July 29, 2009
June 24, 2009
June 23, 2009
June 22, 2009
January 22, 2009
October 14, 2008
A Spiritual Jigsaw Puzzle
Do you like jigsaw puzzles?
Maybe I'm wrong, but there seem to be less jigsaw puzzles in the shops than when I was a boy. I can remember going through a phase when I kept getting puzzles with more and more pieces - and then, just to make things more difficult - turning the pieces upside down and putting the whole thing together sight unseen.
Of course, there's nothing worse than a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing, or one that doesn't quite seem to fit...
Piece 1. ~ The Spirit Guide
I don't like flying. Actually I love it when the plane has taken off and I'm in the air (did you discover that you could control your flight direction in my last blog post). It's just that I feel so out of control. I know that statistically it is the safest form of travel - but I still have a feeling of foreboding for days before a flight.
We were due to fly over to Killarney and I was starting to get my pre-flight nerves, so it came as some consolation to hear the spiritual medium at church, tell me that the spirit of a man, a "known" man was going to help me. The medium couldn't tell me who he was, or had been when he was alive, but she did say that he looked very much like me. I thought at once about George Bernard Shaw and also James Joyce. But I wasn't at all convinced...
Piece 2. ~ Ann and David
...Later we were all having our usual cup of tea, when Ann, a member of the congregation, asked me if I would read something at a dedication service she and the Rev. Eileen were arranging for her son David who had died at the age of nineteen, eight years previously. Ann explained that David had been beaten to death at the roadside. What a terrible thing for a mother to endure; her only son murdered, leaving her with her memories and grief. Ann explained that David had been a bit of a tearaway, but with “a heart of gold and a wonderful smile.” As Ann continued, her love for David poured out of her. She was planning the service to reassure him that he could ‘go on’ and that she wanted him to understand that she could cope with the rest of her earthly life.
“I don’t want him to worry anymore. He will have lots to do and I want him to feel that he can go and get on with his own destiny and not hang around, worrying about me.”
Piece 3. Death and Danger
I drove the Rev. Eileen home and as we approached her front door, a group of teenagers were picking on a young boy. The boy, who must have been around David’s age, looked frightened and their violence made me think that David’s fate was about to be re-enacted right in front of us. Fortunately the group dispersed -, but death can come so quickly.
Once inside, we sat down with a cup of tea, silently observed by a small group of Irish figurines on the mantelpiece. “They really live” said Eileen. Eight pairs of twinkling eyes looked back. I was due to go to Ireland in a week and I felt uneasy about the flight. “Keep me safe in Killarney” I thought.
Piece 4. The Poem
I then told Eileen about my conversation with Ann. Suddenly prompted by the sight of the Irish figurines, I realized that I would not be able to read at the service because I would be in Killarney on that day. Eileen looked disappointed. We sat in silence for a little while, and then I heard myself say “I could write a poem for her.” Eileen smiled.
Piece 5. The Vision
So the matter was settled, although I had no idea what I would write. I did however; relate to Eileen a visual hallucination that had happened to me a couple of nights previously, which in want for a better term, I could only describe as a ‘Vision’. Up to then I had always viewed the term ‘Vision’ as a rather biblical and romantic way of describing the output of a vivid imagination. This was mainly because I had not had one. I now know that a vision, once received, is unmistakable and cannot be confused with a normal visual-mental image, or a dream. This particular vision turned out to relate directly to Ann and David, although that was not clear to me then, as Eileen and I sat with her husband Ken, who had pottered downstairs to join us:
I was lying in bed, when the normal pattern of shapes, colours and stars that I (and possibly everyone else) see projected onto the back of my eyelids, slowly gained depth. I seemed to be floating in outer space and gazing at the infinity of the universe. The image was so real that I became a little frightened, but at the same time, intrigued at what might happen. I found could still wriggle my fingers and toes and therefore I assumed I was not dreaming - in any case it all seemed so real.
Then the infinity of stars dissolved and I found myself floating through a passage, toward a sunlit garden in the grounds of a beautiful mansion. The colours were unbelievable, like nothing I had seen before. Although I find it hard to believe in a heaven of gardens, flowers and mansions, I was sure that if such a heaven existed, I was indeed seeing it. At this point I was so enthralled with what I was seeing and so aware that I was not controlling the vision as in my normal imagination, that I opened my eyes and found I was simply lying on my bed in my dimly lit room. I was delighted to find that when I closed my eyes again, the vision was still there.
Then around the corner of the passage, came a black and white dog. The dog looked at me intently and then slowly the vision of the garden, the mansion, the “guardian” dog and the wonderful colours faded back into the starlit universe, which itself became again the patterns behind my eyelids.
Piece 6. ~ The Poet
The next day I woke with a favourite line from a poem by Dylan Thomas, running through my head:
“the ball I threw whilst playing in the park has not yet reached the ground”
Dylan Thomas was the first poet I had encountered when I was around sixteen years of age, and the line that repeated again and again in my mind as I made my morning coffee came from “Should Lanterns Shine.” David had experienced such a short life and the idea that the ball was still flying through the air, seemed to underline this. Sipping my coffee, I considered that sending Dylan’s poem to Ann might be sufficient.
Piece 7. ~ A Poem for David
It was at this point that the poem I was to eventually write that day, started to form - seemingly of its own accord. We were opening at the Grand Theatre in Wolverhampton that evening and as I drove to the venue, thoughts words and phrases bounced through my head. Ann wanted something “young” to read; David had died eight years ago, so in a sense he had been re-born into the spirit realm at the moment of his death. Ann wanted David to “go on” and learn. Thoughts of my own first day at school and how I wanted to go home for tea and cuddles and how excited I was to see my mother waiting for me at the school gates replayed in my head. The thoughts and images kept coming during the sound-check and the preparatory staging for the evening’s opening night and I became more and more impatient to get the poem down on paper.
Eventually all the pre-show preparations were complete and I was able to go across the road from the stage door, to the local “Naff-Caff” a fantastic and dying English tradition, where steak-pie, lamb chops, egg chips and beans and the like, can be obtained for under a fiver, including a slice of bread and butter and a large cup of tea (so much better and cheaper than double burger “Whoppers” “Tortilla Wraps” and the rest of the new generation of fast food plastic digestive nightmares that are overtaking our simple and surprisingly nutritious – but totally un-trendy private enterprises.
After sausage egg and chips and still drinking my tea, I wrote David’s poem down in one rapid burst. The words came through me as if from somewhere else. Looking at the poem, completed in around twenty minutes, with so few corrections, I was stunned at the depth of meaning within it, even if the style was rather naïve. I had written it as if I was Ann. As I wrote, I had become Ann and David, my mother and myself. However, even though the poem was finished, I felt compelled to add Dylan’s line at the end. I also felt it was “ok” to change it to “The ball you threw whilst playing in the park, has not yet reached the ground.” I thanked Dylan Thomas in my mind, for whatever part he had played in guiding, or at least inspiring me.
Piece 8. ~ The Dog
The following Sunday, I met Ann. She was delighted with the poem and I was starting to explain that it had seemed to come through me, as if I had been guided, when my attention was drawn to a black and white dog, sitting at the feet of Christine, a medium and a member of the congregation - it was the dog I had seen in my vision of the wonderful garden.
After the service I asked Helen, another member of our church, if she knew the name of the dog that had been sitting at Christine’s feet that afternoon. Her reply sent a shiver of excitement right through my body, “Dylan” she said
“As in Dylan Thomas.”
Piece 9. ~ The Bomb Scare
Landing in Dublin a week later, on route to Killarney, there was a bomb-scare, in which I became involved and which hit the front pages of National newspapers – I remembered the Irish figurines and my feeling of impending danger.
Piece 10. ~ The Poet and the Dog
One evening in Killarney, near the end of Act 1, a title I had seen years before, “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog” flashed through my mind. In the dressing room during the interval, Spencer the Company Manager, Russell “the Baker” and Richard “the Cowboy” helped me look up the title on the internet. This is what we found:
"Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog" – An autobiographical collection of short stories, prose and Poetry by Dylan Thomas.
~
More Pieces
All of the above happened around eighteen months ago and I decided last weekend to write the whole thing up as a spiritual investigation, a jigsaw puzzle if you like. All of the pieces seemed to fit well and I didn't even consider piece 1. and the 'known' spirit guide - in fact my original first piece was piece 2...
...until I started to read the excellent accounts of the life of Dylan Thomas on the website of BBC Wales.
Piece 11. ~James Joyce
Dylan Thomas had called his collection of poems and short stories "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog, after Joyce's semi-autobiographical work, "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" This made me think of what is now piece 1., the 'known' spirit who was going to help me.
But the medium had said that the spirit had looked like me, and James Joyce, apart from being rather thin, bore no resemblance. So I read on...
Piece 12. ~ Augustus John
...James Joyce had been painted by an artist called Augustus John. Joyce it seems had complained that John's drawings of him had failed to represent accurately the lower part of his face...
...Augustus John had also sketched Dylan Thomas, as well as introducing him to (and having an affair with) Caitlin Thomas, Dylan's wife.
So was Augustus John, the 'known' spirit and the final piece in the jigsaw puzzle?
W
hen we'r
e born, no-one tells us how many pieces there are in the box...
September 28, 2008
The Journey
Today we're going on an expedition. Remember to prepare yourself well - a glass of wine (or something stronger) might be a good idea. Whatever else you do, try to give yourself enough time to get into the whole journey...don't just set off for two minutes or so. Give your treck between five and ten minutes (hence the red wine)
...when you return jot down a few words, making sure your impressions are spontaneous and genuine (and no looking at anyone's work and cheating before you've done your own)
Ok...When you're ready, click on the photograph.
(Make sure your sound is up)
Later, you might like to visit the lady below. She discovered the journey first
-1_1.jpg)
don't lose your way
September 07, 2008
Messages from Beyond ~ Help from Michael…
The theatre tour this year has been very arduous and the weekly change of venue, has found the company and myself, zig zagging up and down and across the country - Glasgow, Bournemouth, Ireland, Newcastle-upon-Tyne - of all the aspects of my profession, travelling is the part I would miss the least.
Touring requires both stamina and also a strong sense of a personal centre to cope, not only with different theatres, but also with the wanderers life-style of different "digs" and various accommodations each week.
Last year I was able to get home, at least for Sundays, but this year I am lucky if I see my home twice a month - and then only for a day or part of it.
This has also meant that my usual regular visits to Spiritualist Church have been interrupted. Perhaps oddly, I think that this may not be such a bad thing. During the first two years after Christina passed away, the church became my centre and my support, but I know in my heart that my centre should be within myself and not external, no matter how comforting that external support may be.
Neverthless, I was able to visit my friends at church, on the Sunday before we all flew to Belfast three weeks ago. The visiting medium was an elderly charismatic lady, who I immediately felt drawn towards and who, in her 'messages' to the congregation, turned to me and announced that there was a gentleman with her in spirit, who was here to help me.
Now I have received many messages through spiritual mediums, all encouraging me to write. The reason I have four blogs and a website, is solely through my experiences and contact from 'beyond'. Yet I remain (and maybe always will) a sceptic when it comes to the existence and the nature of the spirit world.
The message was encouraging however, in that it seemed to be the same as all the others over the past three years. The medium described my spiritual helper as being:
'surrounded by books'
I suppose it was natural for me to assume that the 'help' would be with my writing...
~
Northern Ireland and Belfast has changed enormously since my first visit in 1980. At that time, the 'troubles' were at a high and everyone was affected by them. I expect there was some risk in being there at the time, especially being English, but the Irish are such a warm spontaneous people, that I seldom felt in any danger.
It was in this climate of unrest, that an eccentric professor of Modern History, became a leading figure in the continuance and development of the performing arts in Belfast.
Michael Barnes cut a strange and angular figure that somehow complimented and blended with the unrest of the time.
My first impression was that I had met Fagin from Oliver Twist, in fact the character as played by Ron Moody in the film and stage musical version, could have been his twin brother, this likeness together with a total disregard for his own appearance, increased with time, until our last meeting in 1989.
Photo: Chris Hill
Last meetings grow with increasing years, but I was still a relatively young man, when Michael treated me to a banquet of a meal in the theatre restaurant. I can remember roast pork on a spit, roast potatoes covered in herbs and peas that tasted like they had just come straight from the pod. All that and a really beautiful bottle of vintage red wine. I was frankly overawed with the man; there is no other word to describe the disheveled academic other than 'erudite'.
There is a natural gap or difference between the English and the Celts of Ireland, Wales and Scotland, that political correctness tends to avoid, but which is fascinating when traced right back to it's origins, at the time of the Teutonic/Nordic invasions. So the unlikely success of Michael's tenure as Artistic Director of the Grand Opera House and the affection with which he was regarded owed as much to his uncompromising aura of 'Educated Englishman' as it did to the natural Celtic appreciation and understanding of a man driven by the convictions of his heart.
At a time when British Actors Equity was advising theatre companies not to go to strife-torn Northern Ireland, Michael was persuading managements in England, Scotland and Europe, to send their productions over to Northern Ireland and to the Opera House. The current success and reputation of the Opera House is due in no small part to the shambling Professor Barnes.
Our current visit was the first in over three years and I noticed a painting of Michael in the 'Green Room' that seemed to be new - there was no indication that he had died, but I had a distinct feeling that he had passed on. The painting fascinated me and each day I spent some time, looking at the posture and expression of the man I remembered so well.
Everyone has good days and bad days and the first Thursday of our visit was one of the latter. I have a love/hate relationship with my work and on that particular day, I felt that I never wanted to see the inside of a theatre again, or choreograph, or act, or for that matter, dance again.
At one point during the dismal day, I passed through the Green Room and said firmly and loudly to the painting:
"Michael, I know you've passed on - What am I going to do with my life?"
Michael looked down from the wall, with an expression I remembered so well.
~
Belfast has now been transformed from a war-torn city, full of British soldiers, barbed wire, armoured tanks and constant searches and check-points, into a bustling city with shops, stores and a shortage of cabs on a Saturday night. After unsuccessfully trying for around half an hour the following Saturday, I was eventually successful in 'bagging' on of the busy drivers. My driver turned out to be from the Philippines.
Cab drivers, the world over, are natural conversationalists. I have in the past (now to my regret) cut short the first expected question of "What do you do?" opting instead for silence and thinking time. Since my Stonehenge transformation however, I have turned over a new leaf and in fact started off the chatter by asking my driver, how he came to be living and working in Belfast. It turned out that his wife was a nurse in a local old-peoples home and that he had come over to join her. His ability with the English language had not improved in relation to his smooth driving however and the conversation was slow - until I told him that I was working at the Opera House.
"You know Michael Barnes then?"
How on earth did a taxi driver from the Philippines know about Michael?
"My wife nursed him just before he died. He used to get out of bed, put on his dressing gown and dance with her"
"He just loved to dance"
and then I remembered the medium at church and the message of help...
Yes Michael, I've got the message
"I'll keep dancing"
~
As Thomas is my patron saint, the doubts inevitably crept in. As I passed by the painting each day, I became less convinced that I had actually received a message from beyond - a spiritual medium, a message of help, a Phillipino cab driver's wife who danced around hospital beds with Michael, only weeks before he died. It all made a lovely story - but maybe also a lovely illusion.
Like Thomas, I needed more proof...
The cost of hotels and guest-house accommodation has soared in Belfast, but I had managed to find a local woman on the theatre 'digs-list' who was delighted to let me stay in her spare bedroom for a nominal rent - except that, as she was having a conservatory built at the back of her house, there would be a lot of noise from the workmen - and there was!
On the final Friday, I pottered downstairs to make a cup of tea and found myself in a long conversation about Irish comedians as opposed to English ones. The whole thing developed delightfully into a Celtic-English contest, as to who could come up with the most names and the most memorable jokes. I must have done well, as one of the workmen suddenly said
"Do you work in the theatre then?"
When I affirmed that I did, his reply could have come straight from the mouth of the medium at the beginning of the story, or indeed from Michael himself:
"I worked for Michael Barnes, just before he went into the nursing home. I put up lots of bookshelves for him. He was surrounded by books you see. The whole house was full of them and he only had space for one chair in his living room because he was...
...surrounded by books."
I passed by Michael's picture the following day and I swear he smiled at me...
(but maybe it was just a trick of the light)
Michael Barnes, OBE, arts administrator, was born on October 31, 1932. He died on May 14, 2008, aged 75
August 27, 2008
People...Empathy and The Lady
I am currently having trouble, uploading photographs of enough quality and definition, to my original Almanack and so I have decided to publish this private blog, which can only be reached at present, through a link from the Almanack, until I can find a solution.
In a strange way, this problem has caused me to create the "Secret Almanack"....
Alice in the Park
![Lady on Bench-1_thumb[3]](http://soulmerlin.typepad.com/almanack/WindowsLiveWriter/LadyonBench1_thumb3.jpg)
Wikipedia defines 'empathy' as: "the capacity to recognize or understand another's state of mind or emotion. It is often characterized as the ability to "put oneself into another's shoes",
"To in some way experience the outlook or emotions of another being within oneself."
I was walking through the gardens behind the theatre in Bournemouth were we were performing, when I saw her. Her neat way of sitting, immediately 'touched' me.
![Lady on Bench legs feet hands_thumb[5]](http://soulmerlin.typepad.com/almanack/WindowsLiveWriter/Lady%20on%20Bench%20legs%20feet%20hands_thumb%5B5%5D_19.jpg)
Robin Easton - "everything so composed, peaceful and orderly even her legs, feet and hands .. "
...I walked past her, already focussing my camera - then I doubled back and quickly took the shot. She reminded me of my mother and also myself, when I first attended spiritualist church and consciously left a place for Christina, who had just died, to my left...and then the minister said "There's a lady sitting beside you..."
Anji -"Loneliness. (S)he’s left a space for someone who won’t come anymore."...
Certainly the lady seemed out of place and somewhat tense...
Susie - My initial response, is she is thinking of times past, she is missing someone, she is watching someone that she wishes she could momentarily trade places with.. bring back time
...There was a collectedness and an alertness about the lady. Although she was sitting on the bench, she did not seem to be a part of it - rather she sat above it - as if she was in transit...
.
Robin Easton - "she sat at one end of the bench the way one would if they hoped or expected someone else to arrive. She left room for “more”, for something to happen, for “possibility”...
...Tamera "Waiting. Waiting for something, and a little anxious about it???"
She reminded me of a television play I saw many years ago, where Maggie Smith played an ex-wife who had visited her past husband and his new wife and who, after a difficult stay, was sitting neatly on the side of the bed, with her suitcase by her feet, in the guest-room, waiting for her taxi to arrive to take her to the railway station. I remember the play upset me greatly, as I had just separated from my wife.
...angel - "A Lonely (old) lady watching the world go by."
I had decided to shoot the photograph from directly opposite the lady. All around were people enjoying a bright summer's day in the park - but the viewpoint I wanted to stress, was the...
...Eric S. "Waiting, loneliness, reflections or memories." A good while ago, there was a film which a think was rather ahead of it's time - "Being There" starring Peter Sellers, concerned a Butler who was suddenly made homeless when his employer died.
The Butler, who was called "Chauncey Gardiner", was the most simple of men - some would say dim, or stupid - but he possessed such an expression of profundity, that people would hang onto every statement he made and regard every utterance as a gem of wisdom - even though the statement and his thinking behind it, was one that a child of three would make - or even 'better' in terms of wisdom.
.
Joseph - "my first impression was that this lady had senile dementia and doesn’t quite know where she is or indeed, why. Despite the fact she looks fairly composed with her belongings resting alongside her, I feel she is somewhat lost and sits waiting for someone who doesn’t look likely to appear any time soon"
Rather like Hans Christian Anderson's King, people dressed Chauncey's words and his expressions, with their own "clothes" of opinion.
So what was she thinking?... ...
The actor Spencer Tracy, was once asked how he put so much feeling into his close-ups. He replied that he did nothing more than stand there and be photographed and that the audience did the rest - in relation to the film and it's plot as it unfolded.
Bird - "she sits and waits with fingers anxiously knotted…it’s been so long. All this long time thinking him dead, and in her bag sits the faded letter, says his plane was shot down. Could he really be alive after all? Will he recognise her? She sits and waits for her young man, finally come home."
Although the lady was sitting in a park, I wanted her surroundings to be anonymous. What was important to me, was her position and expression and also the feeling of 'aloneness' that I often feel personally...
tashabud - "I believe the elderly lady is waiting for a bus. She’s either waiting for the bus to go somewhere or waiting for the arrival of someone she knows who will be riding a bus. While she waits, she makes sure to give other people room to sit down, should they want to sit down as well."
The human eye, or more exactly the brain, is very selective. When I took the picture, I was unaware of the background of the shot - after all, it was some twenty feet away, but when I transferred the shot onto my computer and looked...
...there was a young, loud lad. He was a distance away, but the two-dimensionality of the photograph meant that he intruded into the shot and set up a relationship with the lady that I didn't think really existed - except within the medium of the camera...
...So I zapped him out.
But everything in life is a collection of energy and although I had 'cloned-over' the noisy youth with grasses, the now 'invisible tyke' still existed...
A. Bolaji - "the background implying the need for peace...it is where she is sitting and the ‘power’ of the background, [that] signifies (at least to me) some kind of longing for peace and contentment."
Although the full spectrum cannot be perceived through our three-dimensional senses, many people can perceive energy or 'presence' that lies beyond...
Liara Covert - "The woman is communicating with a deceased relative. She reads energy and interacts with spirit in ways that defy words."
I have been saved a few times in my life, by following my gut instinct and I have heard 'instinct' equated with guardian angels or spirit guides. I think we must all have been in a situation, where a feeling or force has 'saved' us. I know that the times I have not followed my instinct have usually ended in disaster
Chrissy - "me & Andy are reading stuff together and laughin’ he says she is lookin’ at them guys on skateboards and bikes and thinking “When are they gonna give me some peace & quiet!”…LOL ( That is after a glass or two or even three of nice red wine!)"
Yes Chrissy and Andy, the young tyke could have been on a skateboard for all I know - and nice red wine does enable spontaneity of perception :)
Finally (for this blog post) The selective nature of the brain and of our perceptions, often blocks out the vibration of colour. This is perhaps why colour newspapers have never really taken-off. Colour softens graphic fact and adds warmth to 'reality'
It was a bright sunny day and I hadn't noticed the pretty blue of her skirt, or the vivid colours around her...
There was still something about her that touched me.
(Maybe even more so in colour)
I never saw her leave, or asked her name, but to me she will always be "Alice"..
.or... ravenscawl - Eleanor Rigby?
We all create our own realities and those of the people we interact with. Creation and Destruction are inseparable and each one cannot exist without the other...
"lt's only the Red King snoring," said Tweedledee. "Come and look at him!" the brothers cried, and they each took one of Alice's hands, and led her up to where the King was sleeping.
"He's dreaming now," said Tweedledee: "and what do you think he's dreaming about?"
Alice said, "Nobody can guess that."
"Why, about you!" Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly.
"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?"
"Where I am now, of course," said Alice.
"Not you!" Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. "You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!"
"If that there King was to wake," added Tweedledum, "you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"
"I shouldn't!" Alice exclaimed indignantly. "Besides, if I'm only a sort of thing in his dream, what are you, I should like to know?"
"Ditto," said Tweedledum.
"Ditto, ditto!" cried Tweedledee.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise.
Alice moving under skies
Ever drifting down the stream
Lingering in a golden gleam
Life, what is it but a dream
"Ditto."
"h".
Janet - Hi Henry,
"When I first look at that picture I see a lonely old women. She is looking at others around her and wishing that she had the company they do. Then I thought to myself, maybe she is not so lonely and is just out for a walk and is reflecting on her earlier years, in which she enjoyed their joy and happiness as well."
"We are such stuff as Dreams are made On, and our little lives are rounded by a Sleep."
William Shakespeare
~
http://milindsmusings.blogspot.com/2006/09/life-what-is-it-but- dream_115754570401790170.html
Categories
- Contacting Spirits
- Divination
- Flying and Dying
- General
- Haunted Buildings
- Haunted Theatres
- Icons and Superstars
- Jesus
- Mary Magdalene
- Mediums and Clairvoyants
- Psychic Ability and Development
- Quality
- sexy spirituality
- Spiritual Animals
- Spiritual Keep-Fit
- Spiritual Travels
- Spiritualism
- The Nature of God
- The Nous
- Torture and Oppression
- Uncategorized
Recent Comments