By Mark Whitlock
“Still this chaotic mind bucks like a wild horse doing its best to beat my good heart beyond repair.”
Strange lives in search of things we don’t understand. Taking refuge in one another. Nervous creatures. Vain and scared. How many cycles of birth and rebirth must we suffer like this?
There was an old moon I had heard of. Large and watery. Gods tear that hung as a mirror in the sky. It was there that the elders went to catch their reflection. Legend said that the moon moved through them cooling the embers of raging fires that had burned for an eternity. After which the internal conflicts that had ruled within them faded and soon the outer so followed. Peace and contentment reigned for an eon. For so long, no one remembered where that moon could be found. I searched for it on the oceans and in the deserts. On the plateaus and in the ravines, but it never showed.
Still this chaotic mind bucks like a wild horse doing its best to beat my good heart beyond repair. If I could quieten it for just a little more than a moment, I would like to feel a pristine sense of peace. Pure love that the poets spoke of. A holy moment to rise up and wipe away all others with its majesty. But alas, I am still a pauper in spirit. Raising my gaze only to see if you know what I am thinking. I need not worry. You only ever think of yourself.
Let us hold each other, as we do. Like strangers in need. For God does not cry a tear for us tonight and the darkness now descends like heavy smoke.
Tomorrow we shall search again.
Photo courtesy of Creative Commons - Fraser Mummery – The Coming Moon
By Mark Whitlock
“Silence is not silence truly, but a comparative quiet from whatever preceded.”
Our image in a pond, slowly dismantled by a family of geese sailing two by two reminds us of water as the great reflector binding together sky and earth, day and night. Bruised aspects of our past interior give way to the illusion of life and the joy of inevitability in the coming and going of all things. It is in this moment that we can let go of past hurts that have caught us in negative cycles. The need to crystallise old memories, so they may become triggers for our mental traps evaporates as quickly as our reflection. For it is under the fear of permanence, that the ego lays down its wining hand and as ripples in a pond uncreate this fixed image of ourself, so the spell is no longer and the hand no more a compelling one.
The sound of cars driving by the house. We can hear their size, measure their weight in sound. We can judge their speed, by the pitch of rain water compressed under their tires. The hum of the engine. The start, middle and end of its journey through the mind tells a story. How the driver changes gears. The erratic rush of their heart beat, or a calm frequency of thought in a slow climb up and up, followed by a down shift without complaint. Cars disappear into the past and the future and leave a residue in silence. Silence is not silence truly, but a comparative quiet from whatever preceded. Thus it is made of two adjoining parts that can only be measured against each other. The intensity of the former equals the release of the latter. Character as we understand is thus created. A combination of all things observed through driver, vehicle, weather, distance and time. All past experience brought to bare on the moment. To judge its feel. To be the writer of its story.
A runner on a track. Our weight shifting through the mid point like Newtons Cradle. Bone on muscle, on skin, on cotton, on leather, on rubber and on dusty road. Shifting through time and space with ease and grace. A cacophony of mind, spirit, biology and the universal laws of physics, forging together to make a peek in the experiential blanket. To truly excel one must transcend the average list making and become the list. The untold amount of decisions are distilled into the moment. Here we become a thing of beauty, for vanity cannot exist. Our false conceptions, pains and deluded self image must be put aside if we are to continue to run and run. Our lungs process all they can. Our legs fly as quick as they dare. We know somewhere within us, that soon this moment must give way. For the harder and longer we fly the sweeter the release when we die. As the one is always born from the other.
Photo courtesy of Creative Commons - Alice Popkorn – Peace
By Mark Whitlock
“Before the call to capture the past into the present.”
I recall a time when the love we felt was not processed by the endless filters of longing and protection. A time of emotional clarity, naked and safe in mothers arms. An age before vanity had worked its way in. Before the call to capture the past into the present. To validate and legitimise. To digitise. To reconfigure.
Let’s go back for a moment. To the end of the garden, where the damp wooden fence lulled us and Earth’s fairy tale, hidden under weeds, became the place we called our own. A dream scape, real, though infused with luminous visions. It was there that Rome was built in a day, Custer made his last stand and great Olympians bowed before us. All this before the sun had soaked up the last of mornings dew and the sounds and smells of the kitchen had crept into our stories and made us think of our belly’s. Could we return again, to our secret place? And if we did, would we find anything worthy to record?
Photo courtesy of Creative Commons - @doug8888 – Secret Garden
By Mark Whitlock
“Wave upon endless wave.”
Kaleidoscopic eyes, forged in constellations of natural light, bore down from the long-tail forcing me towards shore.
They must have been brothers for they wore the same knowledge of mysterious currents and secret passages in their presence. Long thick black hair made from one mother. Eerie frames as still as stone, hypnotic eyes set on me, rising and falling with the tide.
Any recollection of departure was a distant birth, for the ceaseless turning of the sun and the stars had dissolved all horizons. Wave upon endless wave.
I waded thin and fevered through the warm salty water up onto the beach, as that fat old sun banged like a gong bleaching my vision. Turning back to see the boat men one last time, their golden gaze fixed on me. Measuring my movements for their true meaning. Secret keepers. Always watching. Always silent.
The beach took on the form of another from my youth. Two small dogs rolled like tumble-weed. Discarded memories returned from the deep. Lost thoughts of family turned into dreams, of old friends and old flames. We sat together for a while. Knowing. Tranquil. Without a scar.
The sound of the surf taking me deeper and deeper.
Photo courtesy of creative commons – Trish Hartman
By Mark Whitlock
“The simplicity of Grace magnifies the miniature. The ladybird and the due drop, inviting great giants to kneel before them.”
The simplicity of Grace undoes the gravity of weighty thoughts and worrisome hearts, illuminating discordance till tempo is lifted. In her natural pause as still as snow and unmarked by a false refrain, there the unmelodic are laid bare, but only unto themselves. For Grace has no truck with point making, just enough to bring us back into the lap where we were made, then her work is done. The echo of this lightest touch left hanging fluidly in tune with the melody of day.
The simplicity of Grace works her way through the disconnected. As the idea of ‘I’ is replaced in the moment. Bewildering all who pull back, left alone in our poverty of pettiness Grace tempts us forward. For Grace is not she that does not inspire and show all that witness how life is indeed a song to find. This poise revealed in the harmonics of space and living things. We must only join the band, find our moment to play and our moment to rest. Assured that we are always and ever part of her company.
The simplicity of Grace magnifies the miniature. The ladybird and the due drop, inviting great giants to kneel before them. For in this capture lies the seed of our perfection. The timeless path we lost for so long, right here beneath us. Once again we can start our cycle of revelation. How long may we stay in her balance this time? For we are always welcome. Always, so truly lost when we are gone.
Photo courtesy of creative commons – Sandy Noble – Grace Kelly in spirals
By Sri Aurobindo
“God, Light, Freedom, Immortality.”
“THE EARLIEST preoccupation of man in his awakened thoughts and, as it seems, his inevitable and ultimate preoccupation,—for it survives the longest periods of scepticism and returns after every banishment,—is also the highest which his thought can envisage. It manifests itself in the divination of Godhead, the impulse towards perfection, the search after pure Truth and unmixed Bliss, the sense of a secret immortality. The ancient dawns of human knowledge have left us their witness to this constant aspiration; today we see a humanity satiated but not satisfied by victorious analysis of the externalities of Nature preparing to return to its primeval longings. The earliest formula of Wisdom promises to be its last, —God, Light, Freedom, Immortality.”
Sri Aurobindo – The Life Divine
Photo courtesy of creative commons - Elisa Greco – The Vanishing Mind