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Synchronicity or Rhyming Riddles

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  • starbirdgarden
    Dear Danny, Marys Fuller Son was wonderful. Thank you for that! It can also be read Mary Full of Son. I think it is a pseudonym. She had a vision of the
    Message 1 of 3 , Jul 3, 2003
      Dear Danny,
      Marys Fuller Son was wonderful. Thank you for that! It can also be read Mary Full
      of Son. I think it is a pseudonym. She had a vision of the Etheric Christ, which
      enabled her to change her life in every detail to the extent that she cured her body of
      cancer, which she documents in another wonderful little book called By a New and
      Living Way, which has an intro by Auburey Westlake.
      I am with you in the synchronicity of events and meetings, which I call rhyming
      riddling. Those are the times when the spiritual world seems closer than usual, or
      more perceptible than usual, perhaps times of grace, because they also come
      unlooked for and unexpectedly, sometimes when the inner life seems stale or even
      barren.
      Then the angels pass on a sudden shaft of love or light , and we may never know
      from whom it came, as in the wonderful quote posted today about nurturing the seed
      in the souls of others, and suddenly the world changes and we are sure of the path.
      There is such a rhyme and a riddle around now.
      One Easter I was in a health shop with my husband, and a girl was serving who
      was new. I had only seen her in the shop once or twice, and not to speak more than a
      word to. On this day, which was an anniversary day which I always kept especially
      sacred, she stopped me and said that she had dreamed very vividly of me the night
      before, and asked me if I had been to Austria.
      I told her I had not, and she told me that she had dreamed of me walking up a
      mountain slope with a group of young people of whom she was one, stopping here
      and there to show them a plant or flower and talk about its uses and powers.
      Then she said we all went into a little chapel and each held a lighted candle and
      sat together in silent meditation. The mood of the dream had affected her deeply, and
      then to her astonishment, I came into the shop that very morning. I said little, just
      thanking her for telling me, because it was a special day and I felt an inner silence
      which made me reluctant to speak. But just as we were leaving the shop my husband
      asked her if she had heard of Rudolf Steiner. She stared in amazement and told us
      that she had attended a Steiner school in New Zealand, although she knew little of his
      spiritual work or teaching.
      A week later she had moved on, and I did not see her again.
      So mysterious are the threads that weave through our lives.
      It is incomprehensible to me that you should be asked not to bring poetry. How
      can we read the signs of the times, and the portents in our lives without the ability to
      bring them into harmony? And poetry helps us to do that.
      Sometimes, when trying to help people, unlike you, who have difficulty with
      finding a Goethean view of life and Nature, I ask them to live the next day as the hero
      or heroine in their own fairy tale. If they leave the house to catch the bus for work,
      they must read the mood of the sky, what detritus lies on the pavement, a scrap of
      paper, a drink can, whatever. And notice whether they pass a willow or a beech by the
      road, or what a crow flapping across the road is saying, or is it a chirping sparrow?
      What message does it bring in its own symbology?
      Everything is portentous, everything speaks. Even treading in a dog turd can
      speak of a shitty day! Who comes to meet them? Who passes by? Who says hello? An
      old lady becomes a crone, perhaps, a disguised spiritual being. Or a young man with
      a springy step an adventuring younger son in his own story.
      And then to write it down, or tell it as a once upon a time tale, becoming the hero
      or heroine, wayfaring in their own adventure. If it is not an adventure, they have not
      looked.
      And also to consider how we play our walk on parts in other peoples stories. Near
      here is a hill, one of the green pockets in London, surrounded by roads and traffic.
      On the hill are beautiful oaks and chestnuts, and a garden centre with a coffee shop,
      where I meet my friends.
      Once a young Muslim boy of about 14 was there doing work experience from
      school, and he carried my basket of plants for me. I wondered how this strange lady
      appeared to him, long skirts, floating scarves, brimmed hat and beaded bag,
      stomping along on my trusty sticks (known as Pegasus) and we chatted as we went.
      I asked him about his life and he told me of his hopes and ambitions, and of
      school and his family and how they had come to England. When we got to my car, I
      offered him a pound coin, for his trouble. It was terribly insensitive of me, because it
      was one of those special days, and he looked at me as if I had offered him thirty
      pieces of silver, and gently but very firmly said that he could not take money from
      me.
      I thanked him, and this lovely boy bowed slightly and ran lightly away. Again, I
      never saw him since. But I stood there and lovingly blessed him and his path through
      life, like every fairy godmother in every story.
      It is all an epic poem, a living saga, our own, and others shared story. And if
      people say we should be more prosaic, why I love prose too. People have told me
      that I am not a proper anthroposophist. Well, who is? What is proper?
      People follow celebrities with greater and greater need, because they are no longer
      stars themselves, have forgotten how to shine their own holy human light upon the
      world and light it up for others to behold and grow strong in.
      Real poetry brings new power to the soul, and we don't need any skill with words
      to read it. The world for many is so grey that they are afraid of the eye that glitters.

      And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
      His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
      Weave a circle round him thrice,
      And close your eyes with holy dread,
      For he on honey-dew hath fed
      And drunk the milk of paradise.

      Coleridge.

      And if that poem is opium-poppy coloured, still it brings something great and
      majestic.

      Keep weaving your beautiful words,
      Jan
    • Cheeseandsalsa@aol.com
      BEATITUDEFUL
      Message 2 of 3 , Jul 3, 2003
        BEATITUDEFUL
      • danifyou@tv.videotron.ca
        Dear Janet- Mary full of Son , You Cherish the moments where a True Contact is established, The Living glimpse into the Communion of the spirits And how these
        Message 3 of 3 , Jul 4, 2003
          Dear Janet-"Mary full of Son",

          You Cherish the moments where a True Contact is established,
          The Living glimpse into the Communion of the spirits
          And how these Memories are ever (to) Treasure(s).

          Heart-meaningful they endure,
          Yet wishing evermore for sure;
          How friends - no strangers can be our neighbours
          When we love one another!

          That's easy, always like that it can be;
          Just as in our life's early wanderings,
          We met Nature and every creatures,
          Went towards and listened and watched to what could be heard and seen
          Wonder-fascinating active in;

          How indeed within it Participative Presence;
          Sharing the Essence!

          Goethean are the children,
          To them is the Heavenly Kingdom!

          +

          Krishna is Playful - in the Sun-rays a Dance,
          An Invitation,
          Assertion from him streaming:

          Nathan Soul of Man little Brother mine,
          To the Shambala of Christ, Solar Mansion
          The Bridge you are;
          Heaven and Earth the Song of Reunion,
          Living Cosmos, yourself beyond size,
          In it you take a part;

          You Romanticize.


          The Golden Ether-Age welcomes you!
          Through Trials earned Moral-many-Richness;
          Eternal Deeds of Love and Compassion,
          Words of Wisdom; Karma of Redemption;
          Comes now the Celestial inheritance Real Fable;
          The Tale of how you became Gradual-Immortal,
          Born before being Born
          Into the Life of the Gods above!

          And so,
          Flowered by the Roses of Paradise,
          A Rendez-vous with the Infinite Realm of the Sky!

          If only men could know it!
          Happy would they then be to die to their bleak lives!

          Come dear beloved ones,
          Help us to hinder the Prince of this world!

          Learn how to understand the Meaning of Death,

          Find the Living Christ;

          Change the tenour of your mind!


          -----Original Message-----
          From: starbirdgarden<starbirdgarden@...>


          Dear Danny,
          Marys Fuller Son was wonderful. Thank you for that! It can also be read Mary Full
          of Son. I think it is a pseudonym. She had a vision of the Etheric Christ, which
          enabled her to change her life in every detail to the extent that she cured her body of
          cancer, which she documents in another wonderful little book called By a New and
          Living Way, which has an intro by Auburey Westlake.
          I am with you in the synchronicity of events and meetings, which I call rhyming
          riddling. Those are the times when the spiritual world seems closer than usual, or
          more perceptible than usual, perhaps times of grace, because they also come
          unlooked for and unexpectedly, sometimes when the inner life seems stale or even
          barren.
          Then the angels pass on a sudden shaft of love or light , and we may never know
          from whom it came, as in the wonderful quote posted today about nurturing the seed
          in the souls of others, and suddenly the world changes and we are sure of the path.
          There is such a rhyme and a riddle around now.
          One Easter I was in a health shop with my husband, and a girl was serving who
          was new. I had only seen her in the shop once or twice, and not to speak more than a
          word to. On this day, which was an anniversary day which I always kept especially
          sacred, she stopped me and said that she had dreamed very vividly of me the night
          before, and asked me if I had been to Austria.
          I told her I had not, and she told me that she had dreamed of me walking up a
          mountain slope with a group of young people of whom she was one, stopping here
          and there to show them a plant or flower and talk about its uses and powers.
          Then she said we all went into a little chapel and each held a lighted candle and
          sat together in silent meditation. The mood of the dream had affected her deeply, and
          then to her astonishment, I came into the shop that very morning. I said little, just
          thanking her for telling me, because it was a special day and I felt an inner silence
          which made me reluctant to speak. But just as we were leaving the shop my husband
          asked her if she had heard of Rudolf Steiner. She stared in amazement and told us
          that she had attended a Steiner school in New Zealand, although she knew little of his
          spiritual work or teaching.
          A week later she had moved on, and I did not see her again.
          So mysterious are the threads that weave through our lives.
          It is incomprehensible to me that you should be asked not to bring poetry. How
          can we read the signs of the times, and the portents in our lives without the ability to
          bring them into harmony? And poetry helps us to do that.
          Sometimes, when trying to help people, unlike you, who have difficulty with
          finding a Goethean view of life and Nature, I ask them to live the next day as the hero
          or heroine in their own fairy tale. If they leave the house to catch the bus for work,
          they must read the mood of the sky, what detritus lies on the pavement, a scrap of
          paper, a drink can, whatever. And notice whether they pass a willow or a beech by the
          road, or what a crow flapping across the road is saying, or is it a chirping sparrow?
          What message does it bring in its own symbology?
          Everything is portentous, everything speaks. Even treading in a dog turd can
          speak of a shitty day! Who comes to meet them? Who passes by? Who says hello? An
          old lady becomes a crone, perhaps, a disguised spiritual being. Or a young man with
          a springy step an adventuring younger son in his own story.
          And then to write it down, or tell it as a once upon a time tale, becoming the hero
          or heroine, wayfaring in their own adventure. If it is not an adventure, they have not
          looked.
          And also to consider how we play our walk on parts in other peoples stories. Near
          here is a hill, one of the green pockets in London, surrounded by roads and traffic.
          On the hill are beautiful oaks and chestnuts, and a garden centre with a coffee shop,
          where I meet my friends.
          Once a young Muslim boy of about 14 was there doing work experience from
          school, and he carried my basket of plants for me. I wondered how this strange lady
          appeared to him, long skirts, floating scarves, brimmed hat and beaded bag,
          stomping along on my trusty sticks (known as Pegasus) and we chatted as we went.
          I asked him about his life and he told me of his hopes and ambitions, and of
          school and his family and how they had come to England. When we got to my car, I
          offered him a pound coin, for his trouble. It was terribly insensitive of me, because it
          was one of those special days, and he looked at me as if I had offered him thirty
          pieces of silver, and gently but very firmly said that he could not take money from
          me.
          I thanked him, and this lovely boy bowed slightly and ran lightly away. Again, I
          never saw him since. But I stood there and lovingly blessed him and his path through
          life, like every fairy godmother in every story.
          It is all an epic poem, a living saga, our own, and others shared story. And if
          people say we should be more prosaic, why I love prose too. People have told me
          that I am not a proper anthroposophist. Well, who is? What is proper?
          People follow celebrities with greater and greater need, because they are no longer
          stars themselves, have forgotten how to shine their own holy human light upon the
          world and light it up for others to behold and grow strong in.
          Real poetry brings new power to the soul, and we don't need any skill with words
          to read it. The world for many is so grey that they are afraid of the eye that glitters.

          And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
          His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
          Weave a circle round him thrice,
          And close your eyes with holy dread,
          For he on honey-dew hath fed
          And drunk the milk of paradise.

          Coleridge.

          And if that poem is opium-poppy coloured, still it brings something great and
          majestic.

          Keep weaving your beautiful words,
          Jan





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