Monthly Archives: March 2018

Faith in Reason?…

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Faith or Reason?

…The same question echoes down the ages.

It has a written record at least as old as Socrates.

The arch-dialectician claimed reason as his mentor

and spent his life poking fun at the Athenian Aristocracy,

who, like most noblemen, followed their instincts,

and were thus incapable of adequately rationalising many of their actions.

Plato, an innocent and an idealist,

expended all his energies on proving that taken together,

and each applied in the right dosage,

they move inextricably towards ‘the good’.

Most western philosophers since have attempted to prove the self same thing!

White-Skunk seeks medicine IX…

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… After leaving Skunk, Young-Wolf had overtaken his brothers and told them that, “Skunk was carrying a poor Rice-Bird in his back-pack.”

They all came back down the valley looking for Skunk.

They heard his stick-game song and crept up on him stealthily.

They saw Skunk squirming about between his sticks playing the game by himself.

They saw Rice-Bird’s, beads and shells piled up between the rows of rotten wood and feared the worse.

Young-Wolf crept up behind Skunk,  deftly placed his foot on Skunk’s tail and at the same time seized him by the nape of the neck.

Skunk did not stir.

“Fetch me a wooden club and let me club him to death,” said Young-Wolf to his brothers.

But that roused Skunk.

“Eh! What, am I an old woman that you should club me to death like that,” said Skunk, “put me down and let us meet face to face!”

“Your brave talk is only on account of your musk-sac,” said Young-Wolf, he called to his brothers, “hurry up with that club!”

His brothers handed Young-Wolf a wooden club and he clubbed poor Skunk to death.

Then the Wolf brothers took the beads and shells of Rice-Bird and went on their way.

This far and no further for White-Skunk.

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The Boundary Stone

Walking with a Smacked Pentax

Very early this morning I took a long walk across the moors, and I came across this old Boundary stone in the middle of nowhere. Nothing too unusual about that – there are a lot of them on the moors. But I always wonder how they decide where they should be and who owns which bit of moorland. I will have to ask my son-in-law, he is the gamekeeper on these moors, he will know.

BTW – this one is best viewed big  🙂

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White-Skunk seeks medicine VIII…

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… Once Rice-Bird’s whistle could no longer be heard, Skunk soon forgot his fear.

He came to a shady place.

“Ah, this would be a good place to play the stick-game,” thought Skunk.

He gathered some chunks of rotten wood to put up in a large circle.

Then he took five more chunks of wood to represent his lost wives and seated himself among them, “move over a little,” he said to the ‘youngest of his lost wives’, “you are hampering my play, move over!”

Then Skunk arranged the rotten chunks of wood in two rows, with each chunk facing an opponent of the other side. He piled all the shell and bead ornaments that he had stolen from Rice-Bird in the middle between the opposing sides.

When everything had been properly arranged, Skunk again began to sing, “White-Skunk is playing the stick game, White-Skunk is playing…”

Every so often he would turn to scold one of his ‘lost wives’.

“Move over you, you will cause me to lose, and nobody can beat me for I am on my way from the Camp of the Clever Fellows.”

So went Skunk wriggling about on his haunches, talking and singing to the rotten chunks of wood.

He gave himself up to the wild enchantment and thrill of his game.

Skunk had become so enraptured by his own game that he failed to realise that the Wolf brothers had re-entered the valley and were looking for him.

to be continued

The courage of conviction…

The Silent Eye

‘They’ve got that completely the wrong way around.’ I almost winced as I read the article, completely disagreeing with the perspective that was being outlined. The basics were correct, I felt but there was something decidedly ‘off’ about the way it was being put across. I read on regardless, listening to the running commentary in my mind… then winced in good earnest. This time at me.

By what right did I think I could judge another person’s perspective? Anyone can challenge facts if they have better information, but this was not a factual piece; it was an article on an aspect of spirituality, which, by its very nature, deals with the unseen and unknown. I may have the right to disagree with a belief or an opinion, just as I have a right to my own perspective… but I have no right to judge another to be wrong on such…

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White-Skunk seeks medicine VII…

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… Rice-Bird now knew the thing that Skunk feared and he began to throw his voice in a whistle from Skunk’s back-pack.

“Ugh!” cried Skunk when he heard the whistle and he turned and fled in the opposite direction.

But Rice-Bird threw his voice into a whistle again and again stopped Skunk in his tracks.

“Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!” cried Skunk.

But whichever way Skunk fled, Rice-Bird threw his voice into a whistle which sounded like it was coming from up ahead and it was not long before Skunk was exhausted from running in circles without getting anywhere.

Skunk collapsed onto the ground, prostrate. “I am tired,” he said to himself, “it is too much for me to be carrying such a weight on my back, I will hang up my brother, here, while I go on and then return for him later.”

So Skunk stripped off all Rice-Bird’s adornments, for Rice-Bird was again playing dead, and hung him up on a thorn bush.

As Skunk turned to leave, Rice-Bird emitted a low whistle, and Skunk swiftly scampered away from the thorn bush in fear.

With one long, strong, final blast of a whistle, Rice-Bird sent Skunk far and away up the valley at a pace before he finally disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“That’ll teach him,” laughed Rice-Bird, unhooking himself from the thorn bush.

He had lost the beads from around his neck but at least he was still alive…

to be continued

The road…

The Silent Eye

I left after work on Thursday, driving north for the last Silent Eye meeting before the April workshop. The sun was shining, the day was balmy… spring had, it seemed, finally sprung after the torrential rain that had battered the land all night. Six counties, several road closures and five hours later, I had driven through spring and back into a watery world where the rain lashed the windscreen faster than the wipers could clear it.

Yet the sun greeted me again as I drove over the Derbyshire hills and into Yorkshire. Traces of white winter lingered in the lee of stone walls where the shadows preserved the last remnants of snow. Daffodils strained at the leash, wanting only a little warmth to burst forth in all their golden glory… and then I hit a wall of fog and I was glad to reach my destination and dinner.

The next…

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Spring’s Silent Song

Sun in Gemini

Spring's Silent Song

Is it perhaps in fingertips

Where poised and ready reflex sits

Sharpened, flexed and keen

Framing March’s calling turn

As brightness fills the sky

Or feet that on an older ground

Had slithered, moaned and grumbled loud

Now, with bouncing spring and tread

A lighter step as though ahead

A different path awaits

Perhaps the seeds delight and stir

Where winter’s less than obvious care

Has left in frozen, fractured earth

A memory of delight to birth

Awakening to the dawn

Or there’s a switch within the head

That says: awake, arise from dead

And live, again, O mortal man

And staggering through the end of dark

Be greeted by the Sun.

And somewhere, does a distant bell

Whose song’s a clear and keening knell

All life awaken – hear it well, rejoicing

That on your opened ears it gently fell

While there are those…

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Perils and Pit-Stops…

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True lovers of wisdom,

Your way lies between,

The wearying towers of science and religion.

How will you scale their heights,

To reach your own wide vistas?

The world awaits your ‘Yes’ or your ‘No’,

And you demand nothing less from yourself…

No pied-piper of spirit.

No manipulator of soul.

No commander of hosts.

You seek experience…

Mind numbing,

Earth shattering,

Horizon piercing…

How else can your view evolve,

And become,

Exalted?

Fragile strength

The Silent Eye

butterfly 41

Unfettered beauty

Riding the storms of Chaos

Fragile as a heart

There are few things as strong…or as fragile…as a butterfly. Their delicate wings can withstand both wind and rain, yet the touch of a finger can damage them beyond repair. Their physical strength starts early when, as caterpillars, they munch their way through leaves ten times their size before moving on to the next, decimating the plants upon which their parent laid their eggs.

They have another strength though, not visible to the irate gardener or passionate lepidopterist… they have the strength to yield to the inevitability of their own dissolution. Retiring to their homespun cocoon, metamorphosis occurs; they are dissolved into the component parts of their own being before their final emergence as beauty incarnate.

butterfly2

It makes you wonder about the strength of the impulsion of Nature…and whether the caterpillar is aware of its future. How much awareness…

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