Imps and Einstein
- This is biographical anecdotal, also tongue in cheek in part - skip
Danny wrote -
"The Etheric and it's Potent Witz Potential,
Paradoxical hence slowly haste yourself
And while you Struggle also have Fun!"
Ah, my Danny Boy, a truth you tell! Come away-faring with me to the Holy
Hill, where a Wartime Stone Angel lies buried, but nobody knows where, and a
secret river flows underground and sometimes bubbles up causing sedges to
grow among the roses in suburban gardens, and somewhere, as the Little
Prince would say, there is a Well..... a Mossy Well where Pilgrim Kings once
came and knelt to pray. Let us, by all means have Fun, because the
elementals live in an element of jest and merriment, and surely the Angels
must smile upon our antics!
This is a trip to the Druid's Hill, but although I write of the Northern
heights, where I happen to live, the Gateway is always and everywhere
present. Place and time are all our own. The Druid's Hill is simply a
physical expression of a common reality, which is why it remains parkland,
with it's Grove and great trees and it's underground water.
George MacDonald's hero begins his trip into Fairyland when water bubbles
up through his bedroom floor, the etheric flows from night-enhanced
consciousness into new adventure, new perception and trial.
When the Edwardian houses were erected upon Muswell Hill, the Mossy Well
was built over and the river with it's many streams was diverted
underground. But everywhere it rises, with tides and times of its own, as
fairyland peeks and glimpses throughout our daily doings, in busy street or
quiet garden, because we are woven of it's fabric, its living tapestry.
On a day of days I went adventuring to the Holy Hill, a secret fairy
landscape which to some might seem a quite ordinary place with a garden
centre and a café, but is really holy-enchanted, a place where everyone in
the world comes by if only you sit there long enough in Green-Time which is
quickened and leisurely, and look with eyes that are half open and half
closed, closed upon this world and opened upon the other.
The clouds said one thing and the light said another and the trees were
murmuring so I knew that the elementals were lively and would sport with the
unwary. Imps tease us for our own good, tease out the snarls and tangles in
our etheric wool or hair, making it receptive to new inflowing currents,
lavished with new currency of fairy gold. A richly gilded Hornbeam leaf
scripted with poetry curled around the windscreen wiper of my car.... I knew
better than to touch it, and sure enough it danced away in the first wind
that took its fancy, so that I caught fragments of verse as I went.
"I know where the Angel lies
I know where the Angel flies
I live in earth as well as sky
A Well springs from an Angel's I".
A brief shower had laid silver upon the road, so that I drove over
High-Way drift of clouds, whilst oaks and chestnuts and other great trees
flamed, burned and drowned in a flowing sea of golden light. I passed the
mysterious Dark Sisters, three Copper Beeches whom I have long loved, and
they waved back, not caring yet to cast their purple-red leaves.
Rowan loves to grow here on London's Northern Heights, as does wild fey
Elder and elf sown Ash. They generously tossed berry and leaf and twirling
key into the wind that stirred the spell of the day, and the birds chanted
it everywhere, from wet, sparkling tangles of twig that were really archways
into their secret world, and from mounded tree tops that were really
unexplored islands in an ocean of brightness. Squirrels had wings and crows
In Green Time you meet everyone, including yourself. That was me, long
years ago, a young girl sitting beneath a tree, reading Oscar Wilde's De
Profundis "Where there is sorrow there is holy ground' to a long haired boy
lying with his head in her lap. I called to them, "It's going to be much,
much harder than you think!" but they did not hear me. No middle aged ghost
could break the spelling air gently smiling around them. They were in love,
in that endless hour of the 'too long kiss' and life would never be the same
again, only they did not know it yet.
As I got out of the car a Knight in Shining Armour appeared from nowhere,
only lightly disguised as a middle aged man, to hold the car door open and
disentangle a long silk scarf that loves to fly with the sprites in the
slightest breeze. He added a few words to the poem and went his way.
"From Angel's Thou a river flows..."
Mounting Pegasus, which the blind might mistake for some ordinary
aluminum walking-aid sticks, I made at speed for the café where another
stranger Knight stepped forth to draw back my chair and retrieve
aforementioned scarf now imp led, reverting to butterfly-ing silk and
seriously attempting flight, even carefully arranging the folds of my coat
as if he posed me for a painting, and I thought how kind the world is to one
who, like me, is out of step with it. One encounters such chivalry and
courtesy which so becomes those gentlemanly souls who seem to be everywhere,
ready to spring forth willing to aid, and nod or bow before withdrawing
politely, never intrusive.
There is such warm love in human beings, that when I feel close to despair
at the ways of the world, small acts of human kindness renew faith and hope.
Such is the true foundation of spiritual evolution which can never be
destroyed, that stand, shining, for all eternity. Just everyday, simple
kindness towards a stranger. Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.
This happened just after my Mother died, and betimes I saw the world
through the 'multiplying glass' of tears, prism of the etheric. Remembering
her suffering, I thought of De Profundis, with the intent to read it again.
The one I had come to meet arrived, and we talked long over our coffee,
being suddenly interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Einstein!
I noticed him at once. Not just his wet black nose, or his large brown
eyes, nor even his smart silver collar. He simply had an air of distinction
about him. It was easy to see that he knew much and discerned more, had
learned new secrets of creation, moving easily in a fluid world of olfactory
potencies that enabled him to make for me with the certainty of a friendly
pat on the head, detecting subtle homeopathic traces of Dog Lover.
The man accompanying him called him once or twice, "Einstein!
Einstein!" but seeing him otherwise engaged, read his paper and drunk his
coffee while Einstein very cleverly figured out a way to get crisps from me,
which he ate in a relatively calculating way as befitted his genius. When
the sum total of crisps in the bag was zero, he turned his attention to a
stick, which he divided into small pieces with his teeth. I could not see if
he was laying them out in any specific formulae, but doubtless he was. It
was all beyond me. The imps were at play.
A beautiful Wagtail bathed in the fountain by my table. A Pug growled
at Einstein; it was beneath his notice. Sparks of rainbow danced and spun in
all the sky! Great petals of light spun endlessly inwards, disappearing in
an invisible centre which was everywhere to be seen.
"From Angel's Thou a river flows,
By Angel Tree the Crocus grows."
Einstein had finished dividing the stick. I stroked his head, and thought
how the ele-mentals must be laughing!
"Full Throttle on a White Horse!" Throttle - wind pipe, the winding way, the
piping noted message of the Throstle-Thrush,fluted, wind piped, wind blown
song for all to hear, for all who will to follow.
This our re-hearse-all, our going back over the same ground grown different.
Full Throttle, full throated, Chakra, birthplace of the Coming Words of
Power! Of the New Humanity.
"Full Throttle on the White Horse."
Quote from De Profundis "There is something so unique about Christ. Of
course just as there are false dawns before the dawn itself, and winter
days so full of sudden sunlight that they will cheat the wise crocus into
squandering its gold before its time, and make some foolish bird call to
its mate to build on barren boughs, so there were Christians before Christ.
For that we should be grateful. The unfortunate thing is that there have
been none since. I make one exception, St. Francis of Assisi. But then
God had given him at his birth the soul of a poet, as he himself when quite
young had in mystical marriage taken poverty as his bride: and with the
soul of a poet and the body of a beggar he found the way to perfection not
difficult. He understood Christ, and so he became like him. We do not
require the Liber Conformitatum to teach us that the life of St. Francis
was the true IMITATIO CHRISTI, a poem compared to which the book of that
name is merely prose.
Indeed, that is the charm about Christ, when all is said: he is just like
a work of art. He does not really teach one anything, but by being brought
into his presence one becomes something. And everybody is predestined to
his presence. Once at least in his life each man walks with Christ to
All trials are trials for one's life, just as all sentences are sentences of
death; and three times have I been tried. The first time I left the box to
be arrested, the second time to be led back to the house of detention, the
third time to pass into a prison for two years. Society, as we have
constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature,
whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the
rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep
undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad
in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so
that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters,
and with bitter herbs make me whole." end quote from De profundis by Oscar