A story of redemption, hope, fear, healing and impossibility.
1.
To wind the imagery in a little tighter… fasten your seatbelt.
Only
by practicing unravelling the knot am I able to see how the conditions
arose, and by using the microscope of words I am able to see the
subtleties and nuances that are the fiendish mechanisms of depression
and suicide.
From the other side of time, from now, I can
see what happened as a shamanic journey, and one of absolute necessity,
for no other circumstance could have enabled the loosening of the death
grip of my pride and ego.
You see, my strength had become
my weakness. My lifetime of introspection, meditation and contemplation
had endowed me with a surgical toolkit of the finest delicacy, as no
thought, feeling or expression passed through my being without the
gatekeeper of self deciding upon how I chose to present myself to the
world.
This became an infernal labyrinth, of ever reducing
parameters and narrowing corridors, a self-criticism leading further
and further inwards, until there was no further room for manoeuvre.
And
having fully explored the limits and capacities to dance within the
mind, allied with a set of apparently insoluble external difficulties, I
had lost. I was defeated.
Defeated to the extent that I had lost everything, even my faith.
I lay down to die, I chose to leave this time and place.
Was this cowardly?
It was my only remaining option.
I
chose my time and place, and set my trajectory to my next life. A
combination of relaxation, fearlessness, surrender and sorrow, allied
with a heartfelt wish for pain to cease.
I was cutting the strings of my parachute, I was about to fall.
And I fell, into death.
Mark died.
Mark
heard music, the chant of a prayer that lead me back into
consciousness, and the rebirth of my experience, my life, was
accompanied by the awareness that I had a higher purpose to reveal, a
reason for my inability to die. My faith had re-found me.
Depression?
It is an intelligent struggle against the ego, an unwillingness to be
prey to circumstance, and even a foolhardy inability to surrender to the
inevitable. But only the most fiercely intelligent become severely
depressed, it is a beautiful gift, but wrapped in horrendous papers,
accented with colours and patterns that frighten us from going near it
to see what is inside. We try to run a mile from it, to avoid seeing
what lies within, and really, the wrapper is our ego and what lies
within is our true nature.
And try as we might, we cannot
escape the ever looming presence of those distorted wrapping papers,
they beguile and confuse, we become disassociated from our true nature,
failing to recall that which lies within.
That which we were born with, our birthright of inner peace and contentment, of love, wisdom and compassion.
The gifts of life.
It
took the most extreme journey for me to realise this, over and through
the mountain pass of life and death, between the crashing rocks and
landslides of fear and failure.
Depression? Fear not that
which lies within, enter the light that is contained within that
terrifying presence, and see no enemies, but merely aspects of who you
are. Aspects of yourself that frighten or even repulse you.
And know your reaction of repulsion is the very fuel that feeds the subtle depressive mind.
Use
the power of love, to embrace and heal the inner demons and fears that
plague the intelligent depressed mind. Do not run away.
This is the story of the rebirth, the revelation of a shamanic life, gifted with opportunity.
2.
A
shattered life, fragmented, dissonant – in freefall. But with a deeply
profound acknowledgement of hidden meaning, meaning as yet to be
revealed.
Living in the cloudy haze of rebirth, with no
grounding, no strength and no power I flailed within an ungraspable
experience, living in a dazed wonderment of unfamiliarity and
helplessness, confined with a jealous view of how all others seemed to
have meaning, focus and energy as to how their lives were so simple, so
uncomplicated and so easy…
The depth of my suffering was
over, completed, but where from here? Where or what was this prophetic
destiny that I knew lay ahead?
I knew that it would be
something completely outside of any imaginary expectations, without any
personal historic precedence, as I had burned those bridges that
encircled my city of ego, and from those ashes the new would be that –
New.
Q. How does one imagine the unimaginable?
A. Wait until it happens.
The
last vital links I had left in this world were Coral and Gus. I had to
rebuild, in an unimaginable fashion a creation, a manifestation that
would serve as an attractor of the true potential of their father.
Just not possible.
All
the great works have been achieved, the world’s great men had covered
all bases, and all I could achieve would be a pale imitation, following
in another’s footsteps.
And from the intense inner
vortices self-centred attention, the view of the horizon is even less
apparent – limited vision you see. Locked into an introspection vortex,
lacking a pathway out.
You know the saying, ‘a chink in the armour’.
It happened like this…
3.
Only the deepest attachment has the capacity to reach into the deepest aspect of my mind.
I had lost attachment to ego, health, home, relationships, money, faith and life itself. I was free, but of no purpose.
Gus, my son became ill. Extremely ill. Life and death ill.
When
I arrived at the hospital his life was not even hanging by a thread. It
was floating, suspended between the worlds of life and death, like a
mote of dust in the sunlight, and even the coarse spoken movement of a
word might have served as the nudge into death.
And in the
environmental world of violent and intrusive surgical procedures and
toxic chemical pharmalogical cudgels, (read - a Bankok hospital), what
use might a fragile and confused father be? How might I protect the life
essence of my son?
And, I’ll add, a cynical son, a boy
whose interpretation of his father’s methodologies have been viewed from
the corner of his eye, with a ‘yeah dad, sure’ attitude.
That
first few weeks, sat by his side, to my view I held his life within my
aura, extending my life force to within his body, to protect his very
soul, sharing my soul with his, asserting my capacity to heal, to
re-find life within himself. To not die.
This bridge
between souls became, over the months, a subtle mechanism whereby my own
healing began, and footholds and staging posts of recovery began to
manifest within my own life. A sort of selflessness, a true, continual
flow of loving, healing energy, to perhaps one of the only souls on this
earth that really mattered to me, had mysteriously happened, at the
perfect time.
Even now I am still slightly confused about
my sense of personal recovery, affected by the intense suffering of my
son, almost a guilt at having ‘used’ the situation. I know you
understand this. Anyways…
4.
I am walking in the woods, a few months later.
Gus still ill. Me? A little firmer, a little clearer, and feeling a little stronger.
The
woods are ancient, and living upon a series of hills and valleys, with
streams interspersed running though as arteries of the hills, carrying
water, minerals and nourishment. A source of life giving energy.
Perpetual.
Straying a little from the main paths I begin
to slow and amble, losing the drive to reach my destination, and I begin
to engage with my surroundings in a more sympathetic manner.
I see more.
Where
fallen wood and debris have accumulated the water flow slows, drags and
develops a thin film, a scummy looking layer, upon which a dead layer
of grey inert bubbles gather, and this to me, is a blockage. A blockage.
Note to self: Clear blockage?
Like
a boy in the woods, I clamber down the bank, wade into the water, and
remove the debris. The water sighs, and a turbulent joy returns to the
flow. I am happy, and have an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction. Doing
something that no-one knows or sees, and it feels good.
Hmmm,
now I’m down in the stream I can see another blockage, a few feet away,
hidden in the overhanging undergrowth. I can grab a fallen branch,
reach in and free that blockage too. That feels good too.
Job done. Sorted.
Fast forward 1 week.
I’m
back in the woods for another walk, this time I’m feeling really low,
sad, helpless and I’m crying. I leave the woods and wander up into one
of the surrounding meadows, find a clear open space and I sit upon a
small hillock, with my head in my hands, and I cry, and cry, and cry.
From
my despair I am aware of a presence around me, I look up, and 6 horses
have wandered and gathered around me, looking into my soul, with
understanding and empathy for my sorrow.
Two of the horses
walk slowly towards me, one brown, one black, and press their noses
upon my cheeks, and they breathe me. Their breath becomes my breath, and
we 3 breathe together, as they heal me, as they understand my sorrow.
And
for moments I can speak horse. From mind to mind we share
communication, and they ease my suffering. This is a unique and magical
moment in my life, and a crossroads in my recovery. We share common
experiences of love, pain and suffering in a communion of souls, a
communion that knows none of the parameters of conventional
understanding and this breaks down a barrier within my soul, that had
hitherto separated me, Mark the human being, from the majesty and unity
of the animal kingdom.
5.
Another day, another walk in the woods.
Those blockages, they seem endless, there are miles of tributaries, all somewhat blocked, their flow inhibited.
Hold on. A thought enters my head. A loud thought.
Is
there a correlation between the complex and fractal aspects of the many
streams and tributaries of the woodlands, and the complex and fractal
aspects of Gus’ damaged lungs?
It is a long shot, and
perhaps just stupidly impossible, but maybe, just maybe, there is a
remote correlation between the two complex systems. So… my mind running
very quickly, I leap to the possible conclusion.
I clear the waters, and Gus gets better. Simple mathematics. Simples…
For
the next three months I spend my weekend hours tramping up through lost
entangled tributaries, engaged, fully immersed in an environment of
purely natural elements. Up to my knees in fresh running water,
breathing deeply, engaging my breath with the close environment, bent
under overhanging undergrowth, crawling up hidden waterfalls, working
solely with my bare hands, reaching into dark still inert waters, to
remove debris with sometimes a charming and sometimes repulsive aspect.
Working
until my hands are frozen and bleeding, my clothes soaked and mud
covered, my faithful hat carrying a weight of twigs, mosses and leaves. A
wild woodsman, working on a wing and prayer in a seemingly endless
series of water purifications.
And purification for my
soul. Each sigh of eased water lightens my soul, in an ever increasing
sense of fulfilment and progression, in the clearance of the woodlands
waterways, and also in the removal of my rebirthed immaturities. I am
rapidly developing into a man whose new found direction and fulfilment
depends upon my faithful continuance of my unusual task.
Gus
is getting a little better now, early springtime. Any connection? Who
can ever know, but I love the idea, the idea of the possibility that the
two – my work and Gus’ recovery are interlinked… I would love to crank
the idea up a notch or two, but I am a man alone, with limited time,
limited understanding and limited capacity. But I’ll just persevere and
enjoy whatever comes along, but some form of help would be good.
6.
Time
passes. It is an unusual night. It is the night of the full moon, but
also the super full moon, the night when the moon is bigger, brighter
and closer to Earth than at any other time, it is Saturday March 18th
2011. The moon rises in the early evening, and the night sky is
astonishingly transformed.
I sense it is time for some
magic, time for some alchemy… Now, turn your eyes away from the page if
you are of a delicate or sensitive nature, and should you read on, keep
these words to yourself. But I am going to guess if you have read this
far, and you know me, I will not shock you.
I bless two doses of lysergic acid diethylamide. I take the two trips.
The
night progresses and at around 10 pm, with the moon enormous and
bright, the sky cloudless and silver gold, I venture down to the woods.
Alone.
I enter the woods through my usual pathway, my
familiar route, and the pathways are muddy, slippery and dark, and
though the moon is bright, the woods are shaded and dark. I do not take
a torch, I wish to for my senses to fully engage. I do have a staff
that I carry, to guide and support me. A familiar if you like, a friend,
my old blackthorn staff.
I know I am taking what might be
considered a shamanic journey, one in which I will encounter deep and
hidden secrets, both within the woods, and within myself.
If
I am to trust the woods, and more importantly, if the woods are to
trust me, I have to bare my soul, make my vulnerabilities plain, and
allow my intentions to be known.
It is time for us to really get to know one another.
7.
The
first hour or so was charming, magical and majestic. The woods were
unusually quiet, no sounds discernable, no wind at all, an
uncharacteristic quiet. I wandered around the familiar beautiful paths,
entering the groves where the moon’s bright light penetrated, and I was
happy and content, meeting familiar places and trees, with whom I had
previous acquaintance.
The darker gullies and slopes
seemed intimidating and dark, even scary, with their dank, moist night
time stillness, the ways down precarious and dangerous.
I knew I had to venture into those places that held fear for me.
With respect and trepidation I requested safe guidance into the gloom, fearing falling and injury.
Slowly
and carefully I felt my way into the almost sinister depths, with fear
rising within my mind, but knowing my fear was due to an internal
reaction, rather than any external malevolent force.
I
stood still, and chose to stand, with my fear rising rapidly. I had to
stand, and learn to experience and engage with my fear, to learn to
encounter a primal sense of enclosure. To engage with what I understood
to be inner daemons, aspects of my mind.
After several
long minutes of intense discomfort, I understood that love was the
appropriate and perfect methodology to apply as an antidote, and ushered
forth a radiance that embraced my daemons, and chose neither to ignore
nor suffer any fears.
I became fearless in that environment.
It
was then that I realised that the very spirits of the woods, those that
chose to dwell in those places that man fears, were almost testing me,
exploring the heart of my soul.
I chose to encourage them
to enter into me, so they could become familiar with me, in my
vulnerable and open state, and having done so, met them with my loving
energy.
I felt comfortable, safe, protected and welcome.
We had introduced ourselves.
I
was now the visitor, no longer the intruder. I had come in love, and
with a wish to communicate. I stood still, in silent contemplation,
allowing whatever energies that came my way enter into me. I felt the
sense of ancient timelessness, of a world that blinked at the lives of
men, where trees lived, for thousands, maybe millions of years.
It
was another world, of which the minds of modern men had little
consideration or knowledge, a secret world of natural unfolding, that
had the patience to let the selfishness and egoic pride of men transpire
as a passing breeze. The minor irritation of a passing adolescent
mankind, soon to be gone from this world, and then the trees and an
unselfish nature might return to this place once again, undisturbed in
the place of their birthright.
Sensing the enormous
natural condition of this place, I felt small, powerless and vulnerable,
but no longer afraid. I realised that I am small, I am powerless and I
am vulnerable.
Inhaling and exhaling deeply, I gradually
worked my way out of the dark, dank depths of the woods, from the very
streams I had cleared during the light of the day, with a gratitude and
humility. The water ran with a different sound, a different intensity,
an unfamiliar murmur to its voice. But I now knew the waters in their
secret aspect, their hidden language.
As I reached a
lighter and clearer area of the woods, my heart began to open further,
and as the familiar areas reassured me, I chuckled at the fears that had
arisen within me. I knew that all fears were an internal condition, and
the woods held no danger for me. We had become friends.
My
confidence grew, and a blasé and a dismissive and arrogant pride arose.
I had encountered my deepest fears, and had survived. I stood and
looked up at the clear moon as I stood by a complex yew tree, laughing
at my strength and power.
A sound exploded behind me, and
an instantaneous and eruptive fear shattered my complacency. The woods
had another lesson to teach me. I was still the mere human, the foolish
man, the incomer, and a wood pigeon, leaving its roost was sufficient to
re-engage my humility.
I had no right to play with ideas
that I had somehow mastered these woods, it was through their grace that
I could venture into this place with safety. A wood pigeon, maybe the
least intimidating creature of the woods had the ability, the capacity
to fire me into an extremely powerful, momentary terror.
My
lesson was to remain in abeyance to the whims of the larger spirit. I
could feel safety and protection, but only if I remained humble with
deference. I was not the master here.
8.
I
roamed awhile, calm and humble, and found myself by an ancient stump of a
long dead tree, and at this place I felt myself to be at the very heart
of the woods, the place around which all the life here revolved and
depended.
I stood and introduced myself to this most
powerful and ancient of spirits, and cried with the pain I felt for Gus.
I requested this spirit to hear my pleas, my request for whatever
healing capacities that lay hidden in this place to hear me.
These words I sobbed – ‘please help me to heal my son’.
I
promised the spirit that I would endeavour to protect and heal the
harms that man had inflicted upon its world, and should Gus become well I
would expend my energies to the protection of this place.
I made my vows, with a candour and depth known only to me and the woods.
I
turned away with a sense of completion of my shamanic journey, and then
saw ethereal creatures in the woods. Spirits of both wolves and bears
that had long since left this place. Ghosts perhaps of those animals
whose homes had been destroyed and whose lives had been hunted by men,
coarse animals, long ago.
I had the privilege to be welcomed as an honoured guest, allowed to be shown some deeply hidden secrets of this ancient land.
I
journeyed out of the woods, with a deep, deep respect, and a sense of
connection, a relationship that I knew was a part of a lifetime’s
commitment.
9.
Over the next few days I
revisited the journey within my memory, gently exploring the night’s
events and experiences, and a new sense of possibility began to emerge.
Instead
of merely clearing and cleansing the ever flowing system and networks
of tributaries and streams I should endeavour to find the source of all
this water, to try and find the spring source. If indeed a spring source
existed in these woods.
If I could find the source I
could cleanse and purify this epicentre, polish the diamond so to speak,
and use this methodology to cleanse the waters. As a wise man told me
‘it is easier to wear shoes than to cover the whole world with leather’.
I
asked many folks who lived in and around the woods if a spring could be
found. Asking old folks walking their dogs, those who had lived and
grown up in these woods, but no-one knew, no-one could tell me.
Later
that week, whilst in a bookshop I found an old ordnance survey map, and
in an obscure and isolated area of the woods I saw this… spr. The map
was marked with the location of the spring. It actually existed.
Like
a child waiting for Christmas Day, the days until the weekend dragged
and dragged, until the morning I strode up the pathway, marked on the
old map as Pilgrims Way towards the place of the spring.
I
jumped across a steep banked ditch, and fought my way through a tangle
of holly, fallen trees, sodden ground and dark dank airs. The place was
no spring source, it was a swamp, a foul smelling, rank, fetid, dead
place where no-one had come for many long years. A hostile place that
carried a very clear message. Visitors not welcome, especially men.
But
I knew I was not the man for whom that unwritten message had been
placed this past 100 years or so. I knew I had been guided here, as a
part of my commitment to the woods, and that here I would find a place
where I might focus my attentions, and approach the impenetrable,
unafraid and with the support of all the spirits inhabiting the woods. A
deeply secret place. And why so secret? Why so obscured? Why so
forgotten?
Sinking up to my waist in the fearfully
wretched swamp ground, I grasped at a tussock to heave myself up and out
of the suction of the back mass of rotten waters and debris, with the
potential of drowning in this forgotten place very alive in my mind.
I
waded my way through the seemingly impenetrable sludge, and clambered
onto a long fallen mighty tree, a giant of a tree, that looked, and
still looks like a fallen dinosaur, bridging a small gully, the gulley
hidden on 2 sides by steep and precipitous walls of fallen trees and a
mighty oak and beech, another side by the rank swamp waters and the
fourth side by an impenetrable tangle of fallen trees, and hostile and
sharp shrubs.
This place was deeply hidden, deeply protected, until now, until it revealed itself to me alone.
10.
There
was no spring to be seen, nor heard though, but through a pile of dead
leaves a slight trickle of water led my eye. I had grown accustomed to
observing the movement of waters in these woods, my instincts had been
attuned in a watery way.
Working as ever with my bare
hands I plunged my hands into the sodden debris and my heart sang as
after a few minutes of clearance work, the trickle had become enlarged a
little and a confidence arose within me that I was close.
I
had to stop this end of the work however, as I realised that if I was
to free these waters, if I was to remove this blockage, I first had to
turn my attention to the swamp. For I understood from my previous months
of stream and tributary clearance that the nature of water’s movement
mean that the water had to have some way of being released and freed
further downstream or the process would not have the freeing effect.
So
placing my enthusiastic boy-like tendencies to one side, I turned back
into the swamp to see if there was a hidden culvert or outlet overflow
that might reduce the level of the swamp waters. Fighting through a mass
of fallen trees and branches, sucked into the black mass of swamp
filth, I reached up to my shoulders into a crack in an ancient stone
wall, and dragged out repulsive slime covered debris, heaving with all
my might, until the moment of initial ease occurred.
It
was as if the swamp had gathered, as an ancient constipated sewer, for
unknown years, until the initial rush farted and diarrhoea released,
belching and sliming its water content into a long lost hidden outlet. I
had lanced the boil. It was foul.
But oh so satisfying. Bloody fantastic.
I was filthy and sodden, but a very happy man, and I could now turn my attentions to the treasure, my goal.
I
clambered back over the swamp to the sodden mass where the trickle was
emerging, and for another hour or so cleared more and more debris until I
found a sandstone slab, with rocks either side, like nothing I had seen
before, and I knew I had found the spring. A slight flow emerged from a
side stone, subtle and slow, but by now it was getting late, and I was
tired, hungry, soaking, filthy and thirsty. And at this point I thought
that I had found all that was to be found, for there was absolutely no
sign, no indication, that anything other than a single slab with two
rocks either side would be found here.
11.
A
week passes, and the thought that something exciting, even a treasure
might be found looms large within my daydreams. After all, this is St
Helens Woods, and St Helen is the patron saint of lost treasure and nail
makers.
Back at the spring, I notice the brackish water
in the swamp has receded a little. I can tell this quickly when I arrive
as the fallen trees have a green line, now a few inches above the
current water level. This is good news for my eyes, and the waters. They
are now flowing, and coming alive once again.
The swamp
is still treacherous and dangerous, there is no opportunity for
complacency or hurry as I cross over, I have probed with my staff and
the bottom is at least 6 feet deep, sufficient to drown me. I have to be
very careful, picking my way across, leaping from one isolated tussock
of grasses to another, and sometimes balancing upon a fallen tree trunk.
I’m glad I practice yoga, it gives me a strength, agility, balance and
flexibility that aids my precarious passage.
I’ve reached
the spring, the water is fairly bright, entering the glade from the same
stone I uncovered the week before, the actual spring source. But I am
here to do a little more clearance, just to give air and freedom to the
waters.
From that first slab I plunge my bare hands into
the compacted earth and debris, that is covered with layers of dead and
dried leaves, and I find another slab behind the first, it is beginning
to look like a man made channel, and as I clear further back, the water
ceases to flow from the crack in the first side rock, and begins to
flow, with a slightly increased intensity from the next rock in the
channel.
This is getting interesting and exciting. Very exciting.
My
hands are now bleeding at the tips, as I drag handfuls of sharp stones,
compacted soil and debris from the ever increasing channel, and I begin
to wonder what might lie further ahead, lost, buried, concealed,
hidden. I know now that something very special lies ahead. Treasure,
definitely. Treasure lies ahead…
I’ve cleared the channel,
back around 10 feet, washing the honey coloured stone with the revealed
spring water, rinsing and cleansing the passage for the waters, and
then a change.
On either side of the channel are 2 larger,
darker stones, that reveal an entrance to what appears to be a larger
opening, perhaps a pool of some shape or form. Might it be round, or
oval? How big is it? How deep is it? Will there be any carvings? Might
there be a mosaic floor? What will I find at the point of the waters
entry to the pool?
I’ll soon find out. But I need help
now. And I need tools. There appears to possibility of a 6 ft diameter
pool, with 4 ft of earth and debris above the channel level, and who
knows how deep it might be. I cannot probe to the bottom as the earth
becomes too compacted and resistant. Whatever the size or form, it means
a lot of digging, far to much for my bare hands, I’m going to need a
shovel, a couple of buckets, a trowel for clearing the stone joints, and
a scrubbing brush to clean the stonework. And a friend to help me.
12.
I
almost cannot breathe I am so excited. I’m trying to hold my excitement
and my imagination in check, but really who knows what I might find?
What is the nature of St Helen’s secret treasure?
I work
hard, digging down into the pool to reveal its circular form,
constructed from old smooth rocks, and what is this? Some sort of ledge,
a long edge of a stone, about 3 feet across, and this is looking like a
lip of some sort, maybe forming the entrance of the water into the pool
from the spring source.
My excitement is growing, I am lost in a mounting wonderment of possibility and curiosity.
The
shelf reveals, and is a very large deeply calcified stone that bears
witness to many centuries of mineralised water flow, around 3ft square.
But
where is the actual spring source? Is there more to be revealed? The
water flow now is intensified, the water increasingly bright and clear,
singing in the shaded morning light.
At the rear of the
calcified slab I find a lip, a slightly raised edge, with a central dip
from which the water happily leads down into the pool.
I’m
working again now with my bare hands, no metal tools here as I wish to
sift through the debris and compacted earths, with a delicacy and care,
for there might well be something of rarity or value.
I
reach beyond the lip, and slowly reveal another circular form, around 18
inches diameter, appearing to be constructed of a terracotta tile or
brick, and as I start to remove the contents I realise this is perhaps a
font of some sort, an initial gathering portal for the spring waters.
I’ve
now cleared the font, and it is around 2ft deep, a tapered circular
form, a basin, that fills directly from the spring source, and then
overflows onto the calcified slab, then drops in a waterfall manner into
the large circular pool, which then in turn overflows into the channel.
And
then, I reach behind the font, and find an old sandstone column capital
that has been forced, maybe by men, or maybe by nature, to stem the
water’s flow. It has been capped.
I heave the stone
capital from its prison, and the water surges! I have found the spring,
the true source, the lost Spring of St Helen.
13.
The
water is clear, bright, singing and very, very happy. And now it is
time. Time to drink the waters. Taste the quality of the water, to learn
its mysteries.
Before I do this I light some candles,
burn some frankincense and myrrh, and hang a victory banner, a red silk
banner, embroidered with the 8 auspicious signs of Dharma, to welcome
the released spirit of the spring back into the world!
The
scene is set, and from my backpack I take an old crystal chalice I
found at a local antiques fair to drink this holy water, to imbibe the
healing waters with reverence and delight!
The water is
delicious. Perfect. And I laugh, and I cry, with my tears falling into
the waters flow. My tears forever conjoined in spirit with the springs
waters.
Oh no! I have an accident, I drop the chalice, and
it smashes into fragments. My immediate reaction is despair, but within
a single moment I laugh, as I realise it is a perfect moment, as I
alone had that opportunity, and no other would ever have that unique
experience.
To commemorate the moment, I bury the
shattered shards, to bear silent, intimate witness to this treasured
moment in my life. A perfect impossible dream, realised.
I am now jubilant, ecstatic and happy, but again so tired. My work for today is done.
The
pool remains to be excavated, and cleaned, and for that I will need
help, and Tom my friend has offered to come and help me… but next
weekend. I wonder what might lie at the base of the pool, and how deep
might it be?
I take stock of the place, newly cleared and
revealed, and suddenly I am aware of an enormous cruciform oak to the
rear of the spring, and to my right a giant ancient beech tree, both at
least 500 years old, and from their proximity I realise that these are
the guardian dryad spirits of this place. They have welcomed me into the
heart of the mystery, introduced me to their hidden treasure.
14.
Its
time now I feel to introduce this magical, healing place to the world.
To my family and friends, and whomever might wish to visit, to see, to
sense and to drink.
So I plan a small event, to coincide
with the moment of the royal wedding, an act of profound earth magic,
whilst the world is looking in another direction. Perfect!
I’ll
call it ‘Crystal Water Healing’ with the intention of creating a
single, pure, perfect amplifier of love and healing intentions, with the
aim of initiating an opponent to the poisoning of the waters at the
damaged nuclear power plant in Japan.
From my perspective,
this is possible, for the sense of achievement and powerful momentum
leading to this discovery defied the impossible, I mean, how can
something so beautiful, so powerful, so large and so pure be found, in a
public park? In a place known to thousands, loved by all. Can you
imagine finding this in your local park? It is impossible, but it has
happened. Defying impossibility.
From now, and for as long
as this water flows, it will be reaching into the contaminated waters
of the planet, carrying a love, messaging a purity, that will, as the
apocryphal butterflies wings affect, initiating powerful and positive
affects across to the far side of the earth.
The story
continues to develop as friends and visitors come and visit, enjoy the
waters, help in the clearing and restoration of the spring and its
environs. Friends uncovering its history, archaeology and meaning - it
is a work in progress.
And Gus? The chest drain was
removed from his lung cavity after a year. He can now walk unaided, can
dance, can travel alone, and is rebuilding his life, to recapture the
spirit of a 22 year old man, with a sense of the potential of full
recovery as a possibility. I take him waters from the spring, each week,
and one day, one day soon I hope, he will fulfil my dream and come
visit. I will cry that day, and laugh a satisfied chuckle.
A man healed.
Me.
