In the late summer of 1995 a catalytic and seminal world healing event took place in the English countryside near the Welsh borders. Seeking to send 'Inner Aid' to the troubled group mind of humanity, we would meditate on the cancers and running sores of our world and speak our truths in Allting, Talking Stick Circle.
Our aim, to build a morphic field of understanding that would help to heal our troubled world, to be the straw that tips the balance, to be The Hundredth Monkey in the journey of planetary awakening.
now at the first full day at the camp I begin to settle in to the ambience and the opening of the circle lies before us.
See also
Chapter 0: The Fool
Contents
Chapter Two
And
So It Begins...
Saturday
26th August 1995
The morning came all misty and covered in
dew. The Barmy Swami was already up and
gone when I awoke and stepped out into the daylight.
It
was bright, the sunshine beginning to burn through the early haze. The sun rode above the line of the
Malverns. They floated in a sea of
mist, reminding me of Glastonbury Tor earlier that summer. In the flat of the vale where we were, only
trees broke through the dense white fleece, becoming ever more wan until the
distance swallowed them.
The
total absence of mechanical noise allows perceptions that would otherwise be
screened out. Birdsong filled the air
and the mist sparkled in the brilliance.
I was already feeling energized by my surroundings.
Smoke
was rising from the fire at the gate.
Ben and Julie’s camper van sat somewhat incongruously in the middle of
the field. I walked past it, in search
of a fire to warm my fingers by and…
“Tea?” It was the Swami, stirring a cup as I
approached.
In
the daylight I could see that the night before we had been sitting on an old
three piece suite, arrayed around the firepit as if this were perfectly
normal. There was the slight air of a
Harold Pinter production about it. A
plank on the ground acted as table for the cups, milk and teapot.
He
may have had the most outlandish appearance, only amplified in the daylight,
but he clearly had a very English sense of priorities when it mattered. I gratefully received the proffered mug of
hot brew and knelt down to warm at the fire.
People
were beginning to emerge from the yellow dome behind me.
Amidst
the non-committal grunts of early morning heads still thick with sleep it
became apparent that porridge might be had later in the long restaurant
marquee. It seems there were more folk
about on site than I had realized. The
catering crew had been settled into their own fireside hidden from site behind
the restaurant marquee when we arrived the previous night.
I
exchanged pleasantries with the Barmy Swami over our morning tea and began to
think that my earlier reaction had been exaggerated, although his appearance
was more akin to a shaman than anything else which came to mind. It was my own inner response which swung
like a pendulum, although on the surface there was no reason. Our attire was similar and I too had a joke
magical name, Cosmic Claire, besides being Deadheads.
I
was getting my personae mixed up.
Having not quite adjusted to the magical world yet I was still operating
from my well practised middle class city personality. Realizing this I was able to adapt my reality parameters, but a
deeper challenge lay behind my feelings than this. One of which the Swami was to be not only the signaller, but also
a guide. A deeper sense knew that he
had insight into a world which I was to enter, and which was to be both delight
and nightmare by turns. My conscious
mind knew nothing of this, save that this cosmic hobo raised intuitions in me
which I could not yet begin to understand.
The
site manager was delayed and unable to join us until later, so the Swami was to
have his work cut out, and it wasn’t long before he was off to deal with all
the concerns which this involved. I
returned to my baggage pile for my cutlery and glazed Chinese cup. I had had this cup for some ten years or so;
it had long lost its handle, but the depth and detail of the subtly coloured
bamboo imagery was such as to have almost had a magical quality, arising from
the thick textures of the painted slipware beneath the translucent glaze. Though its carefully out turned lip was
chipped in a couple of places it still had the feel of an ancient work of art
to me and I felt that to bring and risk a treasured item such as this to the
camp was in some way to honour the gathering in a way that a plastic or tin
camping mug would not. To preserve and
care for it would require mindfulness.
I ambled off to the restaurant space and begged some porridge of the crew, who
were sitting around behind the marquee drinking tea and smoking.
They
made the sorts of noises usually heard from between the lips and teeth of
plumbers when sizing up a job, but eventually softened to my pleadings and
slopped me a dollop of lukewarm porridge into a bowl.
Having
eaten I wandered off to find the others with whom I had come.
My
friends were making ready for an early start on the remainder of their journey
to see relatives. I thanked them both
for the lift, we took our leave of each other and soon they were off. The sun
was making headway against the vanishing vapours as it rose toward its zenith
and the heat of the day began to build.
All
around was unhurried and apparently uncoordinated activity. People were beginning to arrive in ones and
twos, vehicles being unloaded of gear which lay in unattended piles. I lugged my own baggage from the circular
marquee a short distance to what was the beginning of a circle around a shallow
firepit that was as yet unused. The
turf which had been lifted from the pit was piled in a stack some yards
away. A small geodesic dome covered
with orange tarpaulin was the only resident of this encampment so far. Emulating the distance that this held from
the pit, I spread my home flat on the earth and laid claim to the ground which
would be my plot for the next seven nights. It was a yellow clay, baked hard by
the summer’s long heatwave and dearth of rain.
The grass was short and sparse, mingled with clover, thistle and several
plants I could not identify.
Resting
here I was aware that I would have to be careful with my activity levels. My M.E. tended to cut my energy off
unexpectedly if I overdid things. At
Glastonbury Festival I had found that it was necessary to spend several hours a
day lying down resting in between bouts of activity. I knew that one of the big challenges of the week would be
balancing my activity with rest so that I would not get depleted emotionally
and thus be able to make the most of what held the promise to be something of
an adventure.
Relaxing
after my unwonted early activity I was aware of how stiff my body was from
yesterday’s journey. Basking in the
sunshine I dozed off.
*
Refreshed
by my snooze I rejoined the world of the conscious to see a great deal more
going on than earlier. All about a
many-coloured forest of tents and domes was beginning to spring up. Blue, orange, red, green and different shades
of lilac and purple; from the smallest one-person bivouac to full sized rectangular
family tents with partitions and awnings.
I wandered off to the café where a basic
lunch of bread and cheese had been put on by the crew and left unattended. Repairing to a bench on the western side of
the café I was able to watch the proceedings as I munched on my vittles.
A short bearded man walked past towards the
entrance beside me. He was wearing an
unusual set of attire reminiscent to me of a Samurai warrior, but made of blue
denim. It seemed designed for all
weather, the sharply cut coat falling below his knees. He had a curious rustic air and held a
carved staff in his right hand, like someone from a fairy tale.
“Nice
getup” I remarked cheerily, thinking of how we had been encouraged to wear
‘shamanic’ dress.
“It’s
not a ‘getup’ ” he replied grumpily.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” I said, “I didn’t
mean any offence. I like what you’re
wearing, it’s interesting.”
Mollified but still piqued he grunted a form
of assent and marched off into the café.
Oops, I thought, that was not meant as a sneer but a compliment.
Feeling embarrassed that I had managed so
soon to offend someone who looked like part of the local establishment I sat on
my little bench and reflected that not everyone there took such a light-hearted
view as myself. I felt self-doubt
also. I had not intended to poke fun,
now it felt like I had… Why does this
always happen? Why do I always end up
feeling bad when I try to say something jovial?
Two women approached and asked if there was
room for them on the bench. Assenting,
I saw that they were pulling out cigarettes.
I had been attempting to give up smoking cigarettes for most of that
year. Having weakened in the face of
temptation too often in the past, I did not wish to break the fast which I had
successfully maintained for several weeks, so as the first waft of smoke
billowed out from the smokers, I finished my lunch, made my excuses and left.
The campsite was now beginning to take on
some form. In front of where I had been
sitting there was a wide open space which was to remain so. At the far end of this, perhaps a little
less than a hundred yards, was the circular marquee that was to be used for the
main group meditations and Allting. Arrayed
in a rough semi-circle to the right of this space most of the campfire circles
were arising, and at its centre an old tree stump had been set to act as an
altar. To its left a long boundary
ditch marked the perimeter of our field, beyond which, in the South, was the
dense woodland that had been so dark in the night.
On the far right, the northern edge of the
camp, beyond the motley village which was under construction, a perpetual
stream of arrivals were being processed at the Gate. The site now becoming more populated, cars were being turned back
to the parking space in the part of the field beyond. A mature hedgerow emerged curving from behind the café to my
right and headed to the Gate before taking a sharp turn back out of sight and
away from the camp, doubling back to the outer gate where we had come off the
road. The long thin car parking field
was separated from the main site first by this hedge and then a shallow ditch
which came from the far West end. The
Gate encampment was just inside of this, the ditch running under a covered
culvert over which the microbus had driven.
At the far end of our field the ground rose gently to some trees
adjacent to a barn and farm buildings.
We were enclosed by ditches on three sides, to the North, East and
South. To the South West was a small
wooded hillock and beyond further hedges, to the North more rising ground gave
us a feeling of enclosure and protection in a shallow saucer shaped dell.
Ever curious I set off to investigate my
surroundings in more detail, having in mind the well established encampment
behind the cafe. Several of the kitchen
crew were lying about in the sun. Large
tureens filled with cut and prepared vegetables standing in water attested to
their earlier labours.
A tall dark-haired man was slapping idly at a
large drum made of black rubber sheeting stretched tight over a large plastic
cylinder. Nylon cords were threaded
through knocks in the base and held the rubber skin tight. Two other drums of similar construction lay
about.
“Hi,
we sort of met earlier, I’m Claire, can I join your space?”
The man interrupted his lazy rhythm and
removed a rollup from his lips. I was
clearly not going to be able to avoid contact with people smoking.
“Sure, I’m Ross. Welcome
to the camp.” He held out his hand in
greeting, which I shook. He was slim
but well muscled, black jeans and singlet matched his medium length hair and
two days growth of beard. The young
women who had served me porridge earlier introduced themselves as Trudi and
Roxanne. Trudi was blonde, in jeans and
patterned sun top, Roxanne smaller and skinny, ginger haired, snub nosed and
freckled with large wide smiling eyes; dressed like her companion but in black,
she had a waif like look and an impish grin.
“I’m glad I got here last night,” I
ventured. “It’s giving me time to take
in the surroundings and acclimatize.”
It transpired that they had all been working
as crew on other camps that summer, and so had fully adjusted to the outdoor
life. They referred to those who were
arriving as ‘punters’. The very fact
that I had arrived early and was engaging with them appeared to gain me
kudos. “Some of these city fowk
seem to think we’re invisible” said Ross.
He said ‘city folk’ in a mock West Country accent. Referring as he presumably was to the
earlier camps they had experienced, I said that I hoped that it would not be
the case here.
“We’ll see” they all muttered, chuckling. I could see that I had stumbled onto a
little clan hidden within the structure of the camp, a distinct group apart
from the gate, administration or site management.
Ross resumed his rhythmic pulse on the
mock-djembe.
I was delighted to have found some easy-going
companionship after my encounter with the denim-clad Samurai. We chatted intermittently about where we had
come from and the lives we were leading, but our main pleasure was simply
enjoying the sun and our unspoilt rural surroundings. I began to hope that this relaxed acceptance would be the norm in
response to my openness and not the rejection into which I seemed to habitually
stumble
The resonance of the drum created its own
ambience, and before long a dark-haired young woman separated herself from the
bustle of camp arrivals and introduced herself as Carmel, from Denmark. Joining in with the drumming she seemed
somewhat manic and excited. I was again
glad for the head start I had been afforded, thinking that it might easily have
been myself trying to find a means of earthing myself after hours of motorway
madness or even air-flight.
The drumbeat penetrated our bodies and its
waves loosened the clinging static charges and jangling vibrations of the
city. Slipping from our auras they
melted into the ground. By now I had my
shoes off and felt the grass between my toes.
I was happy to align myself with the vibrations of these nomads who had
spent so much of that wonderful summer in touch with the Earth, the sky and the
elements.
A warm light breeze was beginning to spring
up from the West. Glancing to my left I
could see Palden and several others struggling to pull a huge greyish canvas
over the completed skeleton of a geodesic dome on the far side of the central
plaza. It reminded me of the famous
image of American soldiers as they planted their flag on the hilltop of Iwo Jima.
The slanting spars of the frame echoed the angle of the flagpole while
the crew struggled with the billowing material, seeking to gain the apex of
this mound like the GI’s raising their triumph. A gust of wind assisted and all of a sudden the battle was
over.
Entertained by this spectacle I looked
further to the left and saw that around the fire pit beside which I had lain my
tent several new tents of had been erected.
I realized that the afternoon was wearing away; my own shelter was still flat on the ground
and I needed to see to it.
I left my new-found companions and went to my
own preparations.
The circle was indeed filling up. Palden was emerging from the orange dome
next door. I was grateful that he had a
small mallet which he let me use for the skewers tensioning my guy ropes. The clay was so dry that it was beginning to
crack. I attempted to embed the metal
spikes in firm ground, but many of these hit stones not far beneath the
surface, and I was obliged to make use of some of the cracks. I soon became aware of the fact that the
entrance of my sanctum was facing directly into the prevailing wind allowing
the air to funnel into the interior so that the rear of the tent ballooned like
a spinnaker. Too late to find another
patch I ensured that the front guy was well established in front of its pole.
Temporarily satisfied with my work I began
arranging my belongings inside. The
ground I was to lie on was not as flat to the back as it had seemed to the
eye. I was left shuffling my sleeping
bag, clothes and guitar until I had what seemed a satisfactory solution. I lay down with my feet toward the lowering
sun which spilt through the gaps between the loose flaps at my feet.
Resting from my efforts I could hear the
sounds of activity, voices, children running about and screaming with their
new-found freedom. The heavier tread of an adult brushed past within inches of
me on the other side of my nylon walls, and I could hear its owner enter the
large tent to my right.
“Yes
I’ve found it, Tina” I heard the voice say.
“Sean…. Sean K…, well I’ll be darned, it is
you” I exclaimed as propelling myself forward I rose out of the front of my den
and confirmed what my ears had told me.
Sean was an old friend from way back in
Leeds. I had recently graduated from
the University when we first met, and had shared a social group whose interests
had grown through inquiry into mysticism, meditation and metaphysics. ‘Exploring the limits of reality’ as he had
once put it. The early eighties had
seen us investigate the paths of the Cabalistic Tree of Life and corresponding
images from the Major Arcana of the Tarot.
After a while our meditation circle had scattered when the psychic
archetypes we had activated led us each to our own individual paths. The flower had withered, but was replaced
with seeds that were blown by the wind to find places where they could grow and
flower again in their turn.
I recalled Sean had once said in about 1981
“I wonder what we’ll all be doing ten years from now?” That decade had come and gone. I had lost touch with him, heard that he was
living in a community in the West Country, tried to re-establish contact, and
eventually given up my search. Now
after all this time the trajectory of our lives had intersected,
synchronistically.
A slightly built woman of medium height with
shoulder length ginger hair, wearing khaki trousers and a loose fitting multi
coloured top was approaching. “Hey
Tina, look who’s camped next to us, my old friend Claire from Leeds!” Sean exclaimed.
He introduced us, and pointed out their two
children, aged about six and four who were dashing around, stimulated by these
new surroundings. Tina was involved
with site maintenance. They had met
through the Oak Dragon Camps in the 1980’s shortly after I had lost touch with
Sean.
We marvelled at the fortune which had led us
to set up next to each other. It was a
classic synchronicity which hinted at a deeper link.
The sun was sinking low toward the
silhouetted tree tops of the Western horizon, and word was spreading round that
the evening meal was ready to be eaten.
The opening of the Circle would follow.
Incandescent Tilley lamps had been lit inside
against the onset of dusk. Dozens of
people were heading towards it, and there were already dozens more inside. A queue was snaking out of the opening in
the side of the canvas. I could see
members of the catering crew behind the stainless steel counter, dolloping rice
and vegetables onto plates held out eagerly by the punters.
Glancing round I realised that I had been
joined by the Barmy Swami in the queue, he winked at me, grinning and holding
his plate, cutlery and a purple Cadbury’s Dairy Milk mug for his tea. I still hadn’t quite got over my unaccounted
gut reaction and apprehension toward the chap, but a day relaxing in the field
had made me realise it was something I should be getting over. I was already a different person from who I
had been when I arrived twenty-four hours ago, relaxing, opening up to the new
reality which I had defended against initially. Several years of poor health which had led me to live the life of
a recluse had not done anything for my social confidence; I needed to step out of that persona into
something new.
I greeted him, and as we reached the counter,
Trudi also, who was serving. It
occurred to me that I had a head start on most of the day’s arrivals in that I
had met several of the catering and site crew.
The week was not simply about the meditation circles, but an opportunity
to meet new and unusual people. I
should not rely on my connection with Sean alone.
The Swami and I found space at one of the
trellis tables and sat on the benches.
The planks were narrow and the metal legs were thin, inclining them to
bed into the ground. We exchanged a few
pleasantries about our shared musical interest, and then I asked him how he
came to be at Hundredth Monkeying.
“Somewhat by chance, actually” he replied.
“Palden asked if I would step into the breach as his site manager can’t
be here for the start of the camp.
Saving the world isn’t really my thing, but living in a field for a week
is, so I was glad to be able to help out.”
Swami was very well spoken, and was not at all like the unwashed crusty
I had initially taken him for. Indeed I
now realised he actually had a very soft and gentle voice, a fact which I had
completely failed to recognise the previous night when I had let my
preconceptions about his appearance rule my judgement.
I was intrigued by his remark that he wasn’t
into saving the world, as that did seem to be the prime focus of our being
there, but then he was telling me how he had known Palden for a fair number of
years in Glastonbury. The various
sections of crew had also been assembled from links which had been built up
over the years deriving from camps and other New Age cultural links. Glastonbury has been, and still is, a focus
for this sort of thing, and so Palden had been ideally placed to work on
constructing new levels of networking.
World meditations had emerged from the personal growth movement of the
seventies and eighties as people had moved from the personal to the
trans-personal in their concerns.
My curiosity to find out how Swami fitted
into all this even though he wasn’t committed to saving the world was to be
stymied for the present as the café was now becoming quite full and
crowded. New arrivals were colonising
our table and causing us to move along our benches to make more space. Introductions were being made all about us
and it was plain that I should have to wait for a later occasion to enquire
further.
Those present spanned all ages from young
children to folk in their sixties. There was perhaps a preponderance of those
known as the woolly jumper and home-made muesli brigade. Certainly several rainbow coloured jumpers
were in evidence, but there were also others who were attired more plainly.
The crowd grew and the light outside
waned. I had a growing sense of
excitement and anticipation as we ate our dinner. The gathering was nearly complete. Soon we would all be there and the journey could begin. Clearly there were many old friendships
being renewed. I was glad I had had the
opportunity to settle in and meet people that day as I might otherwise have
felt quite isolated. There were people
there with different images from many walks of life, but very few were entirely
new to this kind of thing it seemed.
The place was packed. The hubbub of conversation had risen to a
gentle roar. The sound of a little bell
ringing penetrated the dense texture of this ambient background. Some ceased speaking, others shushed the
remainder into silence.
Palden was standing in the centre of the
marquee.
“I think we have everyone who is going to be
here now, so if you would clear a space in the centre we can convene the
circle. Don’t worry if you haven’t
finished your dinner, this shouldn’t take too long.”
For a minute or two the crowd bustled to make
the clearing.
“If you link hands now, we can begin.”
On my right was the Barmy Swami, on my left a
dapper bearded man who reminded me of king George the fifth. He was dressed in tweeds, immaculately
polished brown shoes and a white shirt, collar open, with a paisley cravat and
waistcoat. He made a striking contrast
to me and the Swami, indeed with most of us in the circle. Introducing himself as Tom, he held out his
hand in a formal and traditional manner, eyes smiling. His appearance was more redolent of the
1950’s than the 1990’s, and there was a strange gentleness about him which
belied his very masculine appearance.
His hand was quite soft, and I felt a sensitive soul behind his
old-fashioned façade.
Swami’s hand was the complete opposite as I
slipped mine into his to link the circle.
Rough and calloused, he clearly led a life of physical hardship, but
seemingly one that he had chosen.
Palden again:
“In a minute I shall be going through some of the practical arrangements for
the week, but first let us open the circle with an Om.”
Suddenly there was perfect
silence and stillness in that crowded café tent. A feeling of immense gravitas overcame me. I felt privileged, awed to be present at
such a unique gathering. We had chosen
to give what we could of ourselves to aid a world in pain and crisis, or
perhaps we had been chosen. I was
filled with both pride and humility.
The hushed crowd had the presence of a congregation at midnight mass on
Christmas Eve. Palden, tall and lanky,
bespectacled with a stubbly smile wide full of teeth would be our choirmaster.
He began the chant with a resonant
“Ooo…….” Slowly at first, but with
growing strength we joined in. The
multitude of voices created a rich chord, blending from deep male basses through
the majority of mid-range to the sopranos who floated above the chorus.
We seemed to have entered a dimension in
which time had a different velocity, density and viscosity. We went into ourselves through that sound,
touching our deeper beings in the inner stillness, awakening parts of our souls
which had been lying dormant, waiting for the call of that moment, knew our
ambitions and apprehensions, a glimpse of what it was we had come to seek.
The energy focussed like a standing wave in
the centre of the circle, resonating subtle ripples out through the
ethers. It truly felt that we were
creating a new beginning, seeded from the aspirations and intentions we brought
with us and encoded in the harmonies of that great hum. Briefly a thought crossed my mind ~ what
hidden discord might lie unnoticed within those sonorous layers? In the Ainulindale, the creation myth in
Tolkien’s Silmarillion, one of the Angels sings a note which is disharmonious,
causing conflict. My ear detected no
dissonance. The angelic primal chord
had had its antiphony, but it had been subtly hidden. Only as the variations found their way into manifestation did its
outcome become apparent. But this had
been part of the Great Design in the making of a world which could rise above
these contradictions.
This thought was but a small voice as the
cadence within our circle rose and fell, singing our new creation into
existence. Our souls, like stars, the
source of worlds yet to be born. The
sound of our congregation rolled around the circle like the backwash of the Big
Bang, the Cosmic Background; its centre of gravity now here, now there, now in
the middle as we united ourselves for the journey we were beginning.
“….ommmmmmm.”
I counted 128 faces in that circle, adults
and children. Two to the power of
seven. An interesting number.
The chorus abated. It had lasted perhaps a minute, but in that time we had travelled
to the centre of Creation and back again.
I felt that I would have travelled for this alone, for the privilege of
chanting with all these others, most of whom were yet strangers. Diverse our paths may have been which led us
here, but we had now all been united in this shared vibration.
We stood there holding hands in silence until
we felt the press of our neighbours fingers pass round the circle, signalling
the moment to release from this union.
Slowly, gently we let our hands relax and slide free.
The silence was almost as profound as the
chant; reluctant to part from the moment we stood meekly as children respectful
of the sanctified atmosphere in a great cathedral. Hesitantly, we began breathing again, the rustle of movement
returned, someone cleared their throat and we were back in the normal
space-time of the late twentieth century.
“An excellent Om” said Palden “I haven’t
heard one as good as that in a long time.”
One or two hands clapped, and there was a
gentle “Yeah” from somewhere in the crowd like a ‘Halleluya’ from an
evangelical revivalist meeting.
“I would like to thank you all for coming to
the Hundredth Monkey camp. You know why
we’re here, so I’ll fill you in on the timetable and practical details. The programme will begin tomorrow morning at
seven o’clock when Ivan McBeth here” he pointed to him “ will start the
proceedings with a tune from his flute so as to wake you for the Dance of Life
at seven thirty. Regulars at the Oak
Dragon camp will know this, it is a native American medicine chant. Ivan will give you more details when he
teaches it to you. Gather in the
central space around the camp altar, the old tree stump which has devotional
objects on and around it. Please feel
free to add any you may have brought yourselves.
“Breakfast will be served here in the café
from eight. I hope you all have your
meal tickets. If you haven’t you will
need to see Sheila here.” She stood
forward and smiling raised her hands.
“The morning meditations will begin at ten in
the circular marquee. Ana Cavill here,
AnaNanA, camp mother, will be co-moderating them with me.” He motioned to a mature but sprightly
looking woman close by him in tie dyes with long dark hair, who somehow had a
touch of Red Indian in her character.
“Please be on time, we shall begin promptly and latecomers may find that
we have already started and that they can’t come in.
“The meditation will last for twenty minutes,
after which we shall have a short break, and then we shall resume for the
Allting, which may last until lunchtime at about one o’clock.
“The afternoon groups will be at two
o’clock. To sort these out we shall
convene in the Allting marquee tomorrow after lunch. These groups will last until about half past three or so. We’ll keep the late afternoon space clear
for relaxation or other activities which may arise. Anyone interested in running something in this slot should come
and see me afterwards.
“The catering crew” (hands up to a round of
applause) “will have the evening meal
ready by about half past five, and evening groups will be held at seven
thirty. These are yet to be sorted, but
I have one or two pencilled in. See Ana
if you have something to offer.”
Names and the responsibilities these people would be taking care of were sprayed at us. There were a multitude of practical considerations on which the smooth running of our temporary village depended. A shop, the shower and hot tub, children's program supervised by Bill, the denim Samurai, their young people's space in the woodland to the South, firewood supplies, the list seemed endless.
“Something I would suggest everyone does at
least once during the week, and more often if they can, is to Beat the
Bounds. This is an ancient custom of
both practical and symbolic purpose.
All it entails is walking round the perimeter of the camp, but it is a
powerful ritual. In olden times it
would be done daily in hill forts and defended encampments in order to be aware
of any perimeter breaches in hedges and fences, indicating the presence of
intruders, or simply damage by animals which needed to be seen to and
mended. But it also has a purpose in
declaring the boundaries of our space to the wider world, whether that be wildlife
who would sense our presence through scent and tracks, or to more subtle beings
such as those who recognise the psychic boundaries that magical working groups
such as covens or meditation circles set up about themselves for
protection. Similarly we will at most
times have the Gate camp manned; this being one of the few occasions when it is
not, since we all need to be here; but to regulate the flow of energy between
the camp and the outside, the Gate performs an important function.
“Since we are operating in a kind of
quarantine from the mundane vibrations of the world it will be valuable for us
to have that cell wall membrane reinforced in a kind of habitual routine; also
for our own individual awareness of ourselves and how we relate to the camp
space, encapsulating it symbolically within our consciousness in order to
perceive the gestalt. Besides all that,
it can be a pleasant stroll and an opportunity to become aware of aspects of
the camp and our local environment that you might not otherwise have
noticed. We have here probably the largest
collection of geodesic domes in Britain, check them out, they are very
efficient structures in both materials and space.” The way he talked about them reminded me of Tipi Valley in Wales. I knew of it through a friend who had lived
there; had seen the Tipi field at Glastonbury Festival the previous year and
felt a similar purpose of eco-utility, founded in the alternative thought of
the sixties.
Before the meeting wound down entirely we
were shown a whiteboard that was to be posted with running updates to the
schedule, details of newly scheduled groups and so forth.
“As you all know” Palden continued “we have a
defined spiritual purpose this week, and a formal timetable, but it is also an
opportunity to unwind away from the stress of life in the conventional world
and explore more subtle aspects to life.
I hope you will all enjoy yourselves and derive personal benefit from
engaging with this work.” He nodded and
opened his hands in a gesture of giving and welcome. He was rewarded with applause and cheering ~ we had begun and
were in the magical space we had all anticipated. What would it bring….
In the bustle which followed I managed to
approach Ana and ask if I could have an evening of guitar songs by a
campfire. She was clearly too busy to
get involved in a lengthy get-to-know you chat, but put it down on her list and
said she would try to find a space for it.
I could ask for little more, and so mingled
for a short while, chatting with those whom I had already met and some I had
not, then feeling rather overwhelmed by the faces of more than a hundred
strangers, left the café for some cool night air. Remembering Palden’s remark about the central altar I went to my
tent, found the pair of finely carved and polished ebony Fulani heads of a boy
and girl which my parents had bought me on my last visit to Nigeria; my images
of God and Goddess which I had brought and placed them at the devotional
centre. A beautiful brass lantern lit
the scene of a white porcelain Buddha nestling in a recess, several large
crystals, an African violet which had been freshly planted there, shells,
bamboo windchimes, a cluster of red and yellow feathers, a carved staff that
looked like a therianthropic beast with horns and a black banner with some
unusual white calligraphy resembling something between a face and a snake.
Time to retire and prepare for the morrow.
©Claire Rae Randall 2012
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