Chapter 3 of my magnum opus on the quest to build a morphic field of world healing at the catalytic 1995 Hundredth Monkey Camp. Here we get down to business and set to in the Allting, as the Scandinavians call Talking Stick Circle (it's the name of the Icelandic Parliament too).
What's it about? ~ Speaking your Truth....
Previous chapters
This is a true story. All names are either used with permission or are pseudonyms.
Chapter Three
Mururoa Allting
Sunday 27th August 1995
I awoke to the gentle sound of a flute. The simple melody was repeated in
variation. I could discern the movement
of the sound’s author as he circled the encampment. The sun was up and shining on the rear wall of my tent, the
direction from which the call of reveille came.
I was not accustomed to early rising, and snuggled
back deeply into the warmth of my sleeping bag. As I dipped in and out of my receding slumber I became aware of
movement behind me. Muttered morning
greetings, throat clearing coughs and the shuffling noises of people gathering
for the first Dance of Life.
A man’s voice had begun speaking, just a little too
quiet and distant for me to clearly make out what was being said. The voice had a calm and soothing rhythmic
quality, and I began to drift back to the security of unconsciousness.
“Ama tikki wo-oh, Ah-ne-oh-hey, Oh-oh sha-anna,
Hey-a-na, hey-a-no, hey-iyaa”
I was returned to the world of awareness by the
chanting of those who had gathered to dance with Ivan. The texture and cadences were clearly
derived from the native American tradition, but also evoked something deep
within that I could not put a name to.
A feeling of longing akin to that which the djembe awoke, but with a
higher resonance as if it were reaching for the limitless sky or seeking to
view beyond the horizon.
The chant was repeated, then segued into a new line.
“O-oh hey-a-no, ha-ah-i-iya!” slowly rolling around
with a feeling of memory and hope, rising sharply in intensity and volume at
the end as if all this energy were being encapsulated and then thrown out to
the world.
“Oh-oh,
hey-a-na, hey-a-no, he-ey-i-yaaaah” The
final vowel sound was sustained and then softly faded like the autumn; after a
moment’s pause the entire chant was repeated.
Four times in all the chant was made as I lay in my den absorbing its
subtle vibration, wondering what movements might be accompanying this wonderful
song, and resolving that I should endeavour to join this in future days.
Just as I thought the gathering around the altar in
the centre of the field was over, there was a sudden roar of a shout from those
assembled. This was followed by
laughing and mirthful voices blending into a chatter which slowly faded away as
the group dispersed.
Realizing that I would not be returning to my sleep
I bestirred; raising myself to a vertical position, pulled on my leggings,
tie-dye top and jacket, laced up my Doc Marten boots and ventured out into the
day.
I had reached the café marquee before I remembered
that I needed my own cutlery and cup.
By the time I had fetched them the queue for breakfast was gathering
fast, and I had to wait in line. I
suddenly felt quite alone and vulnerable;
I didn’t know anyone in the immediate vicinity about me. I needn’t have worried since most quite
clearly had heads full of sleep and were not alert to social exploration at
that time.
The catering crew on the other hand had obviously
been up for some time making porridge and toast and were well past their third
cup of tea. As the queue crept forward
I reached the hotplate. Wholefoody
extras such as muesli bars and juice drinks were laid out in the Perspex
pigeonholes of a display case. These
were individually priced so I could tell they were not included in the meal
ticket. Further along behind the
stainless steel counter stood Trudi, whom I had met briefly the previous
afternoon.
“And how is Trudi this morning?” I asked, displaying
my ticket with ‘Sunday Breakfast’ written on it.
“Fine, uh, it’s Claire isn’t it? We’ve been up for ages. Nice morning. Porridge?”
“Yes please.”
It was indeed a fine morning. It
was too early for the day to have built any heat, but the clear sky outside
augured well.
The line was already moving on and I was faced with
the option of baked beans and toast. I
took some toast and moved onto the tea urn at the end of the counter. The catering was very well presented, the
stainless steel hotplate counter ran almost the full width of the oblong tent,
a professional rented job. Behind the
counter were all the necessary equipment for feeding a near army of people; gas
rings, ovens, wire trays of bread, large plastic trays of vegetables and fruit
all stacked up near the wall of the tent.
Pipes snaked out from the heated hotplate and cooking rings and under
the canvas behind them to invisible gas canisters outside, doubtless with
regard to safety. I was taking in
things I had not fully registered before and was impressed with the attention
to detail which had gone into setting up the material support facilities. It would have been so easy to get a hundred
and more people in a field to meditate and then find some crucial detail which
we all take for granted in a city had been neglected.
I found myself a place at one of the tables, and sitting
down resolved that I should curb my insecurity. Living a fairly quiet and reclusive life can allow one to build
up an unconscious aversion to crowds.
Certainly being in the middle of one when everybody else around appears
to know other people and be engaged in catching up can be a little
disorienting, if only at a subtle level.
I felt a tension between my excitement at simply being there and the
confidence this gave me to watch the whole event as it developed, and my inner
self-doubt which was exaggerated by my probably erroneous perception that I was
on my own in a tribe which appeared to be totally pre-existent.
Strengthened and refreshed by my breakfast I went
off to attend to the bodily matters which must be seen to even in a meditation
camp. The nearest toilets to my circle
were twenty or thirty yards beyond the circular meditation tent to the
West. I believe these were the women’s
loos. They were of the ‘shit-pit’
variety made notorious by Glastonbury Festival, but mercifully were not to receive
such heavy usage. A wooden cabin with
two cubicles was painted blue with silver stars, comets and ringed
planets. This was placed over a five
foot deep pit. Inside was a bucket of
sawdust with a trowel, and a notice on the wall read ‘Throw one scoop of
sawdust in the pit after use’.
Nearby stood a stainless steel kitchen sink with
draining board and tap on a wooden frame plumbed into a solid looking blue
neoprene pipe, looking totally surreal.
The three-piece suite around the gate fire had nothing on this. It was of course entirely functional in that
we could all wash our hands after visiting the little blue room, but standing
there in the open green with the water dripping out of the unplumbed plughole
you might begin to wonder if that post apocalyptic vision truly was
materializing.
The early part of the day slipped by easily with a
few casual meetings and I was in my tent putting on some makeup when I heard
the delicate sound of a handbell and Ana’s voice saying “Allting… Allting, time
for the Allting, we begin in ten minutes.”
She walked past our circle and on to the other
campfire circles. I could hear her
repeating the announcement as her voice receded and she continued on her
progress. I gathered my cushion and
blanket to sit upon as we had been advised and made for the meditation circle.
The sun shone into the entrance of the meditation
marquee. A portion of the canvas wall
had been removed in the Eastern facing wall.
A pole remained in the middle of the gap with about five feet or so on
either side.
A tall and blonde, slightly portly woman perhaps in
her late fifties wearing a pink jumper and long blue skirt was standing by this
entrance with a dark blue velvet bag slung over her shoulder on a plaited cord.
“Angel cards?”
she proffered me her bag.
“Ah, thanks!”
I dug a hand in, stirred around the leaves in its depths and pulled out
a small paper about two inches by one and a half folded like a paper dart. “I brought these for daily blessings.” She
explained.
It bore a stylised silhouette of an angel blowing a
trumpet and the word ‘Acceptance’.
Interesting. I hoped I would be
able to accept the different views that were to be expressed. I had heard of these Angel cards, but never
seen them before, a kind of divinatory tool akin to Tarot cards evidently. They were photocopied and cut by hand
judging by the irregular edges.
Blessings by the handful! We had
all been invited to take on some role or identification for the camp, so she
had chosen to be the Angel card lady. I
wondered what other blessings or insights she might have in store for me later.
She was offering the bag to all and sundry as they
streamed into the interior space and were finding themselves places around the
edge. I saw a gap to my left and set
myself down in it, some half dozen or so poles round the circumference from the
entrance.
Two women whom I did not recognise were waving
smouldering bunches of dry leafy twigs around, wafting the smoke around,
drenching themselves in its aromatic fragrance. I did not recognise the herb or its smell, but like so much of
this world I had found my way into, found it highly evocative, just as a good
incense should be. Now they were
offering it round the gathering, the participants fanning the fumes over the
heads and faces in what appeared a ritual manner. I followed suit when it came to me. I was experienced with some types of ritual magic; mostly Cabala based high magic of the
Western Hermetic tradition. What I was
being introduced to now seemed more pagan based, with a strong feeling of the
native American tradition.
The space was becoming quite full now, the incoming
flow had slowed to a trickle of stragglers and these were squeezing into the
remaining small spaces. A total of
thirty-two poles supported the perimeter.
I didn’t count the number of the crowd present, but clearly most of
those on site were there. The poles
acted as useful backrests and with two or three people in the spaces between
each of them our number must have been close to one hundred.
A few had curious wooden seats without legs, but
comprised of long flat boards which lay on the ground with backrests that could
be removed or slotted into the groundboard and propped up by chocks behind
them. Each one of these was entirely
unique, they were obviously individually handmade and designed for no other
purpose than that to which they were now being put. Some were plain unadorned wood, others varnished and still others
painted with designs of leaves and flowers or stars and planets. There were
also a number of portable canvas camp chairs, some of these with short or no
legs, so that the majority of the gathering were sitting at ground level.
The clothes of the assembling multitude were perhaps
the most varied collection that I had ever seen in one place. Palden’s invitation to shamanic dress had
been exuberantly embraced. Not only
casual everyday wear, jeans, woolly jumpers and tee shirts, but tie-dyes, flamboyant
hippie gear, all manner of baggy trousers, combats, leggings, bright colours,
leather waistcoats, flowing skirts, bangles, beads, headbands, carved and
ornamented staffs, bare feet, shoulders and arms, boots, sandals, rustic hand
woven meditation blankets spread out and wrapped around willy nilly,
embroidered cushions and my bearded neighbour from last night in a tweed jacket
somehow did not seem out of place.
Like a ship’s mast the central pole upon which the
circular marquee depended was strung with ropes lashed to stays at its base, a
weblike dream catcher hanging from it at head height.
In front of this facing the entrance was another
tree stump like the one at the centre of the field, a tangle of roots spreading out to all directions. On and about it were a multitude of candles,
smoking joss sticks and incense cones in brass holders. Some devotional pieces
were spread before it on a small patterned blanket. A Buddha, a mandala, several crystals, one of them a huge rose
quartz the size of a child’s head and a polished wooden box about fifteen
inches by three by two with a brass clasp.
Palden and Ana were sitting opposite the entrance,
conferring over notes, jotting the odd thing down. Palden was wearing a pink speckled jumper, red trousers and
floppy hat. Ana a long flowing skirt
and rainbow tie-dyed tee-shirt.
The hubbub began to quieten and I felt a tremendous
anticipation. The gravitas of the
previous evening’s Om returned and was amplified. We were now assembled for what we had committed to do.
Once the silence had been established for a few
seconds Palden spoke. “Let us all hold
hands and open the circle.”
The link was made and we held it in silence for a
moment which seemed to have an immense depth.
Distant sounds of children reached our ears from outside, but within our
circle was absolute stillness broken only by the occasional brief muffled sound
of a cough or clearing throat. The
signal of the pressed hand rippled round the multitude and we were back in the
present.
Palden stood up.
“Welcome to the Hundredth Monkey circle. Before we begin our meditation I just have a few pieces of
information to share. This afternoon we
shall begin the workshop groups. To
help choose who shall be in which we have decided to let the Universe decide,
and so we shall pass round a hat with the names of the group leader/facilitators
in it, so that you can choose one at random.
If you really feel you would rather be with another group, go and speak
to its leader to see if they have room, but please think about why you want to
change if you do, and what it is you are looking for.
“At the Oak
Dragon Camps the morning circle was called Pow-Wow, drawing from a perceived
Native American tradition. However this
term is not actually used by Native Americans, but is rather an invention of
White Americans from the late nineteenth century. We did not want to use a term which might be seen by some to be a
stereotyped caricature of Native American culture and traditions, so we have
taken the name Allting, derived from Scandinavian culture. A Thing was a moot or gathering, and so an
Allthing or Allting is a moot in which all things may be discussed, a grand
council if you will. The Icelandic
parliament is called the Allthing…
“Now today we begin the Hundredth Monkey Camp with
our first meditation circle. The
subject is the testing of nuclear weapons by the French at the Mururoa atoll in
the Pacific. You are welcome to
meditate using any technique which you are comfortable or familiar with, but
there is a method which we have been offered by the beings who have asked us to
set up this camp. When we begin
meditating, go in your mind to the place of our focus and wait to see if there
is anything which draws your attention.
Don’t try and actively change what you see, but allow yourself to become
part of the situation, respond naturally and observe the outcome. We are visiting observers who are there to
help. Don’t force yourself into the
scene if those already there don’t seem to want your involvement. Just see what happens, don’t attempt to
control what is there, even for the better.
“By the way you may be interested to know that this
is the same marquee which we used for an Oak Dragon camp in the Spring of
1986. Chernobyl had just blown and an
Easterly wind brought rain to Britain which carried particles from the dust
cloud. Some of those particles are
perhaps still embedded in the fabric of the marquee. Not at dangerous levels I hasten to add, but perhaps leaving a
homoeopathic resonance. This nuclear
theme is a synchronicity which may be appropriate to our first meditation.
“We’ll take a five minute break after the meditation which will be for twenty minutes,
and then we shall reconvene for the Allting.
“Let us begin.”
He sat down and gently clashed a pair of miniature
bells known as ting tings.
The gentle ringing faded. Shutting my eyes I listened to its sharp note slowly disappear,
swelling and ebbing to an almost imperceptible beat frequency until it was lost
in the ambient background. We began.
I had a moment of anxiety. My intellect did not know what to do with the situation and I had
to actively work at disengaging it. I
focused my attention on the feeling of the ground against the weight of my
body, the smell of the grass which is always magnified under canvas, the gentle
sounds of that canvas as it swayed in the light breeze, the creak of the guy
ropes which held the shape in place and the presence of all those attendant.
Looking inward I pictured a nuclear explosion. It was surrounded by water in all
directions. On the horizon were
miniature vessels. It seemed that all the
world was there to witness and record the event. Momentarily I felt I was in a crowd meditating on that
image. How did the rest of the world
see this I wondered? Then I was in
Northern Nigeria. A young Fulani boy
had heard the news of the tests on the radio and was wondering what it
meant. He asked the teacher at the
local school what this thing was and why people on the radio were so concerned
about it. The teacher said: “This is a
terrible weapon that the white people have.
It is like a spear of fire which they shoot from their airplanes, but it
can destroy a whole city like Lagos or Kaduna.” The boy had heard of Lagos, the great city on the coast in the
South, but of course had never been there.
Kaduna he had seen once before when he had accompanied his father to
sell cattle in a market there. He could
not imagine a larger city, it had stretched for miles in all directions with
tarmac roads flanked by stalls selling everything from soap powder to fruit and
vegetables, sunglasses to transistor radios.
Everywhere was crowded and in the centre were huge buildings. They had an airport and even
television. The teacher continued:
“When the fire is made it sends out a terrible burning wind like a thousand
Harmattans* which flattens everything before it, but the dust it carries is not
sand, it is a terrible poison which kills slowly and for which there is no
medicine. Afterwards the land is
poisoned and any crops grown will be too”
My young
Fulani boy was bewildered and frightened.
“But why did the white people make this terrible weapon. Is it not enough to kill their enemies, why do they burn and poison
the land?”
“Many years ago,” the teacher replied “ when the
village elders were no older than you are now, one of the nations of the white
people rose up and made war on the others.
It was defeated, but its ally in the East would not surrender and so
they used this weapon to vanquish it.
It was made by the magic which is called science. They have looked into the deepest knowledge
of how the world is made and discovered the secret of how to destroy
creation. This weapon has never been
used again in war, but when the white people had defeated the Eastern enemy
they turned against each other in suspicion and threatened each other with the
weapon. Knowing that to use it would
mean that both sides would be destroyed, they both feared its use, and after
many years made peace, not long ago.
“Now the French, the white people whose language
they speak to the North in Niger, fear that they have forgotten how to make
this weapon, or that theirs is not as strong as that of others, and so have
practiced making it again. They burn it
in the great ocean on the other side of the world, but even there people live
on small islands and are afraid that it will poison them. The white people argue amongst themselves as
to whether this is good or should be stopped.”
The Fulani boy had a lot to think about. The power of the white people could not be
avoided. His grandfather had been a
young man when Nigeria had gained independence from the British and had told
him how high the hopes had been for the future then. But many years of civil war and military rule had left the people
disillusioned. Meanwhile the white
people played their terrible and frightening games on a stage totally removed
from the affairs of Africa. He felt
very small.
The sibilant ring of the ting tings sought my
attention and I stood back from the pool of imagining. Who was this boy? Did he even exist? Was he
any more than the projection of my own unconscious and what difference had I
made even if such a thing might have happened?
“Five minute break.
Please be back promptly.”
Awakening, the circle melted into a sort of chaos,
as limbs were stretched, rubbed and shaken.
Some were taking their cushions and custom seats with them as they
left. I recognized these mostly as crew
members who doubtless had duties elsewhere.
Within a short space only a thin scattering of individuals
remained.
I tailed out behind the bulk of the crowd and headed
for my tent. All around me smokers were
lighting up to get their nicotine levels high so they could sit through a
couple of hours without a crave.
Despite my attempt to keep off cigarettes I was still addicted to the
nicotine. This I managed with nicotine
gum. I had been using it for nearly a
year, and while I had had several relapses, it had enabled me to keep off
smoking for lengthy periods. This was
my prime motivation. I had smoked since
I was about seventeen, and inhaled deeply.
I had become accustomed to the feeling of strength and confidence which
it gave, but recently I had started to have aches and twinges in my chest
sometimes associated with asthma attacks.
An X-ray had shown no more than congestion, but I knew it was not good
to have such symptoms, so had been working on beating the habit of smoking for
some while. The addiction to the
nicotine itself was still there, but the replacement of tobacco with gum
allowed more control and the opportunity to extinguish the dependency
gradually.
Returning to our places in the circle I saw that the
attendance had indeed been thinned by the departures at the end of the
meditation.
When we had all settled Palden rose to address the
remainder of the gathering. He picked
up and opened the box from the altar space where it had been propped against
the tree stump. Turning to show its
contents to all present he began.
“This is the Talking Stick which we shall be using
in the Allting circle. It is made from
a piece of a three-thousand year old yew tree. Perhaps this can remind us how short our own time is so that we
may be succinct in what we have to say.
It has been ornamented with some details which you can examine when it
comes to you.
“When your turn to speak comes be aware of how it
may relate to what others have said.
Perhaps there is some relation to others in the circle, like planetary
oppositions, trines, squares.
Complimentary or tense aspects.
Perhaps the most important thing about this work is the quality of our
attention. It is this concentration and
where it is focused that is most important in both sending out the energy and
in developing our own connections.
“Please remember that only the person holding the
Stick may speak. Anyone who interrupts
is out of order and must leave. If you
must take a break for the loo I would ask you to respect the circle and only
get up or return at points where the Stick is being passed, and not to walk in
while someone is speaking. With regard
to this I would also ask you to think about whether you really need to go to
the loo or whether you just want a break.
If we have been going for a long while and a break is proposed, then we
may take a vote on it.
“Now, let the Allting begin!”
He placed the Stick leaning against the altar in the
centre of the circle facing the entrance and resumed his seat.
A moment’s silence followed and then simultaneously
two figures rose from the ground and made for the Stick. The person to the North side of the entrance
was the nearest and the other gave way.
Their story was of a Pacific islander frightened and
anxious about the effects of the nuclear testing. There didn’t seem to be a great deal of influence or change from
their observation of this person and these feelings, but it was quite moving to
focus so much attention on the feelings of one such person; whether they really
existed or not could never be verified, but we were stepping through the
doorway of our imaginations to put ourselves in the position of the many
thousands of islanders who surely must have similar feelings. Taking different perspectives to what we
were accustomed must have some effect upon our own understanding at least. The feelings of Pacific islanders were
clearly not being taken into account by the French government. Perhaps we might act as a conduit to a
recognition of such points of view.
The Stick passed to the right, moving
anti-clockwise.
As it did a variety of tales which we each
individually could not have encompassed began to be spelt out. There were Australians, New Zealanders, Indonesians,
Polynesians, Philippinos, French, British.
Each with their different fears and apprehensions.
“First I would like to say what an honour it is to
be speaking in this circle. If more
opportunities for such expression were made routine in this world then it would
be a much better place.
“I saw a young naval recruit in the French
fleet. He was terrified by what was
happening. He knew that he had no power
or influence on the matter, but felt bad that he had become involved simply
through wanting to enlist and serve his country. He knew that the leaders of France wanted to ensure that their
country was respected and properly defended.
He wondered if he was wrong to be afraid. He was simply in doubt and confusion about it all and so shut
himself off from feeling too much and let it not be known to his peers and
superiors that he was having such thoughts and feelings.”
“There was a young man on a Greenpeace vessel in the
Pacific. They had been forced back from
the danger zone at gunpoint by a French warship. He was consumed with anger against what he saw as brutal and
fascist behaviour. He remembered that
the French Secret Service had sunk their famous ship the Rainbow Warrior in
port in New Zealand in the late eighties, with the loss of the life of their
photographer. He was in no doubt that
the nuclear testing was not only a danger to the environment and the
inhabitants of the Pacific, but that it was a demonstration of power, ruthless
in its determination. No-one has ever
stood trial for the terrorist attack and murder¹. This was an example of what some people will do to further their
agendas.
“This nuclear testing is not about French security,
it is about imposing their will through threat and fear. It is a macho posture to remind the world not
to question or resist their will.”
“Ho” came the response from a handful of
voices. I guessed that this was an
assertion of agreement and support which was acceptable within this context,
and not seen as the kind of interruption which would require those who uttered
it to leave.
These contributions and others of a similar nature
reflected aspects of what any and all of us may have thought or felt. The fear of what was happening, the anger at
the unwillingness of the French government to listen to world opinion.
The Talking Stick passed to a man of wiry build and
an aquiline profile.
His behaviour took us all aback I believe. Squatting on his haunches he waddled forward
from his place several yards, holding the Stick out in front of him.
“Eet eez a matter of protectsion; ve muss be allowed to ensure zat no-one can
attack ma contree. Zelf defenze is a
right zat ve are all entitled to. Voud
you not say ze same about your own contree?
Vy do ye not respect our rights in zis matter? You make your own decisions, ve muss make our own too. Ve too haff fears, and muss do vot ve can to
deal viz zem.”
I had not noticed this chap before and was entirely
at a loss as to whether he really was French or was simply acting. He had raised a quite real issue here about
the rights of people to take their own autonomous decisions. Were we simply interfering? Had he contacted an energy in the thought
ethers which was reminding us that we were essentially only observers? Was this the sort of reaction which would be
provoked if we engaged in what might be seen as hostile acts ourselves? I couldn’t find myself agreeing with the
sentiments that had been expressed, in that they used a reasonable idea to
support an unreasonable one, but this was an Allting ~ a place where all
things, all viewpoints were to be allowed to be put forward. Indeed how could this ‘work’ expect to have
any impact or success if they were not?
I might not agree but I would have to defend to the death the right of
anyone to say things I disagreed with, as the old saying about democracy
goes. I had no idea what a critical
point this was eventually to become.
There was a feeling of subdued contemplation which
seemed to arise from his contribution.
I certainly had not expected anything like this, assuming that we would
all contact thoughts, feelings, ideas, people that did not wish the tests to
continue. Had we to take into account
the feelings of the warmongers?
Evidently the answer to that question was “Yes”. This would take more mental and emotional
digesting than I had allowed for, and we were barely a quarter of the way round
the circle on the first day.
The Stick continued on its way. The impact of this unexpected point of view
appeared to have subdued responses from some of those who followed. One woman passed altogether, and several
others gave very short accounts of their meditations. The reference to being honoured to be in this circle was
mentioned again, almost as a default or fallback statement in the absence of
the confidence to speak their heart or mind.
It took several passes for the energy or momentum to gather itself
again, as if an inflating balloon of energy had been deflated.
A woman was speaking now. “I found myself in contact with the mother of a French naval
seaman in the Pacific. She was torn
between the pride she was told she should feel as the mother of a young man who
was serving his country, and her own very real feelings of anxiety for her
son. She had heard how nuclear tests in
the past had exposed servicemen to radiation which had caused cancers later in
life, and was consumed with fear for her son and any children he might one day
have who could be affected by the radiation.”
This was becoming a charged debate.
There had been a lot of fear contacted that
morning. Pass after pass of the Stick
gave rise to stories of people from all over the world who were in fear of the
consequences of what France was doing.
Another Pacific islander reminding us that the word ‘Pacific’ means
‘Peaceful’ drew attention to the Newspeak value of this. Only a subliminal perhaps, but it amplified
the contradiction. “Peace is War” and
“War is Peace” Orwell had told us.
There was a Frenchman living in France who had
reservations and was thinking about it deeply, but felt the atmosphere in his
social circle in the home country was not conducive to debate. He had seen people being ridiculed, even
abused for questioning his nation’s actions.
This circle was a rare opportunity for honest self expression without
fear of condemnation.
The ripples of shock from the first Frenchman’s
contribution had settled by the time it came to Palden’s turn.
“In my meditation I found myself in Paris, in the
office of the President of the Fifth Republic, Francois Mitterrand. I asked him why he had followed this path,
and he replied that he had felt it was necessary for the defence and good
standing of France in the world. I
asked him what he thought about the disagreement and opposition this had
generated throughout the world, and he said that people did not understand
these things; if they did they would understand why what was being done was
necessary. ‘If we fall behind we will be as nothing. We are not the puppets of America’ ” [was he referring to Britain?] “ ‘we are our own nation and will
not be dictated to by third world countries or a rabble of demonstrators.’ When I questioned him about the
environmental concerns, he told me that French scientists had assured him it
was safe, the new detonators and techniques of formulation meant that the
fallout would be much less than with previous designs of bomb, so that these
tests were actually a good thing, since a new generation of safer weapons are
in the making here.”
Could we believe this? Scientists were and still are always telling us their procedures
and techniques are safe, and perhaps they even believe this, but after BSE,
cyclamates, thalidomide and God knows how many other tragedies, could we rely
upon such assurances? Both instinct and
experience told me that ‘just ’cause
it’s said that don’t mean that it’s so.’
All the meditational contacts so far had been with
hypothetical people who could have been archetypal rather that actual, but this
was claimed as contact with the President of France. Ok, so I could accept that it might happen at a super-conscious
level which Mitterrand would not be aware of in his conscious mind, or Palden
could have contacted some sort of astral shell which was merely the automatic
summation and image of the vibrations which the President emitted. There was just a niggling little something
in the back of my mind which found the idea of our own ‘leader’ immediately
homing in on ‘their leader’ as somehow a little contrived or deliberate. What was to stop this being an exercise in
meditational Art Therapy wherein we projected our Shadow, in Jungian terms, so
that we could objectify it and thereby understand it? But who was I to criticize someone else’s meditation? And anyway
it was only an insignificant little thought putting its hand up in the back row
of my mind. There was no reason why he
shouldn’t have had the experience he related, and perhaps it was
appropriate. It was important that we
kept ourselves open to all possibilities.
The progress round the circle continued. The stories from around the world were diverse. Russians, South Americans, Eskimaux,
Japanese. If these were creations from
the unconscious minds of the assembled, then we brought a diverse set of our
own concerns which surely mirrored the real world to a large degree.
The Talking Stick was now a little past half-way and
had reached the dapper man with the beard who had stood next to me in the
circle for the Om the previous night.
“I have a deep identification with this island that
we live on, and am aware that in some way I am a personification of that nation
which inhabits this part of the island, I feel very English. Not in any aggressive nationalistic way, but
from a deep sense of my connection to this land which has grown with my
ancestors, it is an inner identity, part of me. I do not feel the need for my own nation to posture and threaten
others as it so often has in the past, and have a similar difficulty with this
sort of behaviour from any other nation, especially a powerful and well
established one like France. I can only
imagine that for some reason they doubt themselves, their historic identity and
how it is evolving in the modern world, perhaps with the arrival of immigrants
from their former colonies.
“We were asked to bring what thoughts and
contributions we might wish to share to this Allting, and also to represent
some tribe or nation. I would like to
represent Albion as the highest ideal of what this nation of ours might
be. In the words of William Blake ‘I
will not sleep from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand till we
have built Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land.’
“I believe every nation has its own soul and
uniqueness which can be the basis of their identity and contribution to the
world. Britain is highly developed in
this aspect, even with several distinct souls that contribute to the greater
whole. Let us set an example to the
world that it is better to build on our strengths and earn respect. Strength does not have to inspire fear.”
I found this a most stimulating and welcome
contribution. While all that had been
spoken before were no doubt true expressions of experiences, I became aware
that this latest strengthened me, that I had been drifting into a mindset which
saw futile resistance against the oppressive Goliath as the only thing that was
going on in our circle and what we were connecting to, while significant
inroads were being made by weapons testers in the outside world.
Fear had been the dominant emotion so far. Fear and justification of fear. This Man of Albion had nothing of this in
what he said. The ancient dictum of the
Delphic Oracle had been ‘Know Thyself’.
The knowledge of an inner self beyond the fear of outside influences was
a more certain guide to a pathway of wisdom than fascination with that fear
like a rabbit paralysed by the headlamps of an oncoming juggernaut about to
annihilate it.
The contributions which followed were still
liberally peppered with reports of fear, and anxieties provoked by the nuclear
testing, but a note had been introduced which took us away from obsession and
pessimism. We had been reminded that we
had our own resources, our own identities and pathways. The word ‘proactive’ had been much bandied
about by the Clinton administration and was a concept that was needed in our
own minds. Perhaps there were too many
old hippies amongst us who were still on the back foot from the right wing
assaults of the eighties. Merely crying
‘not fair’ would carry little weight in a world of ruthless politicians
wielding unopposable military might.
New directions were needed, and we had perhaps been shown one.
The pass had come to a rather round lady of perhaps
fifty, who had long grey hair and was wearing a multi-coloured tie-dye tee
shirt.
“My name is Sue Barnet. My lineage is from the galaxy of Andromeda. I have come to this world in incarnation to
create a link. I have been living in
the moment for the last twenty years.
It is important to always be in the moment so that one is able to be
receptive to higher self. The answers
to these problems are all held and known by our higher beings.”
Interesting.
This circle had many surprises in store. I did not know what to make of this contribution. Incarnations of beings from another
galaxy? Well… but I had determined to
keep an open mind, and the rest of what she said might be the repetition of a
cliché, or it might have come from her inner truth.
It was back to some more routine observations about
the nuclear testing for a few passes before the Stick reached me. As so many had done before me I examined the
ancient piece of yew. About a foot
long, oval in segment, three quarters of an inch thick at its widest, polished
smooth, slightly tapering, the ends bevelled. Dark brown with streaks of a yellowish hue. There were a couple of lumpy knots which had resisted the
smoothing process. In one of these was
set a flat, mottled green and black stone like an eye. Possibly a type of malachite. From the end by this hung a golden cord with
a bauble dangling on it. It felt
incredibly good to hold, whether at its centre in a fist, like a vajra, a
thunderbolt, or by one end like a tool,
hammer or sword; the size was perfect
to the grip, the gentle contour of the wood comfortable to the shape of palm
and fingers as they closed on its surface.
I told the story of my Fulani boy. This was what had come into my imagination,
but I couldn’t help feeling that I had fallen into the trap of fear which had
been opened. I wished that I had had
more to offer. I didn’t seem to really
be adding anything to what had been said already, just more anxiety, fear and
feelings of inadequacy. Still I had to
stick to my truth, this was what I had experienced, and so it was what I
reported. Getting into mindgames with
myself about my own inadequacy was a little too far from the self-belief which
the Man of Albion had espoused.
Three or four places to my right was a man of medium
build wearing a red Jurassic Park baseball cap. He had a moustache and a face tanned in the way that comes from
long outdoor exposure to the weather.
He wore a shirt without a collar and woollen waistcoat patterned in a
style reminiscent of those woven by indigenous South American people. He was sitting in a canvas and wood
director’s chair and when the Stick came to him he held it in his hands before
him like an offering, his eyes shut.
There was a moment’s silence.
Speaking, his voice was deep and powerful.
“Greetings to all those beings and peoples assembled
here. I am At-Hlan, Warrior Priest of
Atlantis. I speak through my channel
Brother Rohann. I bring you news that
there are many beings from the astral and cosmic planes who are following your
work even though you cannot see them.
You have chosen to work with energies which will lead you on pathways of
progression, not only for the world, but for yourselves also. The many challenges which you are facing
will lead to empowerment for you have chosen to share your own energies as you
engage with the processes of change that have been set in train in this world. Many beings have much gratitude for this work
you have begun for the Universe is One which all are part of. By transforming energy in your own lives you
are assisting the Universe as energies will flow to parts of it that you do not
know. Those who block energy do it not
only to themselves, but to the whole world.
When you move energy you move it for all. Many new connections and pathways are begun here. We of the realms beyond the material plane
thank you all for these beginnings which will create many new possibilities for
all, and which will empower you to know your own path more truly.”
Fortunately I had by now suspended scepticism and
rationalistic criticism, otherwise I might have found this a little bit too
much to take. I was realizing that it
was my inner response and not my intellect which was important here. Even if this weather-beaten fellow was only
taking on a mask, playing a role for dramatic effect, there was a feeling
raised in me which told me there was more to this. Perhaps it was the richness of his voice, or the cadences of his
speech hinting at a deep inner understanding and acceptance.
The Stick passed.
I could not see the person on the other side of the man in the canvas
chair until he leant forward and spoke.
His accent was familiar from my early years.
“My name is Mamadu.
When we signed up for this camp we were asked to represent a people or
nation. I have been surprised to find
that there has already been a representation for my own people. I am Hausa-Fulani from Kaduna state in
northern Nigeria. This lady who spoke a
few minutes ago has communicated well the essence of what it is like to be a
Nigerian in the bush. My own family’s
ancestors raised cattle before they settled in the town, and now I have come to
Europe to learn about science and engineering so that I can return to my
country and be of help. There is such a
lack of education in Nigeria, in the south the politicians only take the oil
money for themselves and their lackeys;
in the north the emirs only wish to maintain their position and keep the
peasants in ignorance and dependence.
The Fulani boy who was described to us is like so many of my people,
they have become aware of the wider world only to find that it is beyond their
power and their understanding. We must
learn more about the world beyond our horizons. It is not good to feel like children in the world. Our leaders think only of themselves and
what they can gain from the West, but they enslave themselves and our
people. This is not the way to make
progress in the world. We shall only continue
to be ignored in greater matters. I
thank you all for the opportunity to come here and learn from you about these
things.”
I was taken aback at the synchronicity of this; I
felt honoured that he had accepted what I had said with such grace. He could so easily have criticised me as a
white for imagining that I could understand his own people. But we had come to listen as well as speak
out, and listening, he had heard something he had been able to relate to.
The short bearded man whom I had named in my mind as
the Denim Samurai stood up and leaning on his carven stick began to speak.
“Some of you know me by my mundane name, but here I
like to use my magical name: Oak Heart.
I have taken this name because it symbolizes the spiritual strength of
the earth which is in the heart of the forest.
A mature Oak supports thousands of other organisms from insects and
fungi to birds, it is a home.
“We must respect the Earth, the trees, and the
forests. The seas and coral atolls
though they are far from my own dear forests of Albion are the same. For men to use them for practicing war, to
vaporize them into atomic dust and leave behind nothing but poison which will
last for millennia is a crime against our Mother, The Earth. It is beyond politics, beyond mankind,
beyond our petty desires and games as a species that has been here for such a
long time.
“We should hold the love for our beautiful Mother
planet in our hearts and let all who would harm her know this, let them be
aware of the great love which the planet holds for us and which has given us
life, then perhaps they will respect Her.”
I was moved.
Though he might be gruff in his social manner he spoke eloquently and
reached the Heart, as was his name.
The passing of the Talking Stick had now nearly completed
its first full circle. A handful of
contributions were left to be made, each with their own personal tale, and the
odd ‘Ho’ to come in response, but the main compass of the session seemed to
have covered the ground well. There
were the odd remarks about fear of the testing, and references to self-belief
as a means to see us through this time.
We were winding up and briefly recapping on what had gone down.
The Stick moved across the open space of the
entrance to the last speaker, who then called “Are we complete?” To which a thunderous and apparently
unanimous chorus replied “Yes!” and the Stick was returned to the centre.
As we began to rise, stretching stiff limbs and
gathering our sit-upons, Palden stood and reminded us of the afternoon session.
The first Allting had passed and left much to be
considered as we made for our lunch.
As we left the circle my eyes were caught by those
of Mamadu.
“So you know my homeland?” he asked.
“Indeed, my
father was an engineer, we lived in many different places, Zaria, Gusau, Gombe,
Oturkpo, Abuja, oh and of course Sokoto and Jos.”
He smiled as I reeled off names familiar to him, but
many which would be alien to most Europeans unless they had spent a substantial
time in his home country.
He shook my hand, one of the few formal social
manners that West Africans have in common with Europeans, since hugging between
a man and a woman would have been considered inappropriate
We talked for a few minutes about the land we both
loved; not the politics or the difficulties, but the land which we both knew
was so beautiful; my Technicolor memories as I called them, the bright orange
laterite soil so rich with iron characteristic of much of Africa, the Flame of
the Forest trees with their bright red flowers, mangoes falling ripe from the
trees and the ever present wildlife, baboon, hyena and deafening chirrup of
night insects even in the towns and cities.
But soon he found reason to part; perhaps talking too much with a woman
made him uncomfortable, or maybe my outlandish attire, painted Afghan jacket,
leggings and Doc Marten boots was too unconventional for him.
Having gathered my cup and cutlery I joined the
thronging queue which tailed outside the café marquee.
I found that I was now more comfortable in the
crowd, smiling at faces I recognized. I
felt less shy now that I had heard most of these people open up before the
group. Disclosure is a marvellous way
of gaining trust, and while we had not directly been disclosing our own
persons, stating our concerns and meditations gave an oblique point of
reference which was both safer and gave a broader insight than might occur from
narrowly focusing on our personal issues.
Chatting with the woman next to me I pulled out my
purse to buy a muesli bar snack. We
might ‘only’ be sitting down quietly for most of the time, but it was demanding
on our concentration and I guessed that I might need some reserve calories to
call on before the day was out. I was
entranced with the proceedings already and didn’t want to miss a moment with
poor concentration arising from hunger and fatigue. The wider I expanded my field of awareness the more challenged I was with maintaining balance and focus ~ in that very moment not the last lapse of attention already was slipping by me...
Notes
*Harmattan ~
The cool north wind from the Sahara onto the Sahel in the winter months.
¹ A member of the French Secret Service was
eventually brought to trial for this crime, though doubtless others, and higher up the chain of command had been involved too.
©Claire Rae Randall 2012
