On this bright May morning I got out of bed late and tried to find a reason why our miniature rush pond had dropped a level. Tadpoles fluttered in the water as I lifted a slate from the suspected scene of crime and dug a small hole to see if ingress would result. It didn't. The problem would have to wait, I thought in consternation, pouring fresh water slowly into the corner. A resident robin sang in a nearby tree while a frog tussled its way through reeds a few inches away. Tawny owl Wol blinked lazily in my direction from the box in his aviary. He's blind, and likes making videos in his spare time.
The day before had been positive, good moments and conversations stuck on the wall of memories that felt certain to be valuable. This day here and now would have perhaps been a bit more fruitful had I got dressed at daybreak when I first woke up, but it was Saturday, I told myself, bypassing the fact that dawn in late Spring is invariably missed from my life in all but the fleetest of toilet-driven moments.
At the kitchen table it dawned on me, as many times hence, that when positivity is around, everything is known to be temporary. Phases come and go, moods swing, triplicate buses only park for so long. C'est la vie, Carpe Diem. A factual interpretation of Time isn't missed at these intervals. Physics dictates the fleeting nature of all things, including the decay of infinitesimally small components and the march of entropy that none can escape. When we feel okay with the world, we feel acutely the certainty of such without concerning ourselves, for change is freedom and we all need some of that for the good of our mental welfare.
On the other hand, two days ago had been hell. I cried vociferously, pressured into judgements on myself and my surroundings, crushed by evil interpretations of what was to me a trap I'd got stuck into forever. Only the window of opportunity some time distant was going to get me out - would it come in time? Would I survive in waiting for the latch to lift, for fresh air to rush into my entropic march and relieve me of the burden of discontent? Could I possibly manage to get there without a heart attack, or some other fatal symptom of distress? Dis-ease strikes at will, it seems, beyond the remit of conscious decision or the value of appreciation. The kitchen table then brought to mind The Silver Chair.
C.S. Lewis wrote some stunning books for children, wrapping his faith in a rich, embroidered tapestry of ships, stone tables and talking animals. Making the scenes believable is a gift of all greats in the entertainment industry, and Lewis made sure his readers loved it all while journeying with Aslan and his band of bewildered followers.
Prince Rilian , son of Caspian, an innocent born to royalty by definition, took it upon himself to follow a witch down paths of temptation to the bowels of the Earth housing a ready-made prison. In the course of his entrapment, it happened that to be held in the grip of illusionary certainty that all was well in walking out at the wicked Queen's side, he needed also to be permitted daily bouts of sanity. At these times, orchestrated by his captor, he would be tied to a Silver Chair, convinced of her assurance that he would go insane while bound; imprisonment being for his safety and that of others he might otherwise harm.
The child stars of Narnia undertook a long journey to find Prince Rilian, under instruction from Aslan with the help of just four signs consigned in secret to the youngest, Lucy, who tried hard to remember them but fell short as time wore on. Then one day her memory was jogged by words carved into rock; UNDER ME - which led to giants posing as friends who planned to cook them along with other talking beasts.
The Queen (aka the Green Witch) randomly met with the hastily-escaped children in a lush summer forest. They told her of their quest, so with lures of Turkish Delight she brought them underground to imprison them also. There, of course, they were to find the Prince and free him from his bondage, having first to overcome his objections that he might well kill them all. Once detached from the Silver Chair, he realises the nature of reality, and they run from the witch's grasp in a flurry of adventure as only Lewis was deigned ever to tell.
We all have a Silver Chair, and while seated upon it are given gifts to which we were born, of appreciation and respect, self-providence and accountability. We know at these times that while Time waits for no-one, it is nothing more than an ambivalent state of dimensional space through which we all must pass, for better or worse. Summers and winters will come and go, and in spells of desolation it may seem that many of them were wasted on lesser versions of Life that we should surely have done without. But in the great scheme of things, Life is what we make it because we make it in our minds, and our minds are not impervious to the ravages of influence. Whatever your experiential evidence may be, few would argue against the assertion that such influences are myriad.
When you find yourself under the cosh of negativity, believing the worst has ever been there to torture and torment your dreams and aspirations, breaking free may seem to be Mission Impossible at that time. Dread of inescapable pain may evolve once we find ourselves so inclined. Somewhere in mind, it helps to be assured that moments come in passing, not as permanent fixtures, under control from many quarters we may neither perceive nor understand. Whatever your faith, keep it close when you can, and trust there is more than might be believed making up the structure of the Universe we live in. This is no secret, nor is it a lie - physics taught us much since the quantum fathers got their heads together and released a potent cocktail of indescribable complexity. Einstein didn't like it, clutching at Special Relativity in attempting antidotal summaries, and died under the illusion that quantum mechanics had no meaningful place in spacetime. Nevertheless, his legacy survives him, forever begging the question, "Was Einstein right?" while academia pushes the boundaries of bits that he got wrong.
"There is freedom within, there is freedom without, try to catch the deluge in a paper cup," sang Crowded House. Fur sure, there is logic, and there can sometimes be certainty, but above all there are universal laws that everything must follow, including the deep magic of our dreams. Fear not what opportunity is likely to deliver, for wishes are granted one way or the other - we only have to wish for it for it to appear, it seems, on some future wave form hurtling in our direction. When it arrives, we may overlook its delivery until some time later, when we might wonder at the retrocausal relevance or feel perhaps that someone has helped loosen those ropes of embittered distrust.
Stay true, we need you. We need you to take good courses of action that others may follow, and help innocence rise into a frame of mind wherein trust becomes integral once again.
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