Light on the Page

The concept of freedom is very largely misunderstood. All too often it’s forced into its opposite, which is a form of imprisonment. We understand freedom to be the absence of constraint, the lack of an external will imposing itself on you. Hence national freedom, hence the freedom of expression. Why is it these things tend to erupt into their opposite – the French Revolution, the Russian Revolution, even the so-called freedom of the press, which degenerates into falsehoods so easily? The answer is that freedom is not the absence or the lack of anything at all. Rather it’s the prize gained by the self when it rises through its past, its history, its successes and failures, and gradually transforms itself to act independently of these things. A prize in this sense is a very different thing from a concept existing in a void.

Sleep is the condition which dissolves, which ‘forgives’ your actions of the day. But it does not set you free. Day itself demands that you make adjustment for your deeds. In a larger sense we might say that death dissolves your deeds but does not make recompense for them. Can I, then, completely out of myself, as the master of my own resolve, create an hour of freedom in the day, where my past defeats and failures won’t condition what I do?

Exactly what it is I have to make recompense for might elude me. Night holds that secret. But day remembers with its open arms, in the sense that it leads and guides me to what I have to do. My old mistakes may lay down their burden if I can choose to be what I can be – an evolving being awakening to independent action. Then all that remains is to glance at them with a backwards frown and set the power of nature in me free.

Revolve

And sleep forgives but will not set you free,

for that the day demands its recompense.

The night dissolves your every history,

but waking urges you to sight and sense.

Can I be master of my own resolve,

to make an hour of freedom in the day,

where past defeats and failures can’t revolve

or darken what I choose to think or say?

Power of Nature

Where I have come from only night can say,

but day remembers with its open arms.

And though I ponder deeply on the way,

the road will not reveal its hidden charms.

My old mistakes may lay their burden down

if I can choose to be what I can be

and glancing at them with a backwards frown

I’ll set the power of nature in me free.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved

Talking to the dead is always of great value – mainly because they’re not. They are members of another life, they’ve been born into it, and they live there as truly as we live here. So what is the question at stake? It’s whether or not life is worthy and what is the relationship of that worth to the eternal. Our life on earth is one of borrowed light. It has many faces made up of hours and days. The faces of those who belong to the other life are climbing away from that. For them the earth has passed its hour of worth. It has no more value for them, in terms of what they themselves can do – for the time being at least. So what can I give them – I who have been left behind? I can give them the now, but more especially the eternal in it – because that, in reality, is where they reside. Did they know, during their life on earth, that all those hours and minutes we have at our disposal are really faces of the eternal? Perhaps they did, perhaps not. But we can tell them. We can tell them that we know they live in everything we have that has been borrowed from the eternal. They need to hear this and we need to tell them what we know. Otherwise our life has no worth. And what will I hear back from them? I will hear, faintly, their praise of what is worthy in the hour of light at dawn, when I may allow the eternal to pour into my day.

What makes us grieve for those who’ve gone is really the loss of the eternal, which they are part of now. If we still retained our true sense of the eternal, which was once our birthright, we would feel no separation. If we could only lose the power that minutes hold over us we’d plunge into duration anyhow. Then who would be left to grieve but time itself? And we who have stayed behind on earth would find our natural rhyme in those voices rising through the light again.

We wrestle so much with weariness and loss of faith while in fact the non-earthly – the realm of the ‘dead’ – glows its way through night. The shapes and thoughts within it may seem like wraiths to us when in truth they shine radiantly. And how do they regard my faintness? Do I seem like a ghost to them in my doubting and my absence of belief? Or will my best thoughts appear like a shining coast to them which will guide them through all the earthly dark and strife?

Dawn

The borrowed light we live on for a time

has many faces, hours and days of earth.

The faces in the other life will climb

away from what has passed its hour of worth.

To honour the eternal all my days

is all I have to give to those who’ve gone.

But I will always listen for their praise

of what is worth the hour of light at dawn.

Voices

The loss of the eternal makes us grieve

for those who’ve gone, who are eternal now.

But if we’d only let the minutes leave,

we’d plunge into duration anyhow.

Then who is left to grieve but empty time

who has no fingers fretting at his chain?

For those who’ve stayed behind have found their rhyme

in voices rising through the light again.

Strife

We fight with weariness and loss of faith

while the unearthly glows its way through night

and every shape and thought becomes a wraith

where radiantly shine the forms of light.

And do they view my faintness like a ghost,

my friends who’ve gone before me out of life?

Or will the best thoughts in me be a coast

that shines for them through earthly dark and strife?

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved

The perennial question about life after death is why the dead don’t try to communicate with us. A great deal of sadness attaches itself to this question. It is about closed doors, a loss of opportunity. But are we really listening? Do we hear the single voice rising above the crowd? Do we allow the silence to speak its mind? If we did we might notice it’s telling us about our own lives. Essentially it’s telling us that to live is still a choice. This might seem strange coming from the dead who, apparently, had no choice, but then who is in a better position to see that the chances and opportunities life offers are absolutely unique? No two people have the same chances. It is simply the opposite of being part of the crowd. And who is better placed to see that to miss those opportunities implies a lack of listening or seeing? The dead no longer have the choice, but they might well ask the question, why don’t we communicate with them, who have so much to say? Perhaps it’s because their words fall on deaf ears. Perhaps it’s because to raise yourself to listening means to accept the choices of life. It’s so easy to be misunderstood.

And really the dead need so little to express their love. The light of a flower is enough. And I in turn only need the power to speak with the silence poured from above. Our inner being defies such adjectives as dead or alive – it lives as one with both the seen and the unseen. Joined in the light and the silence we are able to speak with a voice that has always been there.

The Voice

Above the crowd I hear a single voice

and listen as the silence speaks its mind.

It tells me that to live is still a choice,

to take the chances no one else can find.

And no one but the dead can understand

the choice I make in talking to you now,

who may not see the world can be spanned

by silence and the voice which taught it how.

Joined

No more light than there is in a flower,

is all the dead need to express their love.

And I in turn only need the power

to speak with the silence poured from above.

Our being is neither dead nor alive

but lives as one with the seen and unseen.

Joined in the light and the silence we thrive

and speak with a voice that always has been.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved

There are many things which are right-sounding, which give the appearance of truth, which you can’t help acknowledging as correct. The world trades on these things and, in spiritual circles at least, they gain their devoted followers. And yet there is too much which, despite its apparent truth, leaves you frustrated and confused, which makes you feel you have no further path to follow. And there is much which is actively, deliberately deceptive. So much for the right-seeming.

At the same time, however, there is a deep baptismal river which flows past us the whole time. It acknowledges the cold sky above, the meaningless light the world tries to thrust on us, and the clay on our soles which is the inevitable result of life on earth. Step into that river just once and there is a sudden song – a piercing small voice inside which says, ‘I am here with you in body and in soul’. This is the voice to look for, the one which stands over and against the noise and flux of the world’s ‘truth’. It is a small voice but the world will never know how much truth it contains. It will never know how those who have found it, who are alone, can hear so much in the silent ether, which no sound breaks. The sky and the light and the clay gain a new life from this.

Are we alone? If all the people in the world said at once, ‘I am alone,’ the bare sound of it would not make us together. But something in the light which is our real home will carry our calling back to a single source. No matter if we live or if we die then, we will all hold converse in one ringing baptism – what is alone is at one with the all, what is apart finds its way to the one.

You may say, that’s all very well but where can I find this baptismal river? The only possible answer is that the river lies in the seeking. Look beyond the world’s noise and the right-seeming, and you will find it. And the baptist? He will be there too.

Baptism

The deep baptismal river, the cold sky,

meaningless light, clay on the soles, and then –

sudden song, a piercing small voice inside:

I am here with you in body and soul.

Not now, not ever, will the world know

how we who are alone can hear so much

in the silent ether which no sound breaks,

how the sky and light and clay gain a life.

One

If we all say at once we are alone,

the bare sound will not make us together,

but something in the light which houses us

will bear our calling to a single source.

No matter if we live or if we die,

we hold converse in a ringing baptism:

what is alone is at one with the all,

what is apart finds its way to the one.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved

There is a joy in being together, alone. To know yourself as a single voice, crying, as it were, in the wilderness, with the millions of stars above you. And yet to know you will hear and be heard by all those who experience the same thing, from the realm of the living or the realm of the dead. I know that we are all there together, that we step into the same water, that our heads will rise into the sky above the sky. I know that all of us whose voices rise in this way will go together or not at all, into the light we have made by standing alone.

Therefore we are the many who are the only. We are the listeners in solitude who hear the quality of light which shines, so to speak, in our baptismal river. We find our singleness in this water, and are together. The great world, with all its tumbling waters, is our progenitor. We claim descent from it, our eyes and ears are born from it, for it. But the small voice inside is the limitless one, which joins our many solitudes in its single vastness!

Alone

I joy to be one in the wilderness,

in solitude, with you, and you, and you.

To raise our voice in the millions of stars

and only be heard by each other.

Let our feet step into the same water,

our heads rise in the sky above the sky –

we will go together or not at all,

to the light made by standing alone.

Solitude

We are the many who are the only,

we are the listeners in solitude

whose ear discerns the quality of light

shining in our first baptismal river.

How great is the world, its tumbling waters,

from which we claim descent, our eyes and ears!

How small is the limitless voice inside,

which joins our many solitudes as one!

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved