Light on the Page

We’re all technicians in life’s laboratory today. We know how things work. We can spot the best deal, move our funds around online, manipulate the market. Hedge funds operate like a plague of locusts, stripping resources internationally and moving on. We have the systems at our fingertips, the nuts and bolts. And then, within that, I stop and ask myself, ‘Am I understood? Do I understand you?’ Well, I understand how things work, to be sure, but do you, at your computer terminal, know what makes me a complete person? Do I know you?

I feel understood if something shines on me, a light which illuminates. But I’m only as good as that light, as warm as the sun, if I shine back on it – if things will grow and turn because of me. A true light will never need to teach or prove its expertise. It is content to hide itself in the earth, find the seeds which have died there, and let them be true again. If I love those seeds I can lead them back to the sun, just as I have been led and freed to the light.

In the mere show of truth, in the pride of faith, I will only conceal my heart and lose my way. Let me turn away from the praise of good things and read, instead, my own name, where it is written in the book of lives. There it rests without any aspiration, without clamour. It will be, to the nature of things, light. It is ancient in itself, deep in syllables, remembering where truth and faith were at the beginning.

All our skill in life’s laboratory will not help us find the essential. However much we shift things around we will not be able to invent what really matters. I can – and I have – spent many hours and days trying to do that. Guilt is the consequence because there are not enough hours in the day to create the essential out of its pieces. But show them your being, your heart in its wholeness, and the words will work, the things will inspire. Then the days will know what they were made for and every hour will learn it is enough.

Freed

If something shines on me let me shine back

on it – I’m only as warm as the sun

when things will grow and turn because of me.

My light will never need to teach or prove

but only to hide itself in the earth

where seeds have died and will grow true again.

Those seeds I will love and lead to the sun

as I have been led and freed to the light.

Syllables

In the show of truth, in the pride of faith,

I have hidden my heart and lost my way –

let me turn from the praise of all good things,

and read, in the book of lives, my own name.

There, where it rests without aspiration,

it will be, to the nature of things, light –

an ancient name, deep in its syllables,

remembering where truth and faith began.

Enough

Can you, in small words, paint the essential?

Can you invent it out of many things?

I could count the hours and days spent trying,

and name the guilt that those days weren’t enough.

But show them your being, your heart in whole,

and the words will work, the things will inspire.

Then the days will know what they were made for

and every hour will learn it is enough.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved

Freedom isn’t a right. It’s a gift, an act of grace. Its secret lies in the past. It lies in bringing the past to book, holding it to account. The past has its own music. In order to listen to it you have to set free the elements in it that still rule you. Not to release yourself from them but to set them free. Freedom is a gift – you cannot take it. Set those elements free and what is finest in you will be able to take its place as the center of your life – a gentle center. Not one resolve will pass without its nod and it will give its blessing to what lives in the present, for the future. What belongs to the past can stand and be judged – I’ll bear my gift of freedom with me along the road which gives.

The greatest certainty I have is that I am. My past remains as proof of this. No object in the world can be weighed against that self. Likewise nothing made of sense can understand the path this self has to follow just to be. Least of all is the world able to say anything about how the great invisible lends its light to the traveller.

Real Freedom lies neglected, without its wings. An imposter flies in its place and screams its own name where the heart of Freedom itself softly sings and longs for liberation. Who will hear that voice through all the surrounding noise? Only the one who’s come through pain to inner balance, the self who’s gained the right to speak It’s name.

Gives

Whatever else still rules me I’ll set free

to listen to the music of the past,

but what is finest in me wants to be

the gentle center of my life at last.

Not one resolve will pass without its nod

and it will give its blessing to what lives.

So let the travelled stand before its God,

I’ll take my gift along the road which gives.

Traveller

The single certainty is that I am,

and what I’ve been remains as proof to tell.

No object in the world can hold a gram

against that weight the self can measure well.

But nothing made of sense can comprehend

the path this being must travel just to be

or how the great invisible can lend

its light to let the traveller roam free.

Freedom

But Freedom lies neglected, without wings,

while round the world Its dull imposter flies

and screams its name where Its heart softly sings

and longs for liberation of the skies.

Will someone hear that voice through all the noise

and bow before its low imperative?

The one who comes through pain to inner poise,

the self who’s gained the right to let It live.

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