mad, sad, glad or bad?
There’s no who Home inside!
FOR THOSE WHO BELIEVE THEY ARE BORN & DIE...
NEVERBORN/NEVERDIE ONES ARE CLOGGED BY
UNTIL THEY REALIZE THIS IS THE LANGUAGE
THEY ACQUIRE LOOSELY
IN ORDER NOT TO FRIGHTEN WORLDLINGS
Everybody needs beauty as well as bread,
places to play in and pray in,
where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.
Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.
Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you,
and the storms their energy,
while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.
~ John Muir
(BRIEF WRITE UP OF JOHN MUIR'S LIFE ON ABOVE LINK)
Do you hear it?
Name it if you must,
or leave it forever nameless,
but why pretend it is not there?
When all the noise is silenced,
The meetings adjourned...
The lists laid aside,
And the Wild Iris blooms
In the dark forest...
What still pulls on your soul?
But then it was suddenly as if a voice within him was commanding him to look up at the forbidden summit and as he did so he saw,
in the light of one of the greatest of mythological African sunsets,
a pure white feather fluttering down from on high towards him.
He put out his hand and grasped the feather and,
they who told me the story said,
he died content.
When I asked them what the name of this great white bird was, they told me:
'The bird has many names but we believe it was the Bird of Truth.'
A story told to Sir Laurens van der Post by the African Bushmen....
and much more here:
An excellent sampler of Laurens van der Post writings is named
FEATHERFALL: An Anthology
The essence of a lifetime of writing from one of the nineteenth centuries most respected figures. Contemporary and friend of C. G. Jung this man's writing reflects far-ranging ideas and extraordinary experiences
I've seen many people die in many different ways,
but I never get used to dying and death.
I always feel when I meet it as if it comes for the first time,
and I uncover all my mind and heart humbly
before such uncomprehended royalty.
This man was an utter stranger to me,
but in that look he was suddenly very close,
was almost part of me,
if only because we are in life all near to one another
in our common nearness to this end
which ultimately makes us one.
-- Laurens van der Post,
Flamingo Feather, p.8
It is the symbol of all the feminine values, the caring, feeling values, the receptive spirit charged with wonder and hope and the glow, as the shining of the moon, that is intuition and its shy intimations of new being and becoming that make the opaque past, the dark present and obscure future, translucent with inner light, as was the comb of wild African honey that Mantis used to make the eland great and [Bushmen] Stone-age spirit new.
We live, I wrote at the end of a long desert exploration some thirty years ago, in a sunset hour of time and need the light of this moon of Mantis, this feminine Ariadne soul, which conducts the travel-stained prodigal son of man on a labyrinthine journey to the innermost chamber of his spirit where he meets the `thou that heals'.
Had it not been for the Bushman I myself would not have the confirmation, the certainty and continuity of hope in the wholeness of an origin and a destination that is one and holy. And I wish I could take each one of these anonymous fragments of those remaining Stone-age men and women by the arm and say to them before they vanish:
`Thank you, and please go in the dignity that is your right.
You and your fathers were not beasts and cattle but hunters after meaning: painters of animal eucharist and metamorphosis of man on canvasses of rock; tellers of stories that were seeds of new awareness; dancers of dances that restored men to the fellowship of the stars and moon and made them heal one another; and makers of music in which the future sings.
They have altogether travelled a way of the truth that would make men free.'
In this, I know, they did not live in vain, however much the desecrated present denies their children. We need their spirit still. We who loom so large on the scene are not better than they, only more powerful with a power that corrupts us still.
It is we who shall have lived in vain unless we follow on from where their footprints are covered over by the wind of the moving spirit that travels the ultimate borders of space and time from which they were redeemed by their story.
Woven as it is into a pattern of timeless moments, their story may yet help the redeeming moon in us all on the way to a renewal of life that will make now forever.
-- Laurens van der Post, "Witness to a Last Will of Man,"
pp.169-70 of Testament to the Bushman, 1984
above quote found here:
and love is the aboriginal tracker on the faded desert spoor of his lost self;
and so I came to live my life
not by conscious plan or prearranged design
but as someone following the flight of a bird.
Laurens Van der Post
Purlsane ( natives call it Hogweed)
- grows wild - delicious
more infomation here: