O, WHAT A WORLD
OF UNSEEN VISIONS
AND
HEARD SILENCES,
THIS
INSUBSTANTIAL COUNTRY OF THE MIND!
THIS
CONSCIOUSNESS THAT IS MYSELF OF SELVES,
THAT IS
EVERYTHING, AND YET NOTHING AT ALL,,,,
WHAT IS IT?
AND WHERE DID
IT COME FROM?
AND WHY?
With this quotation from Julian Jaynes’
book “The Bicameral Mind”, I open Chapter 6 of my book –
LISTENING TO
THE SILENCES
IN A WORLD OF
HEARING VOICES
Read this Chapter and you will come to
realise how easy it is to fall into the ‘trap’ of hearing voices: how easy it
is to become dominated: how easy it can be to lose your own will and identity:
and how, with appropriate help, it is possible to regain control of your life –
indeed to begin a new one.
Then read the complete book, and
discover how I, myself, found a completely
new life. A life that I had never
dreamed existed. A life within which I
discovered my own talents as a natural healer – and much, much more besides.
But, whatever you do, will you please
tell your friends about this book and the Blogs?
Now, please read on…..
CHAPTER 6
Julian Jaynes had not expressed these thoughts in public at the
time that I had that conversation with Gilbert B... Even if he had, I doubt whether they would
have exercised my mind for very long - definitely not in the context of what it
was that Gilbert wanted to tell me. I certainly
could never have dreamed - not even in my wildest dreams - where this
conversation would ultimately lead me, or by what strange paths. That it induced such a major change in my
life may be judged from the fact that at times I am glad that it took place,
but that at others, I curse it profoundly.
Yet, at the time, an interesting conversation and demonstration
involving two practical and pragmatic engineers did not seem all that
significant. It happened like this...
One afternoon at work, I was passing Gilbert’s office when he
called me in - “I’ve just had a rep. in from K..’s Fire Detectors, and he
showed me this... (producing a pair of thin welding rods bent into the now
familiar L-shape). He got me to hide
things under the carpet, and he found them by holding the rods in his
hands. Then, when they swung and
crossed, the hidden thing was immediately below...like this”, and he
demonstrated.... Of course, I had a go
and lo! - it worked for me also - my first encounter with practical dowsing.
Typical dowsing or divining rods
At that time, (1971), dowsing or divining did not have the
exposure that it enjoys today - I had, indeed, seen only one other person use
rods, and he was a professional surveyor who used properly made telescopic ones
with balanced pivoting handles. Even
though he was successful in locating drains, the significance of what he was
doing did not register with me. In my
own case, I did very little then with this newfound skill, other than finding
drains and pipes for farming friends and showing them how to do it themselves.
I watched very little television at the time, thus the rapidly
expanding use of rods and pendulums for archaeological dowsing, and by people
seeking so-called ‘earth energies’ (largely and, as I keep protesting ad
nauseum, wrongly called ‘ley-lines’ by many) in the main passed me by. It is quite probable that my interest would
have waned completely had I not chanced upon a significant book, The
Practical Pendulum, by Dr. Bruce Copen.
It was a seminal moment when, in the local library, I took out the
slim book, that I could so easily have passed.
As its title suggests, it was very practical, with much ‘how-to-do-it’ information. It also attempted, through a sort of
pseudo-science, to explain the mechanism of dowsing using a short
pendulum. And so it was that I made
myself a pendulum as the book described, and soon found that all that was
suggested in the text worked for me. The
acquisition of a catalogue of new and second hand books on esoteric subjects
took me one step further, for I found there a second book by the same author - Dowsing
from Maps - which I bought, together with a professionally made Perspex
pendulum.
What I didn’t know was that I was about to set out on a
very perilous journey on which, literally, I could have lost my mind.
Very detailed instructions were given on how to dowse from maps,
while included in the text were several charts and diagrams that one could use
in a variety of analytical functions.
Everything worked for me just as the book described, and the pendulum became
a constant companion. What did not
‘work’ for me were the explanations offered for the way in which it
responded. The concept of subtle energies,
and even more subtle muscle responses, carried no weight, particularly when one
considered that the pendulum was hovering over a piece of paper and not a piece
of real-estate.
To explain why I made my next move it is necessary to describe
some of my background and beliefs…
As you have read, my working life as an electronics engineer in
the field of measurement and control had been cut short some three years
earlier (1976) by a serious depression that had been caused, originally, by the
completely unnecessary and, now professionally acknowledged, inappropriate
prescription of Librium. That was now
behind me, and I was beginning to revel in my total freedom in my tranquil
rural home. It was a mind that was
curious, but not much more, that led me on to explore and experiment with the
book as a guide; a mind obviously coloured by experiences and events that
stretched back into childhood.
One side of my family had been very actively involved in
spiritualism. It had never drawn me, in
fact the reverse, and I had not been personally involved, except to be aware of
beliefs and practices. What I did have
was a firm belief in the actuality of spiritual beings, which, when one
boils it down, is the basis for all religious belief. The little experience that I had had of
spiritualist practices, had been with direct voice trance mediums, nothing
more. By extension, however, I knew that
there was a potential for spiritual intervention in other ways. To me, it was a logical deduction, correct as
it turned out, that the pendulum was being controlled directly by spiritual
means.
The moment one uses the word spiritual, one releases in
one’s hearers or readers all their own attitudes, beliefs and prejudices about
spiritual concepts that form the basis of the religion in which they have been
brought up, or which they have later espoused, or which they reject. Ideally, I would like to proceed without the
preconceptions of any religion, but only with the understanding of the
existence of a spiritual ‘dimension’ and the reality of individually acting
spiritual beings.
As I have written, my own spiritual life and religious practice
had been virtually extinguished in the void of the depression; but from
whatever cause, vague stirrings were being felt. For reasons that completely escape me now, I
began to think in a minor way about Buddhism, and in particular about the
possibility of reincarnation. At the
time, (1979), there was a resurgence of the threat of nuclear war that would
inevitably create worldwide desolation.
In another field, the ‘experts’ were predicting an imminent mini ice
age. My reasoning went thus: if there is
going to be nuclear desolation or an ice age, I did not want to
reincarnate. So what did I have to do not
to have to return? This was not obsessive
thinking, rather was it a series of vague stirrings, and the beginning of
exploration. In every respect, I was buoyant
and my mind was active - friends call me ‘the ideas man’, very much a lateral
thinker and seeker of practical ways and logical solutions.
Thus, what did this
pragmatic engineer do with his knowledge of a spiritual state of existence and
his belief that the pendulum was being controlled by a discarnate spiritual
entity, in ways that he could not determine?
He did what many have subsequently insisted that he should not have
done, he made an alphabet and numeral chart!
This advice should be heeded by anyone
thinking about doing the same, as the experiences that follow should show.
I had never thought
much about, and had certainly never experimented with, a planchette or ouija
board, nor had I tried any other forms of divination. I was certainly not looking in any way whatsoever
for deep insights nor for predictions. I
was just looking, in total innocence and without expectation. The spiritualist activities of my parents and
grandparents had always appeared to have assumed the presence of benevolent
spirits. If they had any concept of, or
protection against, the intrusion of spiritual malevolence, I was not aware of
it. The possible existence of such never
even entered my mind. (Recent conversation
with my brother, who was a much more active participant than I was, has
informed me that there were indeed careful and stringent precautions and
practices aimed at guarding against such intrusions.)
I cannot recall
in any detail the particular day in the spring of 1979 when I first sat down
with the pendulum suspended from my right hand and hovering over the centre of
the alphabet chart. What I do know is
that immediately names started to be spelled out, names that slowly and
laboriously I wrote down with my left hand; being right handed it presented
something of a difficulty. I responded
in my thoughts and in no other way. I
would ask when and where the alleged person had lived, and how and when they
had died, together with such ancillary detail as seemed appropriate -
information that would, in the main, answer specifically my mentally posed
questions.
In their
spiritualist activities my parents had participated in a so-called ‘rescue
circle’. To such a ‘circle’ the spirits
of people who had died in trauma - accident, suicide, homicide, war - were
alleged to be brought by the medium’s ‘guides’, in order that by continued, but
regulated, contact with still living people they might ultimately be reconciled
to the reality of their death, and then make progress in their spiritual domain. It was in this manner that I reacted to the
names and circumstances spelled out by the pendulum. Always my thoughts were of reconciliation
with their circumstances and the manner of their dying, and encouragement to
progress spiritually.
As I look back
nearly twenty years, I marvel at my ‘innocence’, lack of awareness and, I
cannot emphasise too much, my gullibility. No, I was not controlling the pendulum in any
way, nor had I any pre-conception of what would be spelled; and yes, the pendulum
was spelling logical responses to my thoughts - and not solely to my
thoughts. A visitor at the time used to
sit beside me, and as I held the pendulum, would ask questions or make comments
in her own mind, and to which I was not party.
I remember quite distinctly the occasion on which the response to her
was “We are not fortune tellers”.
On another
occasion, my friend and I had been debating aspects of abortion and euthanasia
in consequence of some high profile cases proceeding at the time. When I sat that evening, the pendulum spelled
out “Read Leviticus Chapters 18 to 22”.
I obviously knew that Leviticus was a Book in the Old Testament, but I
can say, with almost 100% certainty, that I had never read it. When I did read the prescribed chapters, I
found that there were elements that could be interpreted as having relevance to
the debate. However, on re-reading the
text to refresh my mind as I write now, it could be that I was being warned
against …those that have familiar spirits…and …wizards…who, it
was ordered, should be stoned to death.
I shall never know! What these
accounts should show, however, is that I was not exercising any physical
or mental control over the pendulum, but that it was being controlled by a
‘mind’ that was separate from mine.
I was fully
aware of the spiritualist concept of ‘guides’ - attendant spirits, whom, it is
believed, have access to the mind of the medium and control the admission of
other spirits. Thus, I was not surprised
when a trio gradually identified ‘themselves’.
The identities that they claimed were, in turn:
1 Ibn Ubar - mid- to late nineteenth century, well
placed (chief) in Masai-type people of North East Africa. Claimed that when he was old and infirm, he
had deliberately set out to kill a lion knowing that he himself would probably
be killed - almost in reparation for the lions that he had killed whilst
protecting his cattle.
2 Degef Gayad claimed to have been a monk on the Tibet/Nepal
border; had held a lowly position
as keeper of a beacon for travellers;
said that he had been killed by a bear whilst tending a remote beacon.
It is difficult to
explain how a presence or ambience could be experienced whilst
simply holding a pendulum, but it was actually the case in that a seriousness
or portentousness accompanied the third member of the trio -
3 U Gedafad who, it was said, had been a Buddhist priest
in Burma
I am writing as
if these were the actual spirits of real people. It is difficult to do otherwise, for while I
have a different understanding now that qualifies everything that happened to
me, it is something that I cannot at this stage anticipate, but must try to
write of the experiences and beliefs of the time when they happened, and in the
sequence in which they happened.
The Buddhist
began to encourage me to study Buddhism. When I asked why, I was told, “every priest needs a pupil”. I was encouraged to join the Buddhist
Society, which I did, and to get hold of a book, First Steps in Buddhism
by W.V.Trapp. Written in German, it was
said, and translated into English in 1927 by Lionel Fellows, the translator
being inspired by U Gedafad. When I
asked the Buddhist Society Library for the loan of the book, I was told that
they could not obtain a copy; I was never told that the book did not exist -
whether or not it had ever existed, I shall never know.
I did not
persist with the Buddhist Society for more than a few months. Many of the concepts and much of the terminology
I found alien to my existing beliefs.
Also, as with many Eastern religions or philosophies translated to the
West, much seems to revolve around a particular guru or group of ‘in’ people,
with which again I am unhappy. Something
that I was asked to do and which I did adopt and persist with, was the setting
aside of a quiet time at 11 a.m. each day, during which I practised a simple
form of meditation.
As the spring
merged into summer, hardly an evening passed without its time with the pendulum
and chart. No longer did I need to write
down each word as it was spelled, for the pendulum darted, almost just hinting
at letters. ‘Conversation’ became very
rapid - so much so that a time was reached when I really knew what was going to
be said in advance of the spelling, and I was being well prepared for the
events of an exceedingly significant day.
My 11 am
sitting place was in an upstairs room looking north east to the nearby mountain
tops - Scafell, Great Gable, Yewbarrow and others. I settled into my chair, easing my neck onto
the high wingback, and rolled my head gently from side to side to smooth out
any tensions, and then something happened that was so dramatic and far-reaching,
and yet, paradoxically, was totally devoid of drama. A
‘presence’ that I could not see, moved from the space in front of me, into
me, and immediately my mind was charged with another ‘voice’ or provoker of
thoughts, thoughts over which, then, I had no control, and which were not
initiated by me. In my head began
conversation as between two separate people, one of whom was me.
I began to ‘hear voices’.
That same evening, I settled with the pendulum
and, as I held it over the chart, it started to whirl around rapidly and horizontally
at its fullest extent, faster and faster, and continued whirling for several
minutes. When it finally stopped and
settled it spelled out “we’ve won we’ve won”. Who had won and what had been won, only time
will reveal.
I have never used the
pendulum from that day to this; it simply does not respond!
The fact that I was not wary or
apprehensive about the events that were taking place may surprise some, but it
can be explained by the reasoning that such limited contacts as I had had with
spiritualism had always been of a benevolent nature, and indicated a caring
practice. As an example let me quote an
incident that occurred in 1950 in my home in South Wales very shortly before
leaving to take up work here in Cumbria
Quite by chance, we had a visit from the
medium who presided at the meetings held at the home of one of my aunts. After chatting for a while he went into
trance and I was spoken to. Comment was
made concerning a proprietary medicine that I was then using to counter a sinus
problem. I was advised to stop taking it
and instead to use Morton’s ‘Nervatogen’.
When we obtained some it turned out to be an herbal tincture that had
the most benign and relaxing effect. My
sinuses cleared, and I subsequently took the drops whenever needed for other
reasons until all the bottles that my mother had bought were exhausted. After a number of years, I tried to obtain a
further supply, but it was no longer available.
Essentially, I
believed that the named individuals had previously existed, and now, in spirit
form, had access into me and my mind.
Thus, when a further contact was made who was alleged to be my late
father, I had no reason to doubt it.
Many of the
conversations were about very practical matters. My concerns regarding the desolation that
would follow nuclear war, or a returning ice age, were developed, and I was
encouraged to believe that there could be survivors in such quiet places as
that in which I live. It was suggested
that I should learn as much as I could about basic survival techniques that
would be needed if I survived, or which, if I died, I would be able to pass by
inspiration to such survivors as there were and to their descendants. This seemed all the more logical as I began
to appreciate that already, worldwide, there were individuals and small groups
living remotely and learning and practising these skills; indeed, I came to
know of one such man living not ten miles from me! Myself, I was encouraged to acquire a lurcher
pup from a neighbour’s litter in order to learn the skills of training a
hunting dog and using it to obtain food.
Many other topics were introduced for study - an activity in which I
found no hardship, for I had long been active in many outdoor pursuits such as
fishing and wildfowling.
As well as my
physical survival, or the survival of knowledge with me, much thought was being
engineered concerning my spiritual survival.
My exploration of Buddhism was short lived; nevertheless, there was
strong argument that I should become morally impeccable, but that I should not
choose a philosophy or religious affiliation because it allowed a degree of
moral latitude. It was put to me that
as, at an earlier time, I had elected to be a Catholic, I should ‘return to the
fold’, or, if not, then my rejection should be for sound reasons of belief, and
not because I was looking for a path with less exacting moral standards.
I was
encouraged to adopt a sincere prayer life and spent long periods in prayer each
night. More and more the theme of the
‘Second Coming’ of Jesus was developed, and then, quite bluntly, it was put to
me that He would return in a more mature person than was generally expected,
and that I was a suitable candidate within whom He could manifest Himself. I cannot remember exactly how I declined such
an offer that, it must be thought, no one could refuse. I do remember that I declared that I was too
much of a coward to be able to accept such a high profile role.
Equally with
the encouragement to be morally and spiritually ‘clean’, I was being urged to
be most punctilious in my physical cleanliness.
My underwear and socks I washed each night, and daily clean clothes
became the norm, while bodily I entered another dimension. As an example I was encouraged to wash my
anus each time I defecated, following, allegedly, Middle Eastern and Oriental
practice. I was even schooled in how to
be able to do this in a public loo.
There was not an aspect of my life and thought that was free from
scrutiny, for I was even counselled against a normally accepted practice that
had developed in my heterosexual love life!
By a sequence
of happenings that are too complex to relate, the spirit of a young
(twenty-ish) woman was introduced into my ‘coterie’. Her physical presence in me was most
noticeable in ways which can only be experienced and not described. It was particularly apparent when any music
was being played. I normally respond to
dance rhythms with movement, having always enjoyed dancing. Now the ‘feeling’ of the movement became
subtly different - feminine and sensuous.
Little by
little, I was being accustomed to what some might find difficult to accept,
namely the actuality of spiritual-physical contact. Thus, when I adopted my usual late-evening
stance, leaning against the rail of my Rayburn cooker in the normal bum-warming
posture and musing before going to bed, it seemed to come as no surprise when
my head was moved by external influence: gently, from side to side, back and
forth, easing tension out of my neck.
Each day the interventions became more positive and, ultimately, I stood
away from the cooker. ‘Hands’ pressed on
my shoulders and I was ‘eased’ into a back-bend posture, where I was held for
as long as I could tolerate it. When I
stood up, I was eased into a forward bend as far as, and for as long as I was
able to bend. Subsequently every evening
I went through this routine, being bent further and held longer as time went
on. My thigh and abdominal muscles
became rock hard, my breathing improved, and, coupled with the dietary advice
that I had been given and followed, I became as fit and healthily slim as I had
been for a long time.
Again and again
I have to emphasise that all that was happening I saw as being entirely
benevolent, and I was a willing participant.
The culmination
of this ‘body tuning’ came one evening and without preliminaries. My body began to be manipulated as if by two
skilled chiropractors. I was then
fifty-five and my frame had acquired its share of the residue of past accidents
and strains - playing rugby, being mined at sea, riding horses, plus all the
rest that can be classed as fair wear and tear.
Over the course of that evening and the one that followed, every one of
the affected areas was worked on with consummate skill. I was stretched and manipulated as must be
someone on the rack, but while it was happening, in the words of the Scottish
Bard, McGonagle, “He felt no pain”. Somehow my pain centre was inhibited,
although there were body reactions which seemed to indicate that a natural
response was taking place - towards the end of the second session I felt as if
I was going to faint, while at the same time my feet were performing a little
‘drumming’ dance.
Yes, I felt no
pain while it was happening, but as soon as it stopped my whole body screamed
in agony. I literally climbed the stairs
on my hands and knees, and had to take an analgesic to be able to sleep. On the morning of the third day, I was
carrying a bale of hay to the stable adjoining my house when I had to put it
down. It was large and was bearing
against a knee that for some time had troubled me intermittently by filling
with fluid. Still very much aware of the
two previous evenings, I looked up and said in my mind, “You have forgotten my
knee”. That night I woke in bed to find
the knee being worked on ‘ethereally’, and happily, it has never bothered me
again in over twenty years.
Life carried on
in the same general vein for some little time, though it could not be said that
it continued ‘as normal’! There was an
episode of automatic writing that recorded nothing of importance, and the
presence of the young woman became almost tangible, to the extent that I found
myself reaching for a hand when about to cross the street.
It was an
extremely wet autumn, and the work of keeping a horse stabled at night was
becoming very tedious. Gradually, over
this and other activities, I found myself being ‘needled’. Criticisms began to invade the previously
harmonious exchanges. It is, indeed,
very hard, in retrospect, to recreate those particular days, and to understand
how it became possible for me to be dominated by an altogether different group
(or the same group acting differently).
Living alone, enveloped in a foul early winter, everything outside soaking
and muddy, it was fast heading for a ‘bleak midwinter’. Certainly, and principally, the lack of
association and the inability to put the events in perspective and discuss them
with people living more varied lives completed the isolation. It was thus that I found myself being alternated
in my mind between two groups - the one needling and critical, the other
supportive and encouraging. (I discuss
the strategies and ploys used to dominate and torment people later).
The two areas
of attack were the religious practices and the horse. It is quite easy for religion to be used as a
source of criticism and torment. Once
one has undertaken to engage in intense practices and a highly moral life, the
possibilities of being accused of backsliding and lack of devotion or
compliance are endless, and need not be enlarged upon.
The way that
the horse was used was interesting and quite unique. In Britain
When one’s
family has fragmented, and there are no longer children at home around whom the
celebrations of Christmas normally revolve, the ways in which it is observed
away from the religious context are normally somewhat contrived. Thus, I found myself ‘contriving’ a merry
Christmas but being pulled in several possible directions; no one else was
actively contributing but all were relying upon me to ‘provide’. My lack of commitment must have showed, for
one by one the others found alternatives.
I am writing
this over twenty years later. The sun is
shining, the trees that were bare then are full of leaf and birds, the field
that contained my mare is rich in grass awaiting mowing for hay and not the sea
of mud and icy rime that it was then, and the mountains are hazy and
cloud-shadowed not stark and snow topped.
In spite of that, as I look out towards the mountains I have only to let
my eyes go out of focus, and I can ‘see’ the reality from all those years ago,
and even though I have pages of notes that I made soon afterwards, I do not
need them, for every detail is as real as it was then, but now, fortunately,
without the terror and torment that were building up. It may be wondered why I did not share with
others at the time what I was experiencing, and ask for help. All I can say is that, exactly as I found
later when I did need real help, - it is virtually impossible to convey
or even hint at the reality of these events, just as many people, in broad
daylight, cannot relate the torment and reality that were theirs at three
o’clock earlier that morning.
Many times over
these intervening years, I have retold my story to a variety of people in a
variety of situations. What has remained
with me after these various tellings has been the fact that almost no one has
returned to the subject, asked supplementary questions, or followed through
with any analysis, except for those in two groups. The first is the group of people who have had
deep spiritual experiences of their own - they recognise and accept all that I
say, and then there is nothing more to say, but only to empathise, with
the understanding that can only come with shared personal experience.
The second
group is composed of one individual, one of the several Rogers
Which really is
me getting to the point of saying to you that if you are reading in a state of
total disbelief or with the intention of ‘doing a Roger’ on me, there doesn’t
seem to be much point in your reading any further. What I am writing does not allow of
any interpretation. It all happened,
and in the manner and ways that I am describing. If you are reading with the intent of using
what I am writing for the benefit of others, well ‘welcome’, be my friend;
while I live I’ll talk with you, enlarge, tell you all that you want to
know. But now, stay with the narrative -
things are getting really serious!
The final
departure occurred three days before Christmas Day itself, a Saturday, and as I
drove my last remaining visitor to the station yet more strange things began to
happen. Making my way along narrow
roads, I found my driving was being interfered with - at times my vision
clouded spontaneously and I had to stop; on some corners I was forced to
mis-steer and likewise had to stop to avoid crashing. At the station - well, you may have guessed -
Saturday service; the next train was not the next train, but the one after
that.
When I finally
got home it was mid-evening, very dark, very cold, very damp, and there was
still Bokhara to be seen to. First, I had to muck-out her loosebox, and
here again I encountered the interference or help with the wheelbarrow. Looking back, I am reminded of one occasion
when I was about thirteen. I had gone
fishing in a small trout river several miles from my home, cycling there with
my rod tied to the crossbar of the bike.
When I reached the river, I had to leave the road and push the bike over
some terrain resembling a links golf course.
I had been joined by some lads whom I knew by sight, who lived locally
and were about a year or two older. They
helped me negotiate my bike over a railway line that I had to cross, and then I
started to fish. I had hoped that they would
go on their way, but no chance, and after a while, they got bored and started interfering
with everything and behaving provocatively.
Fishing was pointless and I packed up and decided to head across the
mixed grass and sand to where it was possible that my parents had gone for a
drive. My tormentors I had hoped to
leave behind; some hope! They pushed
against me, pushed against the bike, grabbed it from behind and stopped me from
going forward, until, in desperation, I lashed out with my rod that I was
carrying. That did it. I was set upon, harried and punched to the
ground, continuing while I was lying there unable further to defend myself
against the onslaught. Finally, they had
their fill and left me a sobbing heap on the sand. It is amazing how the detail has come back,
and how exactly it matches the interference of those harrying ‘imps’ of the
wheelbarrow, and the reactions that they provoked in me and me in them.
Whatever, I
finally got Bokhara installed and dried and fed, in the midst of what varied
thoughts I cannot remember, although I have no doubt that I was being forced to
concentrate upon aspects of my moral life, and my fitness for a life of
improving spirituality. Let me again
emphasise, there was nothing in my moral life, past or present, with which I
could reproach myself to any significant extent, but somehow, everything was
trawled, examined, and even the most minor peccadillo could, in my then state
of mind, be made to seem to be an enormous ‘sin’. Gradually, the whole thrust of the
'catechism' and analysis wound around the ‘Christmas story’, and subtly, and by
allusion, around all past relationships with my parents. Any misunderstandings, any ‘wish lists’, were
extracted within the ‘Holy Family’ context, as if my parents were near at hand
and conscious of all that was transpiring.
Yet again, the wheel turned and there was
being stoked a feeling that I should go to the local church on Christmas Eve,
but only to stand outside, not being fit to proceed to join the ‘good’ people inside. It all sounds so ludicrous as I write it
down, and I do so solely to show how ones sense of proportion could be made to
be so distorted as to accept such dominance as reality.
What next I
remember, is going into the storeroom side of the stable to get some hay to
fill the manger. Before I could start to
cut the strings of the bale, I found myself forced down onto it on my knees,
and made to stare downwards, but it was not to look at the assorted feed bags
and twine that I would have expected to see.
No, I looked into a void, but not a void. Picture the most drear, cold landscape
of your imagination. I was in a narrow
steep-sided valley, and it was grey, and cold. A white, snow covered landscape has some
charm, but not this that I saw. The wind
blown, snow blown terrain and scree was so grey and lifeless; not a plant grew,
not a creature moved, not a bird flew, and it was soundless. And on my back was a great weight of ice, as
if the whole of a glacier lay there, bearing me down. I was so utterly cold and alone, and I
knew inside me that this could go on and on and on for ever. But in spite of that, I could muster the
shadow of a wry smile, for I knew that this could in fact be a state that
deliberately I had chosen, for, in essence, I was being shown what Hell could
be. What I was seeing and feeling would
be the equivalent of having once known and experienced the warmth of Divine
love, and then of having deliberately rejected it, given it a derisive gesture,
in full knowledge of what I was doing, and the remembrance of what I had lost
by my rejection would be with me for eternity with no chance of recall.
I have no
knowledge of how long my ‘vision’ lasted, though lasted it did sufficiently to
have stayed with me unabated for over twenty years. Nevertheless, gradually the warmth returned
and I was eased to my feet as my benumbed knees regained their function, and
so, standing comfortably again, I turned and looked out over the half stable
door. The clouds had cleared, and the
sky was full of stars. So full of
stars. And the reality of Christmas, and
the unqualified unique love that it had brought with it into the world,
swept over me.
It is
impossible, and I will not even try to convey to you all of the sensations and
reactions and emotions that engulfed me during this and the next day. Even now, when considering some of them, I
only take a sideways look with half an eye, and I marvel that I could have
become and been so embroiled in a situation that emotionally took me from
feelings of deep and abiding love and commitment, to those of absolute despair
and terror. I know and understand more
now having lived with and thought much about the consequences, but then, then
much was so incomprehensible, and yet it was all interwoven with the everyday
functions of making meals, making the bed, doing what had to be done.
And so I did
what had to be done during the following morning, a Sunday, and two days before
Christmas Day. Whatever I did, it was
completed by noon, and experiencing a total urge to escape from everything, I
went to bed. But escape I did not. What a fertile ground is the mind; what a
source of memory; memory that can be stirred and trawled by skilled spiritual
inquisitors. The strange thing is, on
reflection, that I did not question the right of this particular inquisitor
who dominated the ‘examination’, for that is indeed, what had developed. And how strange it is, and awesome, to
realise that everything is already known - everything that I had ever
thought, had done was accessible - or was skilfully extracted. What a catechism followed! And all set by reflection within the Easter
‘story’. For three hours I stayed, wide
awake - held enthralled and being forced to confront everything.
It was only by
conscious reflection sometime afterwards that I realised that I was being
purged, stripped of any ‘handholds’ in my mind by means of which my composure
or credibility could be undermined - just as a Greek wrestler of Classical
times would oil his body and remove all hair to deprive any opponent of an
anchorage for his grip. I am sorry that
I cannot share with you what was being awakened within me - not awakened then
for I was exhausted; the core of my being lay like a skinned animal and I was sore
inside. The awakening came with time
- the realisation of the actuality of the fundamental message and
essence of the Christian faith, and the reality and individuality of the
Holy Family. It is not that I do not want
to share what I came to experience and know - I just find it impossible. To return to an earlier analogy -
experiencing the summit of Mount Everest . One could go there with all of the
sophisticated video and sound recording gear and give a detailed commentary,
but never ever bring back one’s own inner spellbinding thrill of experience,
and of knowledge gained.
Always it is
only by analogy that it is possible to convey the wonderment and awesomeness of
an experience, and analysis is often banal.
Yet, on another plane of understanding, it can induce further
appreciation. Take the actual
Everest. We know that what is now the
summit was once at the bottom of the sea, and that the huge forces of tectonic
plate movement have thrust it up to its incredible height. Likewise, by analogy, it might be said that
Jesus has appeared as a pinnacle thrust upwards by the turmoil and pressure of
human spiritual developmental forces, to become a focus and goal that the
aspirant soul seeks. Opposing the height
of the mountain is a deep core descending far below the Tibetan plateau which,
in my analogy, reflects the core of evil influence and aspiration that the
perceptive will know actually exists, and is allowed to flourish.
But Everest is
composed of a type of rock that can be found in many places all over the
planet, and likewise Jesus was/is human and, equally, can be found anywhere
that he is sought. This was a reality
that I found with the passing months, as I did with the other members of the
Holy Family, each in their own role. The
reality and its effect upon me will emerge as my narrative progresses - as has
my experience and understanding of the opposing deep root core of evil which,
had I but known, I was to experience in full measure, and soon.
Vulnerable and
open to any influence, I undertook the chores of horse and stable management
with all of the intrusive domination at its most intense. Detail is pointless, sufficient to say that I
was threatened, and accepted and believed the threats of what would transpire
if I attempted any of the escape routes open to me. If I was to take the car, I would be so
influenced in my driving as to swerve and cause an accident killing
someone. If I set out on foot, I would
find myself run down by someone else who had been forced to swerve. If, nevertheless, I did set out in the car to
either of two possible refuges and arrived without accident, in each there were
young girls and I was threatened that I would be found committing some sort of
sexual assault. And so much more.
In spite of it
all, I completed my stable work and went indoors, very bemused and not knowing
how or where to seek help. How, or to
whom, is it possible to convey the reality of what, after all, was unseen, and
in my mind and body? Yet, for me, the
physical presences that invaded me were oh so very real and potent. By a process and sequence that I cannot now
recall, I was nevertheless encouraged to clean myself thoroughly and get into
completely clean clothes - I can see myself now, white shirt, navy seaman’s
jersey, strong riding breeches and stockings, and slippers. The kitchen has undergone some significant
changes since that night. The decor is
vastly different, and the Rayburn cooker has gone, replaced by some gas hobs of
my own design. The changes have been
made for essentially practical and aesthetic reasons, but, withal, they have
achieved a sort of exorcism of that evening.
Then, the Rayburn was a place of refuge, an anchor.
I think that,
possibly unconsciously, people choose this type of cooker for the ever-present
comfort that it can bring - not just its warmth, but the focus and
stability. But my stability was not to
last for long. Back to the brothers
Grimm, and the teasing tormenting imps, hobgoblins. Little puffs of air started to be blown on my
face and head from all directions. Tugs
and pushes from all around caused me to let go of my ‘anchor’, and I headed for
the phone. I cannot remember who I was
going to ring, but as I attempted to do so the dial achieved a life of its own
and whirred randomly and tormenting. I
stood, temporarily defeated, one hand on the phone shelf, the other on a high
backed chair, and then found my head nodding up and down. You will perhaps have seen a braying donkey
doing just that between brays. Well I
became that donkey - inside the donkey, looking out through its eyes in
a world of heavy loads and thoughtless beatings. Now, I knew that it was me within the
donkey, but I had absolutely no way of letting anyone know, nor of getting out
- and this could be another form of hell, I realised.
Then I was back
in the kitchen. At one stage, I remember
winding my wristwatch and seeing the hands, as I tried to set them, whirling
round and round at their own volition, as had the phone dial. Next, totally trapped, I paced up and down,
back and forth - you will also perhaps have seen polar bears in the zoo
mindlessly to-ing and fro-ing on the terraces of their enclosure. This time I was the polar bear. I was inside the bear looking out through its
eyes. I could look down the terraces at
the deep pool and the wall and the people beyond, and, as with the donkey, I
knew all, and again realised that this also could be a view of hell.
I cannot now
put a time scale on any of this, and I know that my writing is shortening the
span. If I were writing a ‘lost
week-end’ type of novel, I would enlarge and draw out every nuance of horror,
for horror there was aplenty. In actual
fact, it is all that I can do to recall objectively, and I only do so in order
to inform, so that everything in its context leads to a logical understanding -
that is if you are prepared to believe the actuality of what I am writing. If you are not, why, I thought that we had
parted company long ago.
Somehow, and I
cannot remember how or when in the sequence, I rang my GP friend Sandy. He, as I found out later, had been alerted by
another friend who had suspected that all was not well, and, although I could
hear the sound of a pre-Christmas party in the background, he promised to come
at once. And so he did.
I let him in,
but cannot recall what, if anything, I was able to tell him of my recent
torment. The next that I remember is being
seated in an armchair, while Sandy
Suddenly, yet
again I wasn’t there; instead there were disturbing, tormenting voices - “Let’s
get him! What does he fear most? Hanging - yes, let’s hang him” - and there I
was, standing on a gallows, ready for the drop, staring down into eager,
gloating faces, terror in my every fibre.
“What is bliss?” -”Yes, Pentathol, that’s it”, and I was floating. “What does he fear more than hanging? Yes, beheading” -and the scene changed to the
headsman - then back again to bliss. Once
again back to terror and the prospect of being impaled, and then back to
bliss. Finally, the prospect was of
being frozen to death in some dark, alien landscape... Then I opened my eyes, only to look down at
my arm and saw blood down the forearm.
“Oh shit”, I thought,” I’ve tried to commit suicide”. In reality, Sandy
Living as I do
in a fairly unsophisticated area well off the mainstream, it is not surprising
that one’s activities embrace a range of people who keep popping up in other
guises. Thus, here was the nurse whom I
previously had met in a violently mauve leotard, moulded to her every ample
curve, in a yoga class. Then there was
Dorothy, Bob’s daughter-in-law, who lives not far from my home. Thus word got to Bob, and here he was
visiting me and having good crack with the rabbit catcher, whom he had known
for many a year. This was Christmas Eve,
and a day mostly in bed, a bath and company having restored some
equanimity. My daughter came with some
presents, and life was becoming rounded again.
Christmas Day, and well-decorated Dorothy and her colleague were in the
room with a song and a dance and breakfast on a tray, with presents that they
had acquired and wrapped for us. And
thus there began for me a process of enlightenment, a process that has
continued without cease to this very day.
During my stay
in the little hospital, attached as it is to a retirement home, and during the
events that followed over the Christmas and New Year period, I met at first
hand the people who care. They
don’t figure in the pop-charts; their obituaries never make the national media;
most don’t figure in the New Year’s Honours lists - in fact they get very
little recognition at all, and most would probably get a little embarrassed if
you went out of your way to praise or thank them. How about the Salvation Army musicians who
brought carols and joy; the volunteers who had time and something for the older
people in the next door home, many in temporary residence over Christmas, as
their families had respite and a chance to visit elsewhere; the clergy of the
different denominations; the man with the accordion who played while we
danced? And many more.
Thus I danced
my way to an appearance of normality, and as the beds were allocated by medical
practices for their own emergencies, Sandy
I will not
labour you with the tedium of restoring warmth, rooting out food, and of
getting myself organised, all with a mind that was again under attack. One event, however, deserves mention. I still had my practice of praying by my bed,
and the next night I was thus engaged. I
often held a bible as a focus and possibly to read a little, and I had not been
on my knees for very long when the book itself was being ‘attacked’. I found myself wrestling to hold on to it,
while at the same time my head was being plagued by a horde of physical knocks
and tugs - for how long, I am not sure.
While this was happening, or just afterwards, it was put into my mind
that this was 28th December, the Feast of the Holy Innocents, the
day dedicated to the remembrance of the infants who had been murdered by Herod
in his attempts to slay the infant Christ.
Far from being honoured by the fact that their lives had ended so that,
effectively, Christ could survive, frankly, they were not best pleased. Thus, on this day dedicated to their memory
and honour, so I was told, they went world-wide creating as much havoc as they
could, joined, one suspects, by the spirits of all the infants and young
who are slaughtered or aborted for the sake of ‘expediency’. Whatever the truth of this, I know for sure
that I had not been in the least aware that this was, in fact, Holy Innocents
day.
And so it came
to pass that on the next day I spoke again to Sandy
On arrival, I
was interviewed by the duty Consultant Psychiatrist. I cannot remember what I said to him, and I
certainly did not know how he had been primed by Sandy
I was allocated
a fairly stark room - probably one used for all emergency admissions, some of
whom would be the worse for drink or drugs.
I was free to mix generally, but in that room when I went to bed, the
sense of isolation and of being spied upon was intense. In the wall opposite my bed, was what
remained of a chrome bell push, and in my state of mind, I feared that this was
a viewing channel through which my behaviour could be studied. My feelings of isolation and persecution
became almost unbearable.
Fortunately,
after two nights, I was placed in an open ward with about seven beds, and my
composure gradually began to return - very slowly at first as I started to
realise that I was not being spied on, and then more positively as I began to
observe and talk to my fellow inmates. I
also had a second interview with the psychiatrist that I found difficult to
respond to, the principal reason being that he was accompanied by a male
nurse. Had he been alone, I am sure that
my story would have flowed, but, for whatever reason, I simply could not talk
about voice hearing and the recent terrors, and went along with the suggestion
that I was suffering from a recurrence of my previous depression. And so, for the rest of the week I found
myself being ‘infused’ with an anti-depressant via an intravenous drip. As I was not suffering from depression, it
had no apparent effect, except to stabilise my bowels, which had become
disturbed. Notwithstanding that, I appreciated
greatly the care and concern with which I was being treated.
The care and
concern extended outside the hospital to my friends, and soon I was being
visited and supplied with items that I had not even begun to think about in my
sudden departure from home. One friend
in particular, Val, who had been my secretary at work, and who, because of a
long-standing problem, was a frequent inhabitant of hospital respiratory wards,
provided the practicalities of 10p pieces for the phone, writing materials and
tissues. The feeling of ‘normalness’
induced by these everyday necessities, her thoughtfulness and concern and the
similar responses of other friends, contributed greatly to the rebuilding of my
self confidence and assurance, which was doubly strengthened by the arrival
from London of my brother. His practical
application was inspirational.
Remembering that this was early January, he had driven well over 300
miles to arrive at a home that was bitterly cold and not as salubrious as it
might have been. My brother cleaned the
kitchen, cooked a good meal, discussed my affairs at the hospital and
extricated me for the first weekend.
Although my
financial affairs were essentially in good order, obsessive thoughts about such
things as tax matters were being forced into my mind, and a whole ambience of
anxiety was being engendered around me.
Fortunately, again, my brother took everything in hand and, in a
comparatively short time, had the imagined problems examined and proved them to
be non-existent.
Back in
hospital for a second week, I was able to see more clearly and assess the
thoughts that had begun to emerge during the first week, and to understand why
I found myself to be so alien within my surroundings. I found that I was able mentally to detach myself
from these surroundings and the reason why I was within them, and to look objectively
at some of the others with whom I was sharing them. In time, I saw a pattern of individuals who
just could not cope with the season ‘of good will’ and to whom it had, in fact,
become a burden. There was, for example,
the middle-aged bachelor, still living with his parents who had become
alienated and depressed by other people’s apparent enjoyment; the younger man,
whose brother I knew, who immediately previously had been seeking spiritual
‘enlightenment’ at several isolated monasteries, and who had somehow ‘lost it’
in his own spiritual isolation at Christmas; the Evangelical preacher with a
drink problem who found Christmas overwhelming, who, nevertheless, was able to
make his mark with gentle ‘preaching’ to the young isolated man. It turned out that I was learning, as I had
been in the cottage hospital, something of the nature of this particular time
of the year, this particular season of celebration. I was learning of different peoples’ inability
to cope, and also was seeing the wealth of ‘caring potential’ that exists. From all of which, and over the intervening
years, there has come my own determination to try to understand, and to be part
of that same ‘caring potential’.
All of my
‘insight and understanding’ lay yet in the future. In the sequence of events, I had encountered
the Consultant Psychiatrist (MC) of my previous 'incarceration' and who agreed
to let me transfer to his care. I was
able to tell him that my difficulties were psychic rather than psychiatric,
upon which he stopped the intravenous medication and just left me to take
stock. The next weekend saw me being
driven home by some good friends and starting to cope again, returning to the
hospital solely to sign myself off. When
I say ‘cope’, the word seems inadequate in the context of an entirely new
ambience that began to be created around me, and seemingly within me.
At all stages
in writing this account, I am meeting many problems of communication; not with
the mechanics of communication, but in finding suitable words with which to
convey the reality of experiences that are not part of the everyday life of the
majority of those who will read my work.
Thus, and for example, how can I describe to you the exact nature and
function of a wordless communication through which I was encouraged to achieve,
and shown the means of achieving, goals for which my previous life had not prepared
me?
It was not to
be plain sailing. Once the door to the
body and mind has been opened, it is most difficult, if not impossible, to
close it again. One can learn or devise
techniques to control access, but one is dealing with immense subtlety and
cunning. There is, however, the great
consolation that the same routes, the same channels are available to, and can
be used by, sources of spiritual help and ‘goodness’. How to recognise each for what it is,
minimise the potential harm, accept, and enhance what is good and profitable,
is the subject of the chapters that follow.
Before I move
on, I reflect on what I have written, and particularly on the three original
‘characters’ that were first on the scene.
Of these, ‘Ibn Ubar’ is the one who has left the greatest impression. Following an interest that has nothing to do
with the foregoing but more to my study of exploration and ancient routes, I
found my thoughts and reading being focused upon the lost city of Ubar
The satellite
photographs showed faint outlines of the arrow-straight caravan routes from
times long gone, routes that converged on a place that an expedition later
revealed as, indeed, the lost city of Ubar
I hope that now you will
continue and read my complete story and learn of the life that opened up before
me.
It has been a wonderful life
– and continues to be, even though I am now 87 and beginning to feel some of
the effects of ageing!
No comments:
Post a Comment