Archive for climb

Creative Journey

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 11, 2012 by javedbabar

The man left the myriad reflections of the crystal cave and climbed again, braving the upper slopes of the dark mountain. He was above the tree line, negotiating bare rock patches and loose rocks. His groping caused a few rocks to tumble. Most rolled freely though some caused small slides. The chances of another person being below him were remote. He was unconcerned.

It took a full day of climbing to reach the top. It wasn’t pretty up there, just bare black rock with shattered masses, but the view down the valley was stunning. He saw the turquoise lake, down the black river, and the forests and fields along its sides. He couldn’t see Lucerne village because of a bend in the valley, but he saw the white mountain towering above it like a guard.

A week ago he had awoken atop this white mountain, unknown and alone, feeling compelled to reach its dark sister. Now he was here. To what end?

What should he do in this inhospitable terrain?

It seemed the end of a pointless journey.

There was nowhere else to go.

He saw a flat rock whose top flashed strongly. Its surface was flush as if carved by a master, and a mark upon it caught his eye. It was another petroglyph, like those he’d seen at the crystal cave indicating ascension and expansion, but his one was pointing in three directions at once – everywhere. What was its meaning?

A sunset ravished and hued the valley golden, then eased into bronze, then silver. The man from the mountain sat on the flat rock. He recreated his journey here – from the white mountain, to the village, past farms, along the river, through forest, staying at the strange steel cabin, four nights of passion at Samhala, exploring his soul’s facets at the crystal cave, and finally completing his ascent of the dark mountain.

Every journey has a purpose – it must have, otherwise why would you make it?

Either an overt one or a covert one.

A desire to reach or to escape something.

What was his purpose?

He had once met the holy man Guru Baba, who told him that “the journey is the destination”. He had never quite understood its meaning, but sitting on the flat rock, he realized that its inscription symbolized both his journey and destination.

He was wherever he was.

He was it.

He didn’t know if he fell asleep, or if he’d never woken, for when he opened his eyes he was on a white mountain with great views in most directions. He saw forests, lakes, rivers, and other mountains, including a dark one at the far end of the valley.

It was time to begin again. Would it be the same journey or a different one? That was for him to choose.

Nice Views

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , , , , , on April 17, 2012 by javedbabar

It was a gorgeous day and the clients of Open Hearts seniors daycare centre sat outside. Whether they could or couldn’t be outside the centre’s “protected atmosphere” was a hazy area in the regulations. The centre was built to modern construction parameters and was completely airtight, making it highly energy-efficient. No air entered or left without being conditioned – pre-heated in winter, pre-cooled in summer, and something in between during spring and fall. Windows were never opened, and doors were double doors, regulating variations and tempering sounds. Floors were washed daily and walls wiped weekly. Insects and pets were forbidden. It was entirely spick and span.

None of this could be said for the great outdoors. Wild filthy nature was filled with birds and bees, richly-microbed soils, and every kind of allergen imaginable, including floating pollens, sneaky bacteria, communicable viruses, choky tree nuts, pointy oily seeds, five-bellied dairy producers, and gluten-filled grains. And of course there were all kinds of people not obeying rules and regulations, doing whatever they liked. The Authority discouraged the Centre’s clients from going outside. But as mentioned, it was a hazy area. The manager Mr. Amin took the view that culture must be tempered by nature. Today clients sat spread across the lawn – some in sun, some in shade – before Mt Alba, which rose up among the Valley’s swirling mists, as if to God.

Mr. Amin thought about Guru Baba’s great pilgrimage. It was both the highlight and the lowlight of his recent life. It had been a privilege to spend time in the company of such a great holy man. The residents of Lucerne had been shocked when this revered Master announced that he would retire to “that lovely little village with the white mountain above it.” The Authority had immediately offered him a mansion with acreage and horses, but he said that wasn’t necessary. He just wanted one of the “little houses” that he had seen there, meaning a seniors’ housing unit built by the local fraternal group The Tigers.

An empty unit was provided for Guru Baba and he moved right in. Nobody knew what happened to the Italian woman who had been living there already. Despite being over eighty – some claimed he was a hundred, even a thousand – Guru Baba was fit and strong, and led a hundred-person pilgrimage to the top of Mt. Alba. Mr. Amin’s knees had only allowed him as far as the base camp. It saddened him to have not attained the summit with Guru Baba, but upon his return, the sage gave him a holy rock upon which to dream.

Irene looked into the forests clothing Mt. Alba’s lower slopes. She wondered how the little girl who had become St. Sandrine had managed to ride her horse up there? Irene had once walked the forestry roads at its base, searching for crystals. Even those roads were overgrown and barely passable on foot. But Sandrine had ridden Thunder, her powerful charger, right to the summit. Stories of her horse having eight legs confused facts with legends. Odin’s horse Sleipnir had eight legs, not Thunder, who was just a working farm horse. He had a huge heart – which was what had drawn Sandrine to him – but the usual number of legs. Thunder’s owner, an Old Family farmer, had immediately seen the love between this young beauty and beast. He had also seen the holy light in her eyes. He had given the horse as a gift to Sandrine, and requested that she “ensure this fine beast accompanies you to heaven.” Sandrine had taken him literally, riding Alba’s trails with Thunder, and they died together at the top. This story of God’s creatures rising together had captured people’s hearts, and caused Sandrine’s elevation to Sainthood.

James too sat staring into the distance. Since his stroke he did little else. His thoughts however were as lucid as ever. People didn’t seem to understand that he may not be able to sing and dance, but that his mind ran free. In some ways it was stronger than ever, as there were fewer distractions, just flowing possibilities. He thought of diabetic amputee Safira climbing the mountain. How had she managed it without legs? She’d had a support team, of course, carrying food, water, camping and medical equipment, but the exertion had been all her own. The thought of her struggling up there with steel legs and canes was so inspiring that he often cried. People mistook those tears for sadness at his personal condition, but that was not true. He was resigned to the life that fate had delivered, and that was the thing – that Safira wasn’t. She had achieved the impossible. She was an amazing woman. An inspiration to all.

Gemma sat in the shade, knitting and purling. Tik-Tak-Tik-Tak-Tik-Tak-Tik-Tak. She wondered if Ozwald Melchizedek had really climbed Mt. Alba? He was her spiritual mentor – and occasional tormentor – but some of his stories did seem quite tall. He said that he’d climbed Mt. Alba in his mind, raising his level of consciousness “to the top of his Man-Head, and the bottom of the God-Head”. He had balanced his soul at the mountain top – which he referred to as the “pyramid point” – and at that moment, intersected with divinity in a “holy checking in” of transcendent involution.

They all stared at the holy mountain, knowing that soon they would be climbing it together. “Okay, time to go inside,” said Mr. Amin. “Last one in is a mountain goat!”