; long, detailed sagas about foundations, stresses, exactly how the
      land lies, how buildings rise or fall. I love to hear these builder's
      tales. Love listening to a man of long enriched life experience, a man
      flamed and fired by ideals who has a deep love of and detailed interest in
      other human beings, sympathy with their trials, faith in their potentials,
      with a special tenderness for the young. Tom is one who always asks the
      question 'Brother, what ails Thee?', and tries to respond practically and in
      kind.

      Acerbic, gruff, astute and very shrewd, Tom flows with human-kindness. He
      founds and funds many social initiatives, from playgrounds to art centers
      and sponsors several charities, making sure that they can stand and
      withstand, that their foundations are as secure as possible. I cannot
      broadcast the details of his extraordinary life story, given in confidence
      in odd moments of meeting, but can say that true to Faery Tale, Tom is
      Younger Son born poor and orphaned in infancy, gifted or cursed with the
      Midas Touch. Every single thing he touched turned to gold. He fell into
      pots of gold, bubbled up in bullion, scattered it profligate and it returned
      tenfold, gambled it and always won, drunk it, squandered it, fled it,
      surrendered to it, served it, repudiated it, dismissed it, and yet it
      pursued him, banked him, gilded him, chequed him, but never quite spent
      him.
      In his youth he played with it, in his prime he turned and pursued it,
      multiplied it, engaged with it but never quite fathomed it, enjoyed it but
      never quite believed in it. In old age he was always scraping it from his
      shoes, shrugging it from his shoulders, emptying it from his pockets,
      shaking it out of his hair. Faery-wise turning gold back into straw, sowing
      it broadcast, planting it in unlikely places, setting it free, letting it
      live, flow and enable, not weight, paralyse and encrust.


      Could he, like his namesake Tom Bombadil, carelessly toss false golden
      coin in the air, spin it and turn up heads you win Tom! And Sol-laced,
      immune, pocket it only to give away? (What does Mystery Tramp have in his
      pocket? Only a hole ..... only the ever empty far.) Pocket it and stride
      rich but unfettered along o' Sun-ethered New Brotherhood of Man, always
      giving, enabling.... founding, funding, building, unscathed? No, not quite.
      That is not quite how it went. Humans are not there yet. Tom fell often.
      Has his flaws as we all do. We are all scathed by Ahriman. It is not so
      easy to break the sticky web of finance, as hard to live with too much money
      as it is impossible to live without it within our present fake
      polito-financial paradigm. Money has suspicion-narrowed Toms eyes, skewed
      him just slightly. Worn him down if not out. Bent his back a little, as if
      it bears heavy sack of loot. Charity, however freely given, is still not
      the answer, still does not make either giver or recipient really free.

      Scrooge increased Bob Cratchitt's salary, gave him Christmas goodies, but
      did not free him or enable him to set up a business of his own. Perhaps
      Scrooge was transformed, but was Bob?

      And I thought of Ahriman's counterfeit, his materialized copy of creation
      out of nothing. Fools gold, fractional reserve banking, fiat money, debt.

      Quote from 'Summer Time Ends' John Hargrave - 'Sir Otto could not cast
      free altogether from the never ending intertwining fabulation in which he
      was entangled and lost and which he was forced to help to spin: an invisible
      web of nothing out of numbers, by numbers, in high financial fantasy for
      ever tumbling down as it was built up in staggering piles of debt
      invisible except to the mind's eye
      an astounding world game of 1, 2, 3 - out goes he! (bankrupt!)
      the game went on all the time - nothing could stop it - and every second
      its conjurations reared a cipher city of dangerous nonsense called Sound
      Finance
      at one moment it would look like a boggart eldorado fashioned, in the
      flick of an eyelid, of rare materials
      sea spray, silica and gold dust
      changing shape by numbers
      by numbers bursting into bubbles
      each one swirling up, up, like a spiral stairway blown in liquid air,
      unfurling, blossoming into eccentric and enormous glass orchid convolutions,
      alive, palpitating, quivering by numbers
      a complex calculation of numerical relativity, relating to nothing but its
      own cipher sequence
      beautiful and sinister, the whole working a-widdershins
      and all by numbers
      all unseen: a secret growth
      a colossal interpenetrating fungoid fragility of meaningless figures
      springing in sterile grandeur from a bed of bar gold buried in vaults
      this all sounds so fabulous, so bogus that we have to pinch ourselves to
      be quite certain we are in the wake world and not fallen into some infernal
      dream pit
      is it possible that this tall, severe, cultured and eminently hard-headed
      man - Sir Otto, economic adviser to the Bank of England, member of the
      International Standing Committee of Economic Experts, author of
      'Fluctuations in the Post War Credit Cycle,' 'The Effect of Gold Shrinkage
      on World Price Levels,' and several other standard works - is it possible
      that he and other men of equal intelligence were (and are) as seriously
      concerned in maintaining this preposterous fabrication as other men in
      hewing coal, building sea-planes or growing marrows?
      there is no doubt of it
      except for moments of relaxation Sir Otto gave his whole time and energy
      to this unbelievable business
      and yet to look at, you would say he was level headed, sane and practical
      as most men. Perhaps he was. Nevertheless, his life was given to creating
      out of nothing, by numbers, an infinitely involuted and delicate (in the
      sense of invalid) mechanism of financial futility, spreading over the whole
      world, throttling, thwarting, frustrating
      like some hideous weed it fed on the venomous dew of false confidence
      (thereby destroying all confidence and itself) and broke into glittering
      bunches of hard, brittle, hollow fruit that cracked asunder and were gone
      instantly
      the whole phasma transforming, revolving backwards, breeding swarming
      millions of nought-maggots, foaming into nonsensical statistical foliage
      sending out credit-tendrils that became at once serpent debt-suckers
      wrapping around human existence, slowly strangulating human activity
      by numbers
      by numbers alone
      by the numeric cult of Hi Fi Numbo.......' end quote from 'Summer Time
      Ends' John Hargrave 1935



      'Do you want to go to a Garden Party?' Tom asked me suddenly 'Meet Her Maj?
      I still get the invites... Done a lot of work at Buck House. And there's me
      charities.'

      "Not my thing, Tom,' I replied 'I'm one of those 'rebellious Scots' that
      get crushed in the last verse of the National Anthem. She'd probably lock
      me in the Tower. Trix is a great Lady, take her to meet the Royal Corgies.'

      'She's been twice,' Tom said, 'I got photos.'

      'I'm surprised you've not been Knighted, Tom.' I said 'haven't they
      offered you a gong?'

      He snorted. 'Four times' He made a rude gesture. 'Gongs! Its Him,'
      looking skyward again, 'Its Him that matters. Him that wants answers. Wants
      to know what you've made of life. What good are gongs to man nor beast?
      Won't cut any ice with Him. Lord this, Sir that. Look at those kids' -
      pointing to a group of schoolchildren - 'They got nowhere to get a drink of
      pop. Bloody Council shut down the Café I used to fund. Not enough
      lavatories and won't let us dig a pipe trench across the field for new
      ones.'

      'The trouble with getting old,' he went on 'Is that they keep bossing you.
      Don't let you do things. They won't let me drive any more. Took my license.
      Its true I black out sometimes....'

      'You have a driver, Tom,' I reminded him.
      'Driver! I've been driven all my life. I like to drive myself. I'm
      getting one of those things' pointing at my mobility scooter, 'Custom built
      with a bed for Trix on the front. We'll head off somewhere, you too....
      We'll escape. I own a Lighthouse..... we could make for that.'

      'You are a Lighthouse Tom' I said, and waving, rode on, following a non
      existent and shining Star.

      And looking back..... there was Tom, opening his tobacco tin with Trix at
      his feet, great London Plane Tree behind him in swaysong, list'ning,
      sol-surplus radiance haloing, crowning him with gold. Heart flip of joy.
      Creation out of nothing.


      Rudolf Steiner 'Creating out of relationships is called in Christian
      esotericism 'creating out of the spirit.. And creating out of right,
      beautiful and virtuous relationships is called in Christian esotericism 'The
      Holy Spirit'. When a man is able to create out of nothingness the right or
      the true, the beautiful and the good, the Holy Spirit fills him with bliss.
      But for a man to be able to create in the sense of the Holy Spirit, he had
      first to be able to be given the foundation, as is the case for all creation
      out of nothingness. The foundation was given him through the coming of
      Christ into our evolution. Through experiencing the Christ Event on Earth,
      man was able to ascend to creating in the Holy Spirit. Thus it is Christ
      Himself Who creates the greatest, most profound foundation. If man becomes
      such that he stands firmly on the basis of the Christ experience, and the
      Christ experience is the carriage he joins for his evolutionary progress,
      then the Christ sends him the Holy Spirit, and man becomes capable of
      creating the right, beautiful and good in the course of his further
      evolution.' end quote from Evolution, Involution and Creation out of
      Nothingness 17 June 1909

      And we're not there yet, but can ponder this deepest of thoughts while
      creating out of relationships of wrought works as we go along.....

      Riding alongside the lake accompanied by a Dragonfly that flashed in and
      out of sun dazzle visibility, now light rippled, now a-lighting on
      flint-sparkle stones of similar hue. Interglint. Heron floated on a
      descending spiral of air high over the water. Still higher, a straight
      tracked plane screamed, scarring the sky. Flight, flight and flight.
      Anti-gravity darting, effortless floating, polluting roaring-scoring.
      Separate, related only in human observing, human rejoicing. Creation out of
      nothing. Heart flip.

      And thought of the young and homeless of London, the very many who huddle
      in shop doorway and on church steps, begging, threatening, drugged, drunken,
      struggling, arms around stray dogs who are the only reciprocating love focus
      of their lives. A new phenomena in this City, not one I knew as a child or
      in my youth. And thought too of the many who can no longer afford to live
      here, the young and not so young workslaves who are crippled by debt,
      extortionate rates of rent or impossibly high Mort-gage, working ever longer
      hours, deeper and deeper in debt. Hi Fi Numbo. Prey of Ahriman's parody.

      Quote from 'Summer Time Ends' - 'a man may die of old age, of hunger or
      thirst, sicken of some plague and waste away..... Collapse from
      heart-failure, drown, be burned to death, freeze, fall of a ladder and break
      his neck, be bumped off, hanged, electrocuted, poisoned, run over by a bus
      but to waste away and die for lack of numbers
      lack of money... strange...... very odd indeed
      yet if you can see through the superstructure of debt-credit-loans: if you
      peer closely into it (but don't, don't!) you will see at the base of it a
      gigantic and horrible rubbish dump of needless human misery, want and agony:
      half starved and empty bellies, suicidal tendencies, phobias, choking lungs,
      blinded eyes, nervous wreckage, shattered limbs, disembowelled entrails,
      blown out brains, moans, cries (stretcher bearers! stretcher bearers!) and
      every kind of psychological disintegration and decay
      this real nightmare, the result of a banking system turning real wealth
      into financial debt'' end quote from 'Summer Time Ends' by J Hargrave 1935


      And riding on, through glint in Eye of Day, passed into Green Time and
      accompanied by Oaks, followed High Road atop the Hill and came to Old Jack,
      sitting lordly, straightbacked, with a radiant health and energy much
      younger men might envy, on his favourite bench observing his City, his own
      Old London, the Great Wen laid out in panoramic sweeping view before and far
      beneath him.
      Tom is millionaire vagrant. Jack is pauper King. With scarce a penny to
      his name he has sovereignty, presence, somehow is always Sol-vent. His the
      view and the over-view, the weather, the church spires, cranes, and the
      River. The great City and all its past is his. More, he is utterly self
      possessed, strong, wide awake. Old Millionaire Tom knows how to found, to
      sustain by founding, how to lay sure and lasting found-ations. Tom knows
      what lies beneath, knows about costing, financing, supporting and
      maintaining. Jack knows about horizons, distances, what the sky is saying,
      travel as travail, how yesterday will affect tomorrow. How it came to be
      today. Jack, too, tells a tale worth the hearing.

      He waved and I drew alongside.
      'Lovely day, Jack. Will the sunshine last?' He gestured to a purple
      ridge miles away rising above the office blocks and towers of city become
      streetmap 'No, not if those hills are visible. It'll cloud over tomorrow.
      Make the most of today.' I nodded. Weatherwise, Jack is always right.

      We settled to talk, our London strewn untidily over the hills below us,
      light glinting on toy car windscreens, flashing sudden sunblaze from tall
      glass buildings, those great monstrances of architect-Ego'd office blocks,
      hideous Temples of Hi Fi Numbo Finance, dwarfing the church spires.

      And I heard how Jack had been called up as a young man, to fight the war
      that was none of his making, had traveled the world and danced the
      quick-Mort-step with lightened feet, wondering how it was that somehow,
      while those beside him fell, he was always spared...

      'There were eight of us, and one of us had to run through sniper fire to
      deliver a message to another group, holed up they were. We had eight
      playing cards and one was the Ace of Spades, the death card, we called it.'
      'Not aces high, then Jack?'
      He frowned. 'The death card.' he repeated. 'And I drew it. I ran through
      the snipers and nothing hit me, but minutes later a shell hit the seven
      mates I left behind and killed the lot of them. Fluke. You got used to that
      kind of thing. Sheer fluke, Happened all the time.'

      So Aces were high. I remembered a poem my mother used to recite.

      'They met death face to face
      And passed the time of day.
      Death said 'Immortals these!'
      And went his way.'

      He went on to tell of how he had survived the torpedoing of a ship, and
      then moved on to Palestine at the time of the founding of Israel. Jack was
      with the British Army.

      'I been all round the world.' He said. 'Traveled to most places. And
      I'm not religious. But its a funny thing. There is something about that
      place, the Holy Land as they call it, something about the actual earth,
      right in the soil, you might say....... Something I can't describe. But its
      there all right. If anything was going to happen on the Earth, anything big,
      anything real, anything Holy, If a God was born, then it would have been
      there. It felt to me like the center of the whole earth.'

      And passing on, with a backward smile and wave, I saw Old Jack, Sol-itary
      King of his Hill, with straight spine and eyes that had out stared death,
      reading tomorrow from the pattern of today, harvesting the past, making
      suresense of it for the future, alone and most certainly 'in the wake
      world'.


      Rudolf Steiner - 'The Christ Event has given man the greatest thing
      possible, the power that makes him capable of living on into the future and
      of increasingly creating out of relationships, out of all that is not
      pre-determined, but depends on how man relates to the facts of the world
      around him, which is in the widest sense the Holy Spirit. This again is an
      aspect of Christian esotericism. Christian esotericism is connected with
      the profoundest thought in the whole of our evolution, the thought of
      creation out of nothingness.
      Therefore no true theory of evolution will ever be able to leave out the
      thought of creation out of nothingness. Suppose there were only evolution
      and involution, there would be eternal repetition like here is with the
      plant, and on Vulcan there would be only what originated on Saturn. But in
      the middle of our development creation out of nothingness was added to
      evolution and involution. After Saturn, Sun and Moon had passed away,
      Christ came to Earth as the enriching leaven which ensures that something
      quite new will be there on Vulcan, something not yet present on Saturn.'
      end quote from 'Evolution, Involution and Creation out of Nothingness' 17
      June 1909


      And hear with joy Harvey's call hitching a ride on the Trade Winds across
      the Pond, 'All debts are paid!'

      Jack, the bench, the hill, the sky, dear Old London....... Creation out
      of nothing. Heart flip.

      Jan
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