ALSTON CUMBRIA
When one is asleep one sees quite clearly the nature of a dream; as distinct from an apparently waking state.
When ones eyes are open does this automatically make one awake?
Should my mind be spending precious time on this Planet wondering on what I cannot effect?
Life is full of examples. I may think of a T.V. programme or Government.
I might feel it unjust that one man has more than the other and less talent than an egg shell.
I make continual judgements on all manner of events and situations over which I have no control. It seems to be a universal lore.
Everything lives and dies.
Even Political Systems grow old and die.
They become brittle.
Their structure unable to deal with the passage of time and change.
Try for 5 minutes to sit quietly with eyes closed and to go round the body sensing each part of your anatomy.
Its muscles and joins. Its weight.
How the neck holds the head and see how quickly ones great mind dismisses such an action.
It wishes to forget the container of its being and dream imagined futures and pasts.
We dream we are awake when our eyes open.
But I reach ahead of myself. I must begin at the beginning.
Mid September 2000, at Euston station where 15 of us gathered with our baggage under the clock.
We were booked on the afternoon train to Penrith in Cumbria.
Our final destination being near a small market town high up in the Peak District.
It was isolated there and we would have no modern digitality nor T.V., radio, or News.
We would be cut off in an attempt at an inner rather than outer exploration.
Of this group I knew ten quite well in regard to this inner exploration.
We met weekly, nine months of the year for one hour.
We practised a form of seeking silence, emphasised by a weekly study of movement, and a fortnightly visit to ‘Lan House’.
We were one of maybe 20 or thirty groups, who worked in this way.
In ordinary life, we knew little of each other, though relationships and conflicts naturally grew.
Our group began 9 years ago and had grown through time to 14 including the originators.
The other 5 people gathered under the clock at Euston station, belonged to similar groups as ours, members we recognised through glimpsing them at the House during the fortnightly meeting.
We were all apprehensive about the journey…I felt, no doubt, like, I’m sure the others did; that my normal life might fall apart without my undue, constant attention.
My financial situation was a disaster.
I had only managed to settle my accounts by selling old books. This normal self ,like we all had, couldn’t comprehend, the how, what or why, I was leaving the city.
The body moved.
It took the mind and feeling, whereas usually it was the reverse.
Our small group were a disparate bunch of people. We ranged from young to old, poor and rich, left and right. We had to struggle to disregard these accidents of fate in favour of a more common concentration.
Let me start with Thomas who had become my friend.
Our relationship had extended beyond our meetings to the Pub.
He was a tall, lean man from East London, with an air of self containment.
He said little but listened well and one felt he was often uncomfortable in a crowd.
A year ago he had taken up with Chelita, also in the group.
She ran a fashion conglomerate and I had also felt a closeness with her in moments.
She was more open than him and she had that vulnerable sensuality some women make into artworks.
Nevertheless their intimacy had driven us a part. It was not mentioned but it hung in the air between us.
I nodded at them and they to me, in recognition and began speaking with Francis an aspiring political journalist.
He was in his early 30’s younger than me by 15 years and he was one of our more recent members whom I found good company.
As I looked at the other members I noted Alan, a hardy, muscular, alternative Therapist in his mid fifties perhaps.
He was not in our group but had been an amour of Chelita’s.
I had once clashed with him and knew this might arise during the coming days.
Indeed, I also noted that my best ally, our group founder, Vincent, whom I expected amongst those on the train was not amongst us.
I made an enquiry and heard he had been hospitalised and was unable to attend.
“Its time to go,” remarked Maria.
She was a young publisher with a reserved demeanour that I discovered hid a deep musical talent.
Her cool efficiency had her co ordinating tickets and bookings.
‘I’ll be along in a minute.’ I replied, lighting a final cigarette.
Another woman, Veronica, stayed with me.
She was worried by some unattended baggage.
Her gait was quite snake like for she slide rather than moved.
I felt like going home and wished the cigarette I was smoking was one of those Moroccan ones, I’m so partial too.
“Come along Robin,” remarked a voice authoritatively.
It was Lian who had been in the group almost as long as myself.
It was her baggage which Veronica fretted over and she efficiently and determinedly took it up with a smile.
Lian, like myself was quite outspoken and independent.
He slightly humorous tonation eased my resistance, and with a sigh I threw my cigarette away as I followed her to the carriage.
I had spent the previous night at the Private Opening of an Art exhibition where free champagne flowed .
This was followed by a sumptuous meal. I was still feeling their effects as the train pulled out and I took a seat next to Francis. As the suburbs turned to greener pastures I drifted to my own space, a way from the remainder of the group. At that moment they were the last people in the world I wished to be with.
I felt, no doubt like each one of us, that my plight was not just unique but also incomprehensible to the others. Yes, it was the same for us all. The underlying study and search and yet the inevitable opinions and judgements of ones fellow man.
If you or I knew, or really knew, the place of man in the cosmos we would not have a problem with ourselves. Study the disparity between the mind and body in order to make a new feeling.
Agreement and disagreement have no place here either.
There is no argument with what is, ’tis ‘cos what is, is.
We are transforming air with each breath.
The organisms needs three types of food for existence, physical food, air, and impressions.
This is automatic and the transformation of these substances, through us, is automated.
If we fail to take in the minimum amount we die. We are not one whole unit, but many in one.
For instance,……….
The romantic, the cynic, the Poet, the Mother or Father, all the masks one wears in life, when I wear one of these egos, they believe they are all of me, but in reality they are not.
Why look how easy it is, to decide one will do something in an hour, but when it come to doing it, the will has gone.
This is because the ‘I’ that wished to act, is no longer the same ‘I’ and the new ‘I’ wishes to do another thing.
I’m not talking about huge things.
This movement occurs unconsciously.
I wish now to wash up the dishes but I’m sure I’ll resent it, when the time comes, or do something else that in the moment ,’I', consider to be more important.
Life is lived mostly on this level and not the level of so called, ‘universal themes’….
Try and observe this in the self,
We all do it and need to struggle with it.
A practical experiment in relation to waking and dreaming.
The Midlands past before my very eyes as I moved from snoring to the smoking carriage.
Feeling secure I would remain alone.
I had just settled into the comfort of this nicotine when I was joined by Thomas.
“Phew glad to get away from the others,” remarked Thomas sitting opposite me.
He rolled a cigarette.
He too must have felt a wish to be elsewhere.
Our smoking habit gave us a bond which on these occasions brought us together.
We found a commonality in many things, though his manifestation as a builder and mine as book dealer, had little in common.
“Hope no one snores where we’re sleeping. Shame about Vince being ill. I wonder what we’ll do ?” he continued, recollecting a similar week when Thomas and I had slept in a room with a man who suffered from vicious nasal passages.
“I can’t believe Alan is here and Vincent isn’t coming,’ I confided.
” Its devastated me. I wish I hadn’t come. Still its only 5 days. What do you reckon Thomas, hauling rocks and morning exercise?” I added.
“Yea,” he answered dubiously. “Like a beer ?”
He suddenly, producing two cans as if by magic.
“Sure,” I replied.
Neither of us remarked on any matters relating to ourselves.
We drifted off into the innocuous.
We laughed and made polite conversation about football, politics and petrol.
We made scant projections as to the potential for the week.
The miles seemed to gather pace as we closed in on our destination.
We reached the Lakes and then climbed up toward Penrith.
The carriages became emptier, most passengers had disembarked much earlier in the more affluent southern climes.
Thomas and I reluctantly returned to our companions.
As the station approached we gathered our baggage and left the train.
Our host Walter, one of the leaders of our small group, met us by coach at the station.
It was a half hour drive to his house.
Over the years we had got to know this ancestral home. It had belonged to his family for several generations.
I was relieved when on arrival Walter, took me to a small adjoining cottage where he showed me my sleeping quarters.
A separate room with its own door.
Walter spoke: “You should be quite comfortable here unless, of course, you’re woken up by your own snoring !”
He laughed, his face lifting with his smile. He had a noble stature and a shock of silver grey hair that accentuated the darkness of his eyes.
The opposite bedroom was occupied by a tall, 75 year old man also called Robin.
It is unusual to have two Robin’s together.
He appeared inoffensive by nature but stood unusually erect for a man of his age.
After arranging my belongings I went down stairs to find Harold, another group member who had arrived by car, making a bed up on the floor. He had driven through the petrol crisis to attend.
About my age, he was a well built, stocky, man of breeding and fiscal competence. He had made much of the stock market in the 1990’s, during his trading for a large American Bank. A man whom fate may have blessed or cursed with relative material stability.
We are all equals in our search for real knowledge.
The fickle dealings of race, creed, religion, colour, or class have no truck in this search.
Outward differences, ones opinion and judgements must be seconded to the will of an inner calling, one which we sought within ourselves, individually and together.
Walter shared his house with Delia, who with Vincent had began our group.
They had both studied under Madame L who had been the mistress of an esoteric, influential Mid European dance teacher, whose practical appliance of his philosophic doctrine, gave it a credence beyond the usual intellectual, religious, or self abusive logic, usually related to ‘alternatives’.
It had at root the long forgotten art of trying to remember yourself:
One must struggle with the ‘I’…..
The coach needs a passenger to control the drivers habits. He can remind the driver when to slow down or speed up. He can rest the horse.
The horse, (the emotional centre), wishes to talk to the driver, communicate with him, but the driver, (the intellectual centre), cannot speak the horses language.
The horse, (the emotions), lead the carriage, (body), and driver, (mind). But the driver cannot see this.
He dreams of changing the world, how he’ll feed his habits or find some way of disentangling himself from the emotional pull.
Our emotions, our feelings receive inadequate food.
We must find a place in ourselves for a passenger, someone more than just an ‘I’ but who has seen the ‘I’ in action.
Have you ever been in a life threatening situation ? Or had a moment when all of you suddenly came together as one?
Something, usually from childhood, that gave you an indelibly etched impression ?
In times of great danger man may momentarily come together. In these cases it is an accidental seeing ‘I’ to ‘I’.
Making it intentional is other matter.
Finer material.
Finer hydrogens being breathed, inhaled and exhaled, without being felt….
Now there is another possibility.
Myself and Harold helped Walter set up the tables for dining. We arranged this in a room near the kitchen.
It was a tight fit for 17 people and would mean eating with a great awareness of position in regard to physical space.
Walter seemed well satisfied with this arrangement which he emphasized it, by seating people on stools or thin plastic chairs.
Elbows tight by sides.
After the evening meal which we ate heartily a voluntary silence descended on us.
Many of us were well aware of how this quiet seems to organically grow.
It gave space for someone to speak to all and be heard. In this atmosphere Delia, Walter, Alan and elder woman named Louise prefaced a short story to be read, with an invitation to listen with regard to being either a mask maker, script writer, or singer.
In the silence that their words seemed to enhance rather than diminish I opted for singing instantly as I had brought my guitar at Delia’s request.
Alan was to lead the scriptwriters. Let me add that the silence was concentrated before Louise, read a short story taken from a legend surrounding the ancient king Arthur and his knight Gawain.
It was agonising listening to the reading seated on a narrow stool, grinding my teeth, wishing for a cigarette and unable to express my whole distaste.
I inwardly drew a sigh of relief as the reading ended. In fact so strong had been the movie in my head I had heard little of the story.
After the reading the quiet continued and I felt a huge resistance to the whole project.
This feeling was superbly verbalised by Phyllis, a strong, intelligent, witty, petite woman of strong socialist principles.
She thought the whole concept a waste of time, and to full of ancient English reverence. She concluded with a suggestion for an original piece.
I agreed with her and there were some other dissenting voices but ultimately with the choices available we had our three groups.
Phyllis took mask making as her protest and I’m sure all of us had some form of this resistance.
An identification with a part of our selves which refused to acknowledge another ego being in existence.
We were close to this.
The call of the outside in which we all lived separately and the struggle to spend a moment with oneself.
A comment by Alan led to an intellectual sword play between the two of us regarding a book written by a pupil of the esoteric dance teacher.
It happened quickly, almost beneath the breath, another current, another flow, another river to which we reluctantly awakened.
Delia concluded the meal by outline the pre breakfast morning programme.
Exercises in Forgotten Movement from 7.00 a.m. – 7.45 a.m..; immediately followed by meditation till 8.15 a.m. and then breakfast at 8.30 a.m.
As I smoked a final cigarette with Harold, Thomas, and Francis that evening we wondered about the next day with some apprehension. For each of us knew, in our own particular ways, that this morning diligence, was far from our usual awakenings.
We worked hard that first morning. The shock of such an unusual arising left me slightly dazed through breakfast.
The quiet was in us before we began eating.
Indeed I was richly replenished by my coffee and looked forward to my morning assignment to garden work.
We worked from 9.15 till 2.00 p.m. when we had lunch. My body tingled with its exertions.
It took my mind from the vast array of its usual panoramic conjectures about my daily life style down into its core.
The mind became interested in muscle and tissue, joint and weight.
How the food travelled to stomach.
This was the same for us all.
I had to struggle to retain my opinions.
However my waning resistance, and that of Alan’s found an outlet in each other, which became a feature of when the spoken word came upon us during mealtimes.
After this lunch we had an half hour to ourselves, before dividing into our three groups for the first time and beginning our work on the play.
I went for a walk in the Fells, grateful for the full wind on my face and the fresh Northern air reaching the deeper passages of my polluted lungs.
As I returned I met Francis who, like myself, had a superior cynicism about the afternoon activity. It was warming for us both.
It was only on returning we discovered we were both singers along with Delia, Mary, Thomas, Helen, the bread maker, who had arrived late, myself and Veronica, who was loosely in charge.
It was soon agreed that our options were limited until we received a script. We then learnt a song Virginia thought would be appropriate. After some hours the scriptwriters arrived and we re read the script:
Here it is, roughly, for I read it then:
The play was about Sir Gawain and King Arthur.
Arthur is confronted by an offended knight whose lands had been taken and given to Sir Gawain.
The knight cannot kill him because he is unarmed and so claims Arthur’s life in one years time, unless Arthur can tell him what ‘A woman desires the most from a man.”
Arthur returns to court and he and Gawain spend the year trying to answer the riddle. They each make a huge book of the answers but remain unconvinced they have the right one.
On his way to meet the knight, Arthur is met by an old hag.
She tells him that what a woman desires the most over man is his sovereignty and if she is right then he must make Sir Gawain marry her. Arthur shows the knight the book of answers and he claims Arthur’s life so, in desperation, Arthur gives him the old hag’s answer which is right.
Gawain has to marry the old hag.
After the wedding feast in bed Gawain turns to kiss her, as chivalry demands, and she changes into a beautiful woman.
She then tells him that she has been bewitched and he has the choice as to whether to have her as a hag by day and beauty by night or vice versa.
Gawain cedes responsibility and gives her the choice and the spell is completely broken, because above all else “a woman desires sovereignty over a man”.
This summary caused a clash between us musicians and the scriptwriters.
Alan and I argued about the concept of ‘Sovereignty’, nevertheless, we agreed on some principles and they agreed to produce a comprehensive script within 24 hours.
We sung on, lungs bursting, larynx and voice box stretching for those forgotten notes, finding their octave and then loosing the harmony. It was late when we stopped and had supper. It must have been 9.00 p.m.
It appeared that those who had prepared supper had created not only a visual but also a culinary feast.
As we waited or passed food around the small, confined table we all felt the usual silence appear with a sense of appreciation rather than resent.
Walter read a short sentence from Mme L which one heard in the whole self rather than just the mind. I was highly conscious of were my voice resonated in me.
After the supper we meditated once more before bed.
The next morning we repeated the same pattern, with some variation.
After the afternoon break we returned to our theatrical pasts. The scriptwriters produced a script which we loosely edited.
Eventually a compromise was reached and we began scoring the music.
I was determined to include Thomas more than usual and insisted he played my guitar for one of the songs.
In the evening we were joined by Neal who added weight to our numbers.
He had come with an architectural friend, Peter, from a group near Wales, until Monday morning.
We had met, over the years on several occasions and had, amongst other things, a musical interest in common.
He was a tall, well built fireman whose experience running a choir took our contribution to another level.
This reinforcement was like a notch up the musical scale, making it over a semi tone.
Neal’s infectious enthusiasm overcame our fear of humming harmonies or hearing descants. He taught us several pieces which bonded us into a cohesive force.
Even Francis’s dry intellect bowed before a hidden passion as he conducted my voice through an African spirtual.
How alive he became!
The sheer thrill of our harmonised sound floated into a place deeper than my usual mode. I wished to treasure its existence like a child, rock it, cradled it from the storms of my own iniquities…..
The next day I received a tap on my door at 6.55. a.m.. My sleep had been disturbed and my head ached.
“Hello”, I replied timidly.
“Its Robin. Just letting you know its nearly 7.00 a.m.”
“Thank you Robin I’ll be up soon.” I replied politely.
I had no intention whatsoever of making the early morning exercises.
For some unknown reason, in sleep, my softness of the previous day had been stolen and replaced with an overwhelming desire to stay in bed.
I felt empty and filled with a deep resentment.
I went out into the early morning mist relieved to be alone when I noticed a shadow in the other cottage.
I went to the kitchen and took coffee only to be joined by Thomas, who had awoken in the same mood as myself.
He laughed:
‘I couldn’t stand the idea of another one of those classes.’
‘Nor me,’ I agreed grinning. ‘Sorry, no Levitation with Lian this morning. Lets grab a coffee and get as much nicotine as we can down us before, the sit,’ I suggested negatively.
‘Good idea,’ replied Thomas. We walked outside. A morning full of watery autumn. We smoked quietly. I felt closer to Thomas than I had for some time. I had awoken full of resentment and I knew Alan could be a victim of this black mood that enveloped me.
My work that morning was baking bread with Helen.
I had made this basic human need previously under her tutelage and our conversation seemed to pick up from where it had left off a year ago. Helen had a saintly air and an inner hardiness.
She intimated a tough past while revealing little of its content.
She was an extremely sprightly Grandmother, who in the winter months often travelled to India.
Our conversation and the kneading of dough temporarily replaced my inner raging, however not for too long.
At lunch Alan mentioned something and I argued with him.
It was contained but an obvious conflict in which I was ably backed by Phyllis.
Later he made a comment to Chelita on the subject as I passed by, which incensed me.
I went outside and met Thomas.
“I think I’m going to tell him to stop this stupidity,” I said, vehemently, though pleading.
“Yea,” Thomas agreed calmly. He seemed intent on skilfully rolling tobacco. “He says some really stupid things but then again he can be quite interesting…” Thomas observed. I sensed his effort to placate me.
“No. I’m not taking it. Come on Thomas, make sure I don’t do anything stupid.”
“After I’ve smoked a ciggie.”
I waited till he finished.
We walked inside and found the remainder seated in the loft and about to have a reading from a book written by the esoteric dance teacher.
At the best of times this book is difficult.
It was written not in the way our normal books are written and indeed the writer set out to break all the rules of grammar in his efforts to commune something beyond language and conditioning.
On this occasion I heard very little, determining to say nothing during the aftermath of the recitation.
A phrase was being used which I sneered at internally, barely conscious of how when once I’d read it, I seemed to understand the content. It took enormous physical energy to switch off during this recital, but I managed it and continued my arrogant stance throughout the ensuing exchange.
Finally, one of the many silences was interrupted by Thomas.
He swallowed hard, nervously, his large Adam’s apple bobbling in his neck.
I sat next to him on a stool. We were all on stools, or crossed legged on the floor.
‘May be I got it wrong, ‘ he said hesitantly. I watched his eyes swiftly, move from face to face……
“But I always thought doing ‘Partldog-duty’ meant bearing the unpleasant manifestations of others.”
The whole vibration deepened. No one spoke, some closed their eyes. I felt humbled by the statement.
In this moment a wound was healed.
I heard nothing but my own prejudices and yet somehow, something had penetrated and the wisdom of my friend made my anger drop away, to be replaced by a new feeling…….
That night Thomas and I wrote a song for the performance and we wrote a two piece guitar instrumental.
At the meal I spoke indirectly about this moment and Alan made a comment about the inside and outside worlds. I pondered on his concept. It made a great deal of sense. My outside manifestation being so in tune with the inner perceptions. It was a possibility I hadn’t considered.
The next day we were to make our performance.
Walter and Delia had invited some of their friends and family as an audience and so after our morning work we were to have no rest before each of us separately and then together could rehearse for our performance.
On the morning of this event I went to Alan and spoke:
‘ I just wanted to say that I thought about what you said last night and was very touched.
We may disagree but I think at heart we’re both quite similar…’
A rye smile crossed his lips as he continued on his work.
I was laying a drainage pipe with Harold and Neal.
They had pick axed through stone, while I had mixed cement for those building a wall.
I learnt from Harold that he was to play King Arthur despite being a mask maker.
We ate lunch in quiet anticipation of evening wine, tired by our morning exertions.
It was not until 5 p.m. that the 14 of us involved in the production met for a rehearsal.
As musicians we had little concept of their play.
We deduced quickly that the script writers employed some of their number to read the script, while some and some mask makers had been coerced, or invited, into being actors.
As musicians we sat behind the players and so only saw their backs.
Lian, who led the morning exercises with such authority extended her authoritarianism into the realm of masked mimers, moving to script as readers read wrong lines.
The hot sweaty faces beneath their facade grew more and more unsure how to perform on stage.
It was quite an experience to see it occur while only witnessing the director directing.
After Harold nearly passed out from repeated attempts at acting behind a paiper maiche mask we determined, through the unusual auspices of agreement between Alan and I, to perform with musicians as audience during the dress rehearsal.
Delia insisted we just continued but the unusual alliance between myself and Alan overruled her with noticeable force.
Our first dress rehearsal was diabolical.
However, without masks and with the musicians correctly placed it improved, though the gong for supper arrived too early for anyone to contemplate eating with confidence.
Nevertheless, good food and a glass of wine after some abstinence improved optimism and the arrival of the guests added a slight and necessary nervousness which dampened when we had imbibed our second glass of alcohol.
There must have been 10 invited audience who witnessed the outcome of our efforts.
Our performance went very well.
The casting of Chelita as the old hag and Phyllis as Sir Gawain were excellent.
Phyllis’s mockery and Chelita’s avidity for show biz gave the whole concept another meaning.
Harold added a regal presence in his role as Arthur.
Louise, Alan, Veronica and Robin read in time with the outlandish, mechanical movements of the main protagonists while we musicians added another flavour and element.
Our songs seemed, as some of them were, just for the occasion.
Indeed I shall always remember our rendering of a South African song taught to Neal.
Above all how Francis’s whole being seemed to be animated, moving with each note echoing in his vocal chords.
His eyes wide with wonder and Helen, as a young girl of 6 rather than 60.
Neal bounded between us, his eyes alive and feverish, conducting and composing us through the scale, weaving unseen octaves, through the spheres and the lasting chord it vibrated to all in that room.
Indeed this impression I had of something I lost so many years ago, something extremely pure, came back to me in that moment.
For several seconds, it could have been an eternity, I heard my own voice again.
It was not polluted by my own thought, opinion, judgement or prediction on future or past.
It was just where it belonged.
The following day saw several people depart, including Neal and Alan.
“We must fall out again soon, “ remarked Alan, as we shook hands warmly.
I was relieved he was going and glad we had, each and one, struggled with our own per judgement.
“Like what it doesn’t like,” came to mind.
Our final day was more relaxed. Francis and I went for a long hike and we told stories over lunch and later after dinner by the glow of a wood fire.
On the last day I was up at 6.00 a.m.. and looking forward to the morning exercise.
I had grown to like Lian more and more as the days had progressed. I had known her for 8 years and I believe it was the first time I saw her without prejudice for a moment.
I’m sure this was the first morning I wanted to hear Lian’s voice and actually consciously sense the movement of my body.
We left the house at 2.00. p.m. on the same coach which had brought us.
When one is asleep one sees quite clearly the nature of a dream, as distinct from an apparently waking state…
When my eyes are open does this automatically make me awake ?
Am I awake when my eyes are open?
Or do I sleep to life, as it lives me, as I dream ?
Try for 5 minutes to sit quietly with eyes closed and to go round the body sensing each part of your anatomy.
Its muscles and joins. Its weight.
Sense, how the neck holds the head and see how quickly the driver, or mind, wishes to forget the very essence of its being and dream of what might be, or figure on some supposed important appointment, analyse why one could or should have done something, how unable it is to stay with the body and use its power …..
We dream we are awake, when our eyes open.
