Visions of Gaia, pg4
The present date is 2/6/2013, some 12 years after the experiences of 'Gaia 1', and in fact close to 50 years after the experience of 'Adolescent Rainstorm'. I have been re-reading the 'Shamanism' section, which describes the 'music festival' experience. Slowly it has seemed to me that each of these 'Visions of Gaia' can be considered encounters with 'Spirit of Place'.
As I sit at my keyboard, 'looking' at my then-self experiencing what I have described, I reach out through time to touch the experience, to ask the questions of evanescence versus timelessness, local specificity versus resonance. It is like trying to catch Schroedinger's cat. Here is part of the 'Music Festival' reproduced so you don't have to go hunting for it.
'...On the second night, after the scheduled music, there were various jam sessions. It was during one of these that I became aware of what I can only describe as ‘The Watcher at the Gates’. (No, it wasn’t the cops..) Sometimes, depending on the intoxicant, I have felt self-conscious or paranoid. In this case, it wasn’t me, it was an entire field of people in a mutual experience. And somehow, I felt the eyes of The Watcher. I could almost feel the eyes open, as I faced the swamp beyond the apple trees at the edge of the field. It wasn’t malignant or frightening, but it was very ‘big’ and a marked presence. It took me several days of re-visiting the experience in my mind before the words ‘Watcher at the Gate’ came into my mind. I went looking for the reference.
On 9/10/2001, I was in the Catskills, and I had visited a museum which had a temporary exhibit of the works of Arthur B. Davies. He had a painting entitled ‘Dweller on the threshold’, and I had remembered enough of the title to look there, but that wasn’t it. Actually his work ‘Hosanna of the Mountains’ does capture the feeling a bit.
Then I checked the Internet, and found reference to ‘The Watcher at the Gates’ as either being an internal censor, or being the internal standard which a writer feels as he or she critiques his/her work. It had a bit of that flavor as well, and yet I would swear it was not internal to me.
Another piece which carries a very strong sense of this is the story ‘Piper at the Gates of Dawn’, which was one of the chapters in the child’s book ‘The Wind in the Willows’ by Kenneth Grahame. This, I think comes closer to it. (For online text, seehttp://www.cleavebooks.co.uk/grol/index.htm , well worth a read. .)
Several weeks later, I bought some books to read in my studies of comparative spirituality; ‘Walkers Between the Worlds’, ‘Between the Gates’, and ‘Ecoshamanism. I had actually gone after ‘Between the Gates’ as a guide to lucid dreaming, and I happened on the others.
The description I quote is toward the end of ‘Ecoshamanism’ by James Endredy’. He was discussing ‘Initiation with the living spirits of place.’
He writes,
‘…it may be that the spirit of a place doesn’t reveal itself to you for many days, months, years, or maybe not ever.
But when you find it you will know, It will touch you and you will be changed. You feel it aware of you and watching you. And like a wild animal that stops and stares at you, wondering what you are doing, your next move will determine the spirit’s response. Since you are a human being, the spirit will want to know what your intentions are- whose side you are on.’
This is so exact a description of the experience that my hair stood up. How likely is it, that I should have had this experience, gone looking for a reference on another subject, bought ‘by chance’ another book, and found what I was looking for in that book?' Wikipedia has a write up on 'Spirit of Place';
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spirit_of_place
*********************************************************************************************************
In the process of doing research for 'Learn everything you can', I was trying to retrieve the name of the forester who drew up our most recent forestry plan. Our initial plan had been drawn up by Everett Towle, but he retired. Our current forester is in fact Gordon Stuart, but I had temporarily forgotten his name. So I was poking around, and came on a 1958, typewritten copy of 'The Maine Forester'. It happened that, in that edition, there was a piece of writing by a John Lindsay. I attach it here, as it seems another description of that which I love, but through other eyes. I have been unable to locate Mr. Lindsay to ask for his permission to reproduce this work, so herewith give him credit for it.
'The Forest'
'Was it the scattered sunlight through a host of pines in the forest?
Was it the fragrance of these ladies dressed in their full green garb with their radiant heads far above the ground, their massive statures standing on a soft blanket of pine needles of their own making? Was it the brook rolling along the mountain side with maple leaves cooling themselves in its face? Just what was it that drew my whole attention to the life of the forest and nature's most beautiful structure, the tree?
To study the tree and all her brethren, to restore and control the forests is the nature of the work I know that God has intended for me.
To help the forest out of her dangers, to keep her good, clean, rich, and healthy is my work.
I must confess that it is the natural beauty of the forest that draws me to her. I am in a state of ecstasy in her beautiful halls and corridors.
In her midst, I am brought closer to the One who made her. She is the holder of rich treasures in woods and minerals. Her streams and brooks are the means of many a relaxing hour for men who have the fishing urge. The animals and birds of her vast realm supply food and sport for many good people.
How can I resist the call of such beautiful things?-hawks circling far over a mountain top, the call of a bear and his mate, partridges drumming through the apple groves, rabbits and foxes scurrying underfoot, a mighty stag's reflection in a crystal clear pool, the surface of the pool disturbed by the snapping of a rainbow trout after supper at dusk the cry of the screech owl, the lonely calm, the stillness of the evening hours. The beautiful sunset adorning the mountain range merging into a clear blue sky, the crisp, clean, cool air filling the lungs at every breath.
Could these be some of the reasons that impel me to a life in the woods?
I must study her. I must learn her. I must live with her. Only then will my heart be able to rest. She is my life. She is my desire. She will be my lady - she is THE FOREST.'
'John Lindsay'
Given the differences in style and narrative form, you can nonetheless see the mother, and her pull on this gentleman who was drawn to be a forester. I hope he did well.
As I sit at my keyboard, 'looking' at my then-self experiencing what I have described, I reach out through time to touch the experience, to ask the questions of evanescence versus timelessness, local specificity versus resonance. It is like trying to catch Schroedinger's cat. Here is part of the 'Music Festival' reproduced so you don't have to go hunting for it.
'...On the second night, after the scheduled music, there were various jam sessions. It was during one of these that I became aware of what I can only describe as ‘The Watcher at the Gates’. (No, it wasn’t the cops..) Sometimes, depending on the intoxicant, I have felt self-conscious or paranoid. In this case, it wasn’t me, it was an entire field of people in a mutual experience. And somehow, I felt the eyes of The Watcher. I could almost feel the eyes open, as I faced the swamp beyond the apple trees at the edge of the field. It wasn’t malignant or frightening, but it was very ‘big’ and a marked presence. It took me several days of re-visiting the experience in my mind before the words ‘Watcher at the Gate’ came into my mind. I went looking for the reference.
On 9/10/2001, I was in the Catskills, and I had visited a museum which had a temporary exhibit of the works of Arthur B. Davies. He had a painting entitled ‘Dweller on the threshold’, and I had remembered enough of the title to look there, but that wasn’t it. Actually his work ‘Hosanna of the Mountains’ does capture the feeling a bit.
Then I checked the Internet, and found reference to ‘The Watcher at the Gates’ as either being an internal censor, or being the internal standard which a writer feels as he or she critiques his/her work. It had a bit of that flavor as well, and yet I would swear it was not internal to me.
Another piece which carries a very strong sense of this is the story ‘Piper at the Gates of Dawn’, which was one of the chapters in the child’s book ‘The Wind in the Willows’ by Kenneth Grahame. This, I think comes closer to it. (For online text, seehttp://www.cleavebooks.co.uk/grol/index.htm , well worth a read. .)
Several weeks later, I bought some books to read in my studies of comparative spirituality; ‘Walkers Between the Worlds’, ‘Between the Gates’, and ‘Ecoshamanism. I had actually gone after ‘Between the Gates’ as a guide to lucid dreaming, and I happened on the others.
The description I quote is toward the end of ‘Ecoshamanism’ by James Endredy’. He was discussing ‘Initiation with the living spirits of place.’
He writes,
‘…it may be that the spirit of a place doesn’t reveal itself to you for many days, months, years, or maybe not ever.
But when you find it you will know, It will touch you and you will be changed. You feel it aware of you and watching you. And like a wild animal that stops and stares at you, wondering what you are doing, your next move will determine the spirit’s response. Since you are a human being, the spirit will want to know what your intentions are- whose side you are on.’
This is so exact a description of the experience that my hair stood up. How likely is it, that I should have had this experience, gone looking for a reference on another subject, bought ‘by chance’ another book, and found what I was looking for in that book?' Wikipedia has a write up on 'Spirit of Place';
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spirit_of_place
*********************************************************************************************************
In the process of doing research for 'Learn everything you can', I was trying to retrieve the name of the forester who drew up our most recent forestry plan. Our initial plan had been drawn up by Everett Towle, but he retired. Our current forester is in fact Gordon Stuart, but I had temporarily forgotten his name. So I was poking around, and came on a 1958, typewritten copy of 'The Maine Forester'. It happened that, in that edition, there was a piece of writing by a John Lindsay. I attach it here, as it seems another description of that which I love, but through other eyes. I have been unable to locate Mr. Lindsay to ask for his permission to reproduce this work, so herewith give him credit for it.
'The Forest'
'Was it the scattered sunlight through a host of pines in the forest?
Was it the fragrance of these ladies dressed in their full green garb with their radiant heads far above the ground, their massive statures standing on a soft blanket of pine needles of their own making? Was it the brook rolling along the mountain side with maple leaves cooling themselves in its face? Just what was it that drew my whole attention to the life of the forest and nature's most beautiful structure, the tree?
To study the tree and all her brethren, to restore and control the forests is the nature of the work I know that God has intended for me.
To help the forest out of her dangers, to keep her good, clean, rich, and healthy is my work.
I must confess that it is the natural beauty of the forest that draws me to her. I am in a state of ecstasy in her beautiful halls and corridors.
In her midst, I am brought closer to the One who made her. She is the holder of rich treasures in woods and minerals. Her streams and brooks are the means of many a relaxing hour for men who have the fishing urge. The animals and birds of her vast realm supply food and sport for many good people.
How can I resist the call of such beautiful things?-hawks circling far over a mountain top, the call of a bear and his mate, partridges drumming through the apple groves, rabbits and foxes scurrying underfoot, a mighty stag's reflection in a crystal clear pool, the surface of the pool disturbed by the snapping of a rainbow trout after supper at dusk the cry of the screech owl, the lonely calm, the stillness of the evening hours. The beautiful sunset adorning the mountain range merging into a clear blue sky, the crisp, clean, cool air filling the lungs at every breath.
Could these be some of the reasons that impel me to a life in the woods?
I must study her. I must learn her. I must live with her. Only then will my heart be able to rest. She is my life. She is my desire. She will be my lady - she is THE FOREST.'
'John Lindsay'
Given the differences in style and narrative form, you can nonetheless see the mother, and her pull on this gentleman who was drawn to be a forester. I hope he did well.
5 10 2019
Rainy day. After chores, a breakfast break. Started by reading a piece on water levels and imminent flooding of the Great Lakes.
Branched out to articles on the geology and formation of the lakes.
Fell asleep to the drumming of the rain.
Woke up and started typing.
*****************************************************************************************************************************
Epitaph?
*****************************************************************************************************************************
Scatter me into dust
and send me on the wind
when it is my time;
So I can fly to the furthest mountains,
the highest peaks,
the deepest oceans;
So I can touch my beloved
skin to skin,
heart to heart;
So I can mingle myself,
the ultimate bits of my being,
with that which is there.
Mountains form
and turn to dust,
oceans rise and fall;
Star-stuff falls
through atmosphere,
Sun rays work their magic;
Plant and animal kingdoms
rise to power,
then fall in their turn;
Wind roars,
volcanoes blast,
earth, air, fire and water dance.
Power beyond power.
Dust thou art,
to dust thou shalt return,
in a wild ride.
******************************************************************************************************
Hmmm..
Rainy day. After chores, a breakfast break. Started by reading a piece on water levels and imminent flooding of the Great Lakes.
Branched out to articles on the geology and formation of the lakes.
Fell asleep to the drumming of the rain.
Woke up and started typing.
*****************************************************************************************************************************
Epitaph?
*****************************************************************************************************************************
Scatter me into dust
and send me on the wind
when it is my time;
So I can fly to the furthest mountains,
the highest peaks,
the deepest oceans;
So I can touch my beloved
skin to skin,
heart to heart;
So I can mingle myself,
the ultimate bits of my being,
with that which is there.
Mountains form
and turn to dust,
oceans rise and fall;
Star-stuff falls
through atmosphere,
Sun rays work their magic;
Plant and animal kingdoms
rise to power,
then fall in their turn;
Wind roars,
volcanoes blast,
earth, air, fire and water dance.
Power beyond power.
Dust thou art,
to dust thou shalt return,
in a wild ride.
******************************************************************************************************
Hmmm..