It’s quite incredible. No it’s not really unbelievable. I know better than that. It’s really and truly quite credible. Even to be expected. If you are sensitive you just tune in. She’s there. Waiting.
I stand eight or ten feet away from her image. There were centuries of devotion before she was taken from her temple. Centuries when she absorbed the concentrated energy directed at her. Now it’s there. Just waiting – begging, almost – for believers to come and make contact.
The magnetic link is powerful. As powerful as you want. Here is a fountain of rejuvenation. A place of refreshment.
And the more you take in, the more there is for the taking.
francis cameron, oxford, 13 april 2012
Friday, 13 April 2012
back to visit ‘my’ bodhisattva again
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
bodhisattva
Ashmolean gallery 38. China from AD 800. Takes me back to Cowper Street school when I taught 2nd year history to fill a gap in my timetable. According to Messrs Carter & Mears then, European History began on Christmas Day in the year 800 when the Pope in St Peter’s crowned Charlemagne (alias Carolus Magnus alias Karl der Gross) as Holy Roman Emperor.
And I look round at the exhibition and see what the Chinese were doing and I make comparisons. And I’m sad our history books didn’t have more to say about the world at the other end of the Silk Road.
I sit and gaze at the figtree wood statue of a seated bodhisattva. It’s still full of power. Evident as soon as I make contact. The silence which radiates is tangible and totally engulfing.
When my thoughts begin to wonder I leave my seat and move to stand beside a table of treasures. The electricity shoots through my body. My fingers curl up. It takes a conscious effort to choke away the tears. To move half a footstep away. The memories are overwhelming. It’s like that nowadays whenever I’m tuned to a sensitive channel. I hadn’t expected it to be so strong here in this space today.
I’m drawn back to that afternoon in Guangzhou (on the Pearl River) when I walked up to the second floor of an old pagoda and remembered my mother handing me over to the monastery when I was twelve years old. I used to take their tiny meals to the monks who were meditating there. It could take them 24 hours or 24 days to make all their devotions at each stage and gradually make their way up to the highest platform.
I leave the gallery and make my way down to the bookshop in the basement. They have reproductions of those very typical southeast asian statue heads. (To me they are Siamese but I’m sure that’s no longer ‘correct’.) There’s that unmistakeable penetrating twinge that pierces whenever something once so familiar shows up in an unexpected context. My sister and I were sacred dancers at the royal court. I can still feel the humidity. See the smooth wooden columns and the deep crimson silks stretched and gathered overhead.
Times Past merges into Times Present and I prepare for Times Yet to Come. Next time ..
francis cameron, oxford, 10 april 2012
vacation
I am "on holiday" this week. Perhaps I'll return to the land of the living on Sunday or Monday. Friends who would like to "do lunch" please keep in touch. I'll not be far away. Physically that is. I can't make any promises about metaphysical interludia. Hugs ..
Sunday, 8 April 2012
gradus 1961 :: a soloist on the road to damascus
After the harrowing experience of Westminster Cathedral, I began to grow up as a professor at the Royal Academy of Music. Day by day, week by week, I reclaimed the soloist who was there when I first played in public when I was four years old. The soloist who revelled in the applause of his audiences when he performed on his first professional tour when he was sixteen.
/*
harrowing :: I once drove a Ferguson tractor pulling a harrow over a freshly ploughed field. An agricultural harrow is a large horizontal metal framework holding rows of downward pointing spikes, some six to nine inches apart. It is used to smooth out the furrows made by the plough. Smaller versions used in torture chambers are intended to dig in rather than smooth over.
*/
At this moment I don’t want to dwell on my time at the RAM. Just let’s say that I kept on noticing spectacular changes in the world around me. And my own self-confidence grew as I began to match – and even surpass – the professional standards which came at first from my colleagues then developed into standards I demanded of myself. Every time I walked on to the concert platform, every time I stood up to adjudicate at competitive music festivals, every time I sat on the examiners’ side of the table, I knew it at the end of the day when I had done well. It was always pleasant to be congratulated. But deep down I needed no comment. I always knew when I had performed well; when my performance was professional but nothing exceptional; and when I marked myself not good enough and added the rider : must do better next time.
No. Instead of writing about being at the RAM in the Swinging Sixties, I want to go on. I want to tell you about the big steps – the really crucial steps – which changed the direction of my whole life.
Let me sketch the outlines. Details are for later.
It is the autumn term of 1967. We are doing rather well. We live in a large victorian semi with a separate garage and 100 foot of garden on the edge of Knighton Woods, Buckhurst Hill. We have three glorious daughters. The future’s bright.
I am coming up to my 40th birthday. It seems that every paper, every magazine, has an article telling me 40 is the age to be realistic. I might have climbed two or three steps up the ladder, but I’m never going to get to the top. I might as well accept that I’m going to go on doing the same old thing day after day and week after week until I retire. Eventually this got to me. An insidious little thought wormed its way into a more insistent thought. Did I really want to go on doing the same sort of thing until the day I retired? No. I did not. Perhaps I sent out a potential thought. I’m not even sure I did that.
Christmas was on its way. Professional duties took precedence. The new year brought with it its own particular sets of opportunities.
* * * * * * *
march 1968
It’s a sunny Sunday morning in Golden Square. The choir has sung well at morning mass. I pick up the Sunday Times and the Observer. Drop them on the back seat of the car. And drive off towards Hereford where I am due to begin a music examiner’s tour. Tewkesbury is a station on my John Bull road. I shall spend the night at an inn. After dinner I scan the sunday papers. In both of them there is a display advertisement. There is a new post as Assistant Director at the New South Wales State Conservatorium of Music. Suitable candidates please apply.
At that point I’m not quite sold. I want to hear what the Chancellor has to say when he presents his budget later on in the week. It makes up my mind. I set the ball rolling.
I couldn’t do it if I lived away from London. The NSW state office is in the Strand. Australia House stands bold at the Aldwych. I remember the advice I used to give to school parties about to go on exchange visits to other countries. I read the tourist literature. I read the government publications. Books about Australia. Books about New South Wales. Sydney. The Conservatorium. And Joseph Post. The man I would be working with.
The last question of my second interview clinches the deal. The State Director of Education looks me straight in the eye and asks : Where will you live if you are appointed? (I’ve been studying The Realtor for weeks. My answer is ready.) If you’d asked me that two weeks ago I would have said I could buy a nice rancher up on the Peninsular, looking over Pittwater on one side and the Pacific on the other. But that would be a long drive home after rehearsals late at night. So I’m looking for somewhere in the region of French’s Forest.
Back home, even though there’s no word from Sydney, I prepare as though we are leaving before the end of the year. When the letter eventually comes I am ready to go. Our local GP drives us to Tilbury. We set sail on the old Iberia which was built for Suez but now has to go round the Cape.
* * * * * * *
It is Christmas Day 1971. I am with Peter Crowe at Lolowai, the Anglican Mission Station on the island of Aoba in the Anglo-French Condominium of the New Hebrides. We are here to make tape recordings of all the music we hear during our visit and to observe the grade-taking ceremonies of Na Hunggwe.
It is a fairly short visit. Just the weeks between the end of one academic year in November and the start of another late in February. And I’m soon aware that the stories we were told in school - the benefits of English civilisation graciously bestowed upon natives in distant parts of the world - are utterly and completely misleading. The local people here have a highly-developed social structure, quite different from anything an English public schoolboy might impose. And their slit drum ensembles play elaborate rhythms to guide each ritual action of Na Hunggwe.
There are questions I ought to be asking but I don’t know what those questions are. When we get back to Sydney I must sign on at the University and work for a qualification in Anthropology.
* * * * * * *
It is 1974. I am a part time, second year, postgraduate student in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Sydney. (I delayed for twelve months to give my undivided assistance to our new Director who arrived at the beginning of 1972.)
Rozelle is one of the older suburbs of Sydney. I’m there visiting a friend. The man from the next house comes in for a chat and a drink. He introduces himself as a witch. A follower of the Old Religion. A witch in a line of descent from those who came over in the First Fleet of convict ships. 200 years ago. Give or take.
Now we’d just reached this essential topic in our anthropology lectures. I’d been a good student. Read the compulsory textbooks. Witchcraft Oracles and Magic among the Azande. The usual stuff. Making out witchcraft was a social function. Not a scrap of the supernatural. But then, I’d also just read the three books of Margaret Murray. And I admit to feeling just a tiny bit smug when I recognise the source of those parts of his spiel. But there are other parts that resonate. This course in anthropology has scraped away all my previous convictions about one true religion. One set of beliefs and practices. One social rule for all. I gave up all my Spiritualist ideas when I signed on for Our Holy Mother the Church. Now they are beginning to come to life again. In short, I am hooked. I am back on track. Past and future go hand in hand. Seamless.
* * * * * * *
Oh yes. The Damascus bit. Sorry about that. Just couldn’t resist.
The story is in the book called The Acts of the Apostles. It’s about Saul, a Romanised Jew, who’s part of the secret police hunting down the Jesus People making a nuisance of themselves in Jerusalem. “We crucified their leader just a week or two ago. Now they’re spreading rumours that he’s risen from the dead.” And then Saul finds another nest to smoke out. He sets out on the road that leads to Damascus. Before he gets there, he’s struck down. Has a vision. Hears a disembodied voice. Goes blind. Falls down in a faint. When he recovers he’s a different man. Changes his name to Paul. Starts a new religion. Sets out to convert the goyim to his Christos.
My Damascus is different. A welcome restoration. Coming at precisely the right moment. I am properly prepared. I cast away the imperial baggage of Britain and Rome. I meet again the spirits and powers of the Other Side. Arm in arm we walk. As we did before.
francis cameron, oxford, 08 april 2012
bishop gregory’s fact and fable
I think I may have found a solution to a problem which has vexed me for more than forty years.
In the mid 1970s, when I was involved with Medieval Studies at the University of Sydney, I read an English translation of a classical text dating from the 6th century of our era. It is usually called History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours. It is a long compendious book. Most of it appears to be reliable history. So reliable that parts of it have been repeated ad infinitum by successive generations of history writers. But other parts are so far removed from everyday credibility that I’ve continually wondered why they are there.
They set me a problem. If most of the account is good factual history, are these supernatural episodes to be regarded as equally factual? On the other hand, if some of the episodes are no more than products of the imagination, how much reliance can I place on the rest of the content?
With my own background, I’m quite prepared to accept that Gregory is writing of a time when the veil between the worlds was so intangible, sensitive people on this earth walked hand in hand with those from the Other Side. But this proposition simply won’t wash in the academic world. So I must look for an alternative explanation.
It struck me only last night. For the most part Gregory sets down the actual physical facts as he is aware of them. But now and then he moves into parable. Those who perused copies of his manuscript would know the difference. They would know how to peel away the surface layers and reveal the messages hidden from unenlightened eyes.
Then my thoughts took me a step further. Of course! Every day at mass, there were readings from the Gospels of the New Testament. They record how parables were used to provoke public curiosity. Then, in private séances, the Inner Circle, the ‘Twelve’ of tradition, were taken over the border into the realities of the esoteric.
Really, it’s no surprise to find a similar technique used in History of the Franks. Why didn’t I think of it before? More to the point. Why did all those I questioned fail to come up with any explanation at all?
francis cameron, oxford, eostre 8 april 2012
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