philipparees

‘Dancing Towards Unity’ The Inspirations of Genius

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THE SCAFFOLDING AGAINST THE CATHEDRAL OF CONSCIOUSNESSInvolution has kind friends. To celebrate the kind interview offered today on The Author Show (Click Non-Fiction) I post some opinions and explanations.

If you are not taken with the book- I give you beauty instead!

Never know. Could be true! — Never know. Dreams have a way of manifesting.

“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience.”(Teilhard de Chardin)

Involution-An Odyssey Reconciling Science to God is as layered as a French cassoulet, as diverting, satisfying and as rich. Each reader will spoon this book differently. On the surface it seems to be a simple and light-hearted poetic journey through the history of Western thought, dominantly scientific, but enriched with painting and music. Beneath that surface is the sauce of a new evolutionary idea, involution; the informing of all matter by consciousness, encoded and communicating throughout the natural world. A book about the cathedral of consciousness could have used any language to paint it, but science is perhaps most in need of new vision, and its chronology is already familiar.

The author offers a bold alternative vision of both science and creation: she suggests that science has been incrementally the recovery of memory, the memory of evolution/involution.

“ Involution proposes that humans carry within them the history of the universe, which is (re)discovered by the individual genius when the time is ripe. All is stored within our DNA and awaits revelation. Such piecemeal revelations set our finite lives in an eternal chain of co-creation and these new leaps of discovery are compared to mystical experience” (From a reviewer)

Each unique contributor served the collective and universal return to holism and unity. Thus the geniuses of the scientific journey, like the spiritual visionaries alongside, have threaded the rosary of science with the beads of inspiration, and through them returned Man to his spiritual nature and origin.

The separation between experience and the rational intellect of science has, by modelling memory as theory, separated its understanding from the consciousness of all, and perceives mind and matter as separate, God and Man as distinct. This work is a dance towards their re-unification: Saints and scientists break the same bread.

All of time and all the disciplines of science are needed for the evidence. Through swift (and sometimes sparring) Cantos of dialogue between Reason and Soul, Philippa Rees takes the reader on a monumental journey through the history of everything – with the evolution of man as one side of the coin and involution the other. The poetic narrative is augmented by learned and extensive footnotes offering background knowledge which in themselves are fascinating. In effect there are two books, offering a right and left brain approach. The twin spirals of a DNA shaped book intertwine external and internal and find, between them, one journey, Man’s recovery of Himself., and (hopefully) the Creation’s recovery of a nobler Man.

From the same review “The reader who finishes the book will not be the same as the one who began it. New ideas will expand the mind but more profoundly, the deep, moving power of the verse will affect the heart.

(Marianne Rankin: Director of Communications, Alister Hardy Trust)

You Think You’re Winning?- Get Real, Tortoise.

Illusions Shattered- (The Lucid Dream unpicked).( a recent post, somewhat interrupted by a death)

Yesterday I was shown, unequivocally, that I do not exist. Two years banging pots together in the internet kitchen has not resulted in so much as a snack, or a quick-fix salad. And I thought I was making progress!

This was brought home by reading a newly discovered Author’s blog. Nicholas C.Rossis
who seems to have worked out exactly how to make Amazon #1 and who shares his ‘how’ most generously (including a down-loadable Amazon category list and analysis). He manages to swim, write, teach and run a company, with the marketing hand behind his back (except to provide good fodder for informative posts.)

The reason, I now realise, is that nothing I do links up with anything else: For gold or even coal you need to use a drill. Instead I have broadcast seed on stony ground. SEO? Nada. Focus? Undefined. Blog posts? No use to anyone; nothing practical; no lists, to do’s or useful don’ts. Diversions round a road block. Platform? Still in stacked plank mode, warping in the rain of neglect.

All because I hate to sell but love to engage. The good news (I was assured) is ‘You have not spoiled your first impression, because you have not made one!’

I have a few good friends but friends do not a platform make. Nor do professional reviews, articles commissioned, awards awarded. Peanuts to the pantosphere.

Decision? Give up or start again? Find nails? Find hammer? Or write another book with nowhere to stand it either, when it’s born.

I return to the lucid dream ( The Market of the Mind in Common) which gave both warning and possibly some explanations, but no remedies, or none useful for me, or none I can identify, except ‘not this way.’ (This post is wide open for suggestions) Yes, it told me what I already knew. ALL MY FAULT. Another comment suggested that EVERYBODY IS YOU. (Well my book is about that too, unity of consciousness- all in it together, the Akasha et al) But the clever dream is what I’m talking about. It proves my book if proof were needed. The integration of all with all, including these marvellous things called ‘words’.

Let me list the components of that dream. (See, I too can do lists if I put my mind to it.)

Conference– To confer (OED ‘Bring together, gather, collect, take counsel’)
I have attended quite a few. They try to cosset with serene luxury, rooms in pleasing tones, the better to focus on whatever is on the agenda. They are attended by people who mostly know exactly what to expect; to find others who know what to expect, and to congratulate each other on finding exactly what they paid (a lot)for. Frightening the horses is disapproved of (as is ending sentences with prepositions.)

I always frighten horses, not intentionally, but I seem to manage it even when I remain silent. I know this, so…

I arrived late and sat apart. ( OED late= ‘weary, after the proper time, at an advanced stage’)
This was noticed and disapproved of. Arriving on time and joining is expected. All definitions apply to an old woman attempting to join the society of self publishing authors, and rather ashamed of plugging books that have no useful purpose, just stories across all genres, or sans genre entirely. Instead I went …

In search of an individual person to talk to.
The search through empty rooms provided prestigious works hung too high to see properly, including Barbara Hepworth (who a kind commentator of the dream told me had already anticipated what would follow by painting women taking tea). My aspiration to create something worthy of that company was obviously doomed. Another on line friend has suggested immortality is a vain aspiration. Why don’t I keep it simple? This post is keeping it pretty simple. Unpacking a full suitcase ( lots of clothes) and busy arranging them on hangers was…

A priest
I have approached many priests (metaphorically speaking). Some who wore dog-collars and other academics who wore gowns, all busy busy with their suitcases and excited about Burns night (OED burn= a stream; brook; a mark, from fire; a state of activity; passionate; consumed with emotion.) I have given perhaps a hundred books to such people, many professing interest. One (a prestigious Oxford ‘Fellow’- not hail met) asked to be given ‘priority’ before it was published. He required it in hard copy (420 A4 pages) and posted to Scotland with return postage for a ‘window of opportunity’ during a holiday ‘next month’. Sixty quid and four months later he regretted he would not ‘be able to find the time to read it- or even to return it!) The dream simply reminded me of affiliates to any strict doctrine: Much too important for common courtesy.

That bit I already knew, but am sometimes in danger of forgetting. Hypocrisy is a heavy word but I always assume people who profess interest really mean it, and might want to share, consider, amend, discuss. That’s because I know ideas find us, and they do not belong to anyone. What Involution is about is how this happens- and those to whom it happens are those who forget themselves altogether. Not many do. So after the brush off from the priestly caste I made my way to…

The Tea Party (OED- tea= infusion in boiling water/ not for all the tea in China…Boston tea party…)

I was unwelcome and boiled about that. First chopped up for shortcomings (arriving late, sitting aside, expecting to join in) and then triumphantly squeezed out for a satisfying brew. I had not ‘registered’ ( OED register= formally set down; cause to be entered; having eligibility; make an impression.)

Yesterday I took stock. After the death of my dog and the death of my illusions that Google had amplified by listing me when I inquired how I was doing (Google is a false friend, tells you only what it knows you want to hear) I was advised to try www. duckduckgo instead.

Quack Quack. Neither I nor my books (everywhere in every format) exist. What was that parable about a tortoise? Should be extinct.

IN case you’d like to colour in a living dinosaur there is a free download of the First Canto of Involution to be had here

Dog Days Eclipse

Dog Days Eclipse. (for Milly 2001-2014)

Our guardian angel dog is dead,
Bequeathed for a long sonnet’s span…
Her absence now insinuates through
every raku cracked routine.

She opened the day, I knew you’d come
and ‘here you are, it’s good again…’
Chin settled the close; begone, begone
My sentinel ears are set. Now sleep.

The book of family was bound
by constant reading, all out loud:
Absence tracked, whim on the wind
awaited patient at the gate.

Each supper semi-sanctified
The pre-wash cycle cleaned the plate.
Leavings now no pleasures gift
to share what self-control delayed.

Her sponge absorbed all bitterness
(the vinegar of petty strife)
The wince (before the wound) perceived,
quick licked in instant empathy.

Her presence stroked all injury
of tension or a sharp remark.
Rebuke was an averted eye:
Our grief her vigil misery.

The wild is tamed by its consent
to shaman out what we forget…
They bide with us to educate
the gift of giving, in full spate.

She centred us long, yet sudden gone
The call of the wild cried, cried her home…
Three days she keened I come, I come
My heart is strong, beats on, beats on
but hear, I hear, I speak your tongue…
Just give me a span, while I prepare
my absence from this loving lair.
She returns to breathe the spreading tree
of song in wolfish symphony.

That crouching streak…whose mother’s sheep
on Brecon’s rounded shoulders, bleak…
lies curled in clay…
The sycamore its leaves release
to trickle on a grave fresh filled
against the wall of guarded ground.

The Market of the Mind in Common.

The Reader of Mind?

Have you ever had a row in a dream? Or an open argument? I did, the other night, and I have been pondering it ever since. It was a lucid dream and pregnant with significance. The hostility came out of the blue and bit me like a serpent- a wise serpent.

Discussing the Exhibits? Or ignoring them?

I was attending a grand conference, in a country Manor. A relaxed Manor, grand in proportions, informal in atmosphere, a lot of light, comfortable sofas, a sense of Edwardian leisure. I was late and wandered through empty rooms in search of other people. There were original paintings, mostly modern, one by Barbara Hepworth, but all hung too high to see clearly. I saw a bustling middle aged man in a dog collar unpacking in a bedroom with the door ajar, and introduced myself. ‘Must rush he said ‘It’s Burns night, and I am sooo excited!’ (That puts it on January 25th but it did not feel like winter). He was not openly unfriendly but wrapped up in intentions of his own. I found my way into a dining room where the assembled delegates were having tea in china cups and scones with lashings of cream. Clearly a scene of money and privilege, and familiar self assurance. This was an assembly of intimate familiars.

I sat next to a elderly woman of a refined demeanour, perfect coiffure, expensive jewellery, and tried to ask how I might achieve a cup of tea (since I had not yet ‘registered’) and I admitted I had arrived late. She launched into an attack ‘Yes we all noticed how you sat at the side and never joined in. You must join in and do what we all do if you expect tea. I’m certainly not going to help you. You chose to be on your own. Stay that way, Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to enjoy my tea…’ She took great pleasure from her hostility, and from expressing it. She felt she was speaking for everyone present. She was. Her hostility took my breath away. It was intended to.

I woke up and pulled the tail of this dream into the light of rational evaluation.

I would welcome those of you into Jungian ideas ( or mythology of any kind) to suggest what this might mean to you. I have some ideas of my own, and like a negative in a photographic tank the meaning has been developing ever since. Before I express the portrait I am painting from its colours I would welcome your suggestions? I now realise how ‘telling’ and economical this signal to me was. Time to rethink.

Feel free to opine not merely on the dream, but also on its message to me. Those of you who know what I have written may find it easier. I intend to develop the lesson I have taken from it next post, because I think it could have philosophic value beyond its wagging finger.

Two Semi-detached Love Poems

In honour of National Poetry Day, these throw away poems are offered. I have written others that may be better, but few quicker!

‘Elusive love’ might title them together.

Yes, you

Raise your head for a moment
and give me that book…
I promised nothing but a drink at the brook
Recognition alone could make it divine…
It was left to you to turn it to wine.

Remember I never said He’d create
What lay beyond and over the gate…
I suggested a walk down the windfall light
If a feast was laid we’d participate.
What if it were fish and bread
on a windswept hill? Your hunger was fed.

So may I rest my head in your lap
for I’m replete. You consult the map.
I’ll leave it to you to establish our kin
with celibate saints and original sin…
I’ll watch the seabirds dive and shower
this landscape scattered with crumbs and flowers.

Horse Chestnut Year

They did not marry in the pivot of the year
When all was said and done.
The willow in the garden, and the spring
The gown of velvet green disdained…
Her hair about his throat concealed a chain.

‘Why should I bind myself to you, if I be free
To love and leave unshackled?
We are all equal in the eyes of God
What’s good enough for him, is good for me’
I neglected to remark that few loved God as I loved he.

So let the reins of love hang loose
No bridled promises or halters hold his head
‘Reluctant mount
I would not have you sweat or chafe
For I can walk’ quoth she.

‘The blanket of consent must fit
As does an old coat molded by long use
Hay, sweet scythed in the bosom noon
Turns bitter when dry proffered in tithe barn.
Go scent the wind, and sometimes think of me’ said she.

Divorce Pending-Damage Done. Remember Scotland?

Divorce Pending-Damage Done.

Scarred chalk-The Bastion of this Sceptred Isle.

For a week an irritable restlessness, an inability to write anything, and little belief that writing has much value amidst the jihads of various kinds! Scotland may get its own Caliphate through the vote, the pretence of democracy which enlists adolescents to beleaguer their grandparents, and promise the earth. Did nobody explain that being ‘in love’ is not loving, that grass is always greener from a distance?

Memory is the richest resource we have. Even memories of disagreement which bind us with shared scars.

Marriage is mostly dull tedium, slow change; a love affair with liberty invariably destructive of all those offspring dependent on constancy. The damage is already done whichever way it goes. No unwilling partner is ever rehabilitated, nor trustworthy.

What has Scotland to do with it? Why do I care, so incoherently? My Scottish grandfather and Irish grandmother were no part of my childhood, and it is not my blood that sings out. It is so many more important things. Mainly a love for the identity of Britain, what I thought it stood for, which I once tried to express.

Sworn Statement

I remember British before I ever came.
It held out not so much a hand
as a perfumed sheltering skirt.

Libraries of promises told me it was so;
so kind, so empathetic…good laws kept
below the plimsoll line of progress, and never shook their fists.

Red-robed institutions and the wigs of learned men
in processions or procedures, stood up stoutly to defend
like a robin a single spade, abandoned to the rain.

Centuries had assumed much the same kind of thing.
Honour never easily perturbed by loud waving sticks,
or shouting, or new planted beds of change.

That picture merely skeletal like an architect token tree;
profile of swinging twigs on which whole flocks might feed…
The glory came with foliage, later season, quiet street,

rows of modest gables, the certain corner-store.
The Pakistani, hollow eyed, exhausted and polite,
his jet-eyed child a-clamour still at ten o’clock at night.

Inevitably Cathedrals, Warden Harding in the apse…
Overwhelmed by tearful vespers by half a few intoned
in a mediaeval choir with its candle cloistered lights,

its susurration of sandal, bowing tonsured pates…
Out into the winter fog hugging near the lamps,
the smoking billboard publican stamping frozen feet.

I fell in love with promises, smacked into full-tilt
round the corners of a heedless unintentional search, believed
Britain was for everyone, somewhere, Harry and St George

Or so, for years, it seemed.

Could I have been mistaken as little as thirty years back?
Could deception hold its nerve from Land’s End to John o’ Groats?
Grey matter finds it hard to shift something weightless as faith…

There was a certain…certainty? Officer, I can’t tell you anymore
I only notice now its gone, this Island has been robbed.