On Becoming A Writer. Rule # 1 - Turn Up At The Page

People ask writers how they come up with their stories, how they pluck characters and stories from thin air, how the ideas come to them. I can’t speak for other writers and I really have no idea how the ideas, plots, people and places bring themselves together for my pen to describe. However, a bit like not understanding how a car works but understanding what I need to do to make it work, I know what I need to do to have the writing happen – here is the first of those things …

Turn up at the page

People tell me that they’d love to write a book, that they’ve always dreamed of writing, that others say they should write a book … and so I say, “Do it!”

And the standard reply? “Oh, yes, I’d love to but I just don’t have the time right now – writing a book takes a lot of time.”

Yes, writing a book does take a lot of time but so does watching your favourite TV soap! However, like watching that important soap, you don’t have to do it all today, this week, this month. You just do a little every day. If you really want to write something – a poem, an article, a book – you have to drop the self-defeating excuses, turn up at the page and start writing.

My second book, Whose Life Is It Anyway?, was written over breakfast, every morning, for a year. A half hour’s writing of 500-1,000 words, every day, produced enough words for two novels – in one year.

Everyone’s busy and we all have the perfect excuses for not doing what we’d really love to do. Why? Because having a project completed then sets us up for fear of failure and/or fear of success. Most people would rather avoid those fears by retreating behind a myriad of inexcusable excuses. However, wouldn’t you rather end your life with memories rather than dreams?

So, think about all the little spaces in your life – over breakfast, while commuting, in cafés, watching TV – which you can turn into sacred writing spaces. Oh, but you’ll then come up with that other Grand Excuse – “I want to write but I don’t know what to write about.” You will never know what to write about till you start writing. Don’t wait for the writing – it’s waiting for you.

If you have a desire to write, you know exactly what to write about – the what will reveal itself when you turn up at the blank page (or blank computer screen) and start writing … “I don’t know what to write but I’ve started writing and, though I have no clue why I’m here doing this I have, at least, turned up at the page and my pen’s moving (keyboard’s clacking) and making word-marks on the blank paper/screen and nothing’s coming to me yet but I’m going to keep writing because Philip said if I did, the what, the subject would come to me …” Just keep your pen moving, your keyboard busy, and, at the start, it could be complete drivel, utter senseless rubbish. You might write about the horrible/beautiful weather, your uncomfortable writing chair, your slow computer, your cranky father, your last holiday, your biggest dream, your worst moment … it doesn’t matter what you write but keep doing it and – on this rock I stand – the ideas will come. You see, there is a theory that thoughts create words. It’s wrong – words create thoughts which create words which create thoughts which create words …

So, chuck out your excuses, substitute waste spaces for write spaces and turn up at the page. You’ll be amazed at what you unleash when you turn up and write something, then something else, then something else …

And now back to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...

“Old chap,” said Hemi, ruminating on the phrase. “Heh, I never been called that before! Yeah, right, I just want the taonga and get back to decent kai. Bloody crap food here. Dunno’ how you survive on it!”

“And you’ll tell us all you know?” asked Ahmed, his gun still discretely evident.

“Don’t need a gun to convince me, man!” said Hemi, shaking his head.

Ahmed slipped his gun back into the back of his belt and looked around the room to see if everyone agreed. It seemed that they all did and so he nodded to John and Angus who pushed Hemi forward on the chair to untie his hands as a knock sounded on the door.

“Thanks guys, so I can put my pants on again,” said Halee disappearing into the bedroom as Sam leapt up and headed for the door, the man-in-charge once again.

“Oh, hello Hoppy,” said Sam as he opened the door.

“Oh, gosh, Sam …” said an older, suited man who stopped mid-sentence when he saw the others in the room. “Aah, oh, Mr Lord.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Superintendent Hopkins,” said Sam, remembering the form. “Do come in and we can explain.”

“I am so sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” said Superintendent Hopkins, smoothing back his straight, sparse hair a trifle nervously. “This must be upsetting for you all but I must ask you all to bear with me. And I know what a difficult time you’ve had of it, lately, Mr Lord.” The superintendent looked evenly at Sam for some moments as if imparting information mentally.

“Yes, Superintendent Hopkins, there have been better times,” said Sam jovially, closing the door and accompanying the superintendent back to the others. “Take a seat and we can explain everything.”

“Thank you Mr Lord and thank you, sir,” said Superintendent Hopkins as he took the seat vacated by Angus for him. “Now, I do not know what happened, though I have some suspicions, but I’m not here to ask any questions right now …”

“But I just shot a man, sir,” said Ahmed, looking surprised. “Surely you want to take me in …”

“No sir, I am not going to question or take anyone in,” said Superintendent Hopkins, smiling as he held up his hand to Ahmed. “This is all very irregular and, believe me, I have been following this case closely, more closely than most of you realise, in fact. Now, bear with me, as I said, and it is imperative, most imperative, that you vacate this hotel as soon as possible.”

“But, what about …” asked Ahmed with his hands clasped as if already hand-cuffed.

“We do not have time for ‘what ifs’ and ‘whys’ right now,” interrupted Superintendent Hopkins, evenly as he took out his notebook. “I am from Scotland Yard and, to me, your safety is foremost – a consideration you may not receive from either the Metropolitan Police Force or MI5. You must all be gone before anyone from either of those agencies or the tabloid press arrive and, after that, I will have as many explanations for you as you have for me. So, I need to take your names and contact details, one by one, and, in the meantime, you must pack and then leave with me.”

Something in his quiet, factual voice sent a chill round the room and everyone immediately, quietly, packed up and was ready to leave as he wrote down the last name and details in his blue note book. He stood and they followed him to the door, where he motioned them to stop while he went out. There he had a conversation with other people. He then reappeared and motioned the eight to follow him, which they did obediently. They were surprised there was no one around to see them leave the building by the back stairs. He led them up a back alley, behind the food scraps and rubbish of other hotels and restaurants, in the cool, still morning, and stopped before they got to a street.

“From my notes I see the closest residence is yours, Miss Collins,” said Superintendent Hopkins quietly. “I suggest you all repair there and I will meet you presently, with my detective constable, where we will conduct the usual investigation procedures.”

The eight followed Mary to her apartment and, once inside, stood there looking at each other like dumb mules. No one spoke and no one knew what to say.

“This is weird, isn’t it,” said Angus, eventually, dropping his bag and looking out the window. “What you suppose is going on?”

“Dunno mate,” said John, with his arm around Belinda’s shoulders. “Feels creepy, weird, somehow.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on but, while we’re here, we may as well make ourselves more normal,” said Mary, her logical mind returning from sabbatical leave. “You need a shower first, Sam, so get cleaned up and I’ll find some girly clothes for Halee and myself and then Ahmed can have his suit back. The rest of you just help yourselves to coffee, tea and food, whatever you want, huh?” Mary, Halee and Sam headed for the bedroom and bathroom.

“Yes thanks, Mary, I’d love a cup of tea,” said Belinda, heading off to the kitchen. “Anyone else want one?”

“Jeez thanks but I could murder a smoke,” said Hemi with a hopeful smile. “That bloody Michael took my last one.”

“You want one of mine?” asked Angus.

“Thanks bro’ and you’re Angus?” asked Hemi. Angus nodded and they shook hands.

“And you’re Hone?” asked Hemi.

“Yes,” said John shaking Hemi’s hand.

“So you invite a brother in and don’t even introduce him to the whanau, the family,” said Hemi, laughing and slapping John’s back. “What kind of a Māori are you, bro’?”

“Aah, bloody Rotorua Māoris always moan, Angus,” said John, laughing. “Now get your brown behind outside for a smoke and I’ll get some fresh air too.”

“While the little wife stays in the kitchen!” yelled Belinda, laughing, as the men left.

“You may join us if you prefer,” said Ahmed, gallantly.

“Thanks Ahmed, just joking,” said Belinda. “Go and get some male bonding and I can have a peaceful cup of tea on my own. I could do with a little less drama for a minute or two.”

Banks and Government Making Dishonesty Right

When people do something wrong – commit a crime, abuse a confidence, default on an agreement – they know they’re doing wrong. There is a higher intelligence in us all, an intelligence or knowing about basic rights and wrongs.

We know murder is wrong yet people commit it. We know fraud is wrong but people do it. We know these things yet people do them – against their higher knowing – all the time. And I wonder how …

Perhaps there’s a switch at the back of our brains that immobilises that higher knowing. Perhaps we make up some perfectly logical but insane story that it’s okay to scar the world in some way. I’m not sure how it works but there has to be some twisted way in which our minds make the grossly wrong to be perfectly right.

It’s like the Australian chap from The Secret who had defrauded people of hundreds of thousands of dollars and he has neither sympathy for those defrauded nor contrition for his acts. Somehow, in his mind, he has made it okay to take those peoples’ money under false pretences.

Two more examples of this, closer to my world, occurred this week.

For a foreign student to study at private university in England, they must have a student visa from the Immigration Department (ID).  These visas carry certain conditions – having at least £600 in their bank account every day they’re here, passing exams, class attendance and not working more than 20 hours a week. So, the ID and the student agree on the conditions, in writing, and both parties sign on the dotted line. Then, the ID realised it had erred and has now decided the students are not allowed to work. So, part-way through the contract – even though the students are diligently fulfilling their part of the agreement – the ID changes the rules, making it impossible for thousands of students to continue studying and they must return to their homelands.

One student had the £600 in her bank account every single day but one – the bank had taken the money from her account by mistake and had returned it the next day. Despite having an apology letter from the bank, admitting their mistake, the ID sent the student back to India, part-way through her studies.

We all know that reneging on an agreement, as the ID is doing with thousands of students, is wrong. So, is there something in the minds of the ID employees that makes this dishonesty okay for them? I don’t know how they do this, how they can live with their deceit, but they do.

Like the Australian, they seem to be having a conversation with themselves that sounds like, “Oh dear, I’ve stuffed up. That’s okay, I’ll make the vulnerable pay and all will be well.”

Then, mentioning banks, we recently received an overdraft fee from our bank, despite the fact that we had agreed to an overdraft facility with no fees. They tried to justify it by saying that we had been notified of the new charge (which we weren’t) but I pointed out (I had to do this several times) that we had a signed contract and if they wanted to change it, they needed our agreement, in writing. Eventually, the illegality of their action dawned on them and they became embarrassed and apologetic, to the extent of offering to reimburse me for the inconvenience of my trip to the bank. I suggested a bottle of wine and I look forward to a good New Zealand red in the mail soon.

The individual at the bank got it that her bank had tried to defraud us but those higher up the organisation haven’t got it – somewhere in their minds they’ve flicked a switch that makes it okay to go back on signed contracts. Likewise, the minds of the many thousands of meek and compliant customers of Lloyds bank have been similarly switched to illegal is okay mode. This compliance helps to conform to the Lloyd’s executives the rightness of their actions, I suppose.

I don’t know where these illegal is okay switches are so, if you find one, please tell me about it. I’m … aargh! As I’m writing this the courier arrived with a gift-wrapped box of wine and a card that says … wait for it … Sorry. Yes, the Lloyds bank has apologised for its error. I’m flabbergasted and impressed. I am now lost for words, which is a rare thing!

P.S. The two bottles of wines are French, not New Zealand, but that’s OK!

And now we'll return to the story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins in The Olympic Challenge, continued from the previous blog ...

“Ah, well, we’s got experience of getting’ stuff, you know,” said Hemi, looking sheepish. “Yeah, did a bit of time for it, of course, but got away with a lot of it. Anyway, they put us on a plane with maps and stuff of where it probably was and who might’a had it and we got here. Cor, big bloody plane, huh! Trouble was, me mate, Eru … well, silly bugger thought he’d make a bit of money on the side selling his weed – Māori j’wanna we call it! Yeah, marijuana. Well, I shoulda’ known he’d do something stupid but I’s just so excited about a trip to Ngati Wikitoria, Queen Victoria’s tribe, and to use my skills to honour my people. Anyway, he got caught. I managed to nick his stash off him before he got arrested and mighta’ saved him a few years in clink. So I’s on my own ‘cept for this lanky blonde fella’ I got talking to in the plane – yeah, the one out there now – and he seemed to know lot’a stuff and said the taonga was in this lord’s house so we … well he took me there and I got in and found nuttin’. Then he said there’s this insurance expert, aah, Mr Bayly, who knew where it was and then I’s told the boss of this insurance company, this, aah, Mr Lord … bloody lords everywhere an’ I got confused. Anyway, this blondy – said his name was Michael Summers but I heard some call him Brian so I’s not so sure – said he was after stuff, some plans stolen from someone important and we could help each other get our stuff. Actually, he said this at the start, on the big plane – sorry, getting’ the story arse about face here. So, yeah, we went after this Mr Lord, not the lord, Mr Lord …”

“Sam Lord?” asked Sam.

“Yeah, that’s him, Sam Lord,” said Hemi. “Don’t know what he looks like but he’s supposed to be big in the crime world, according to this Michael or Brian or whoever.”

“He looks like me,” said Sam, smiling.

“Looks like you?” asked Hemi, frowning.

“Because he is me,” said Sam. “I am Sam Lord, crime world boss, no less.” Sam leant forward to shake Hemi’s hand and realised it was tied behind his back. Sam sat back, looking embarrassed.

“You’re a crime boss?” asked Mary, swivelling round to face Sam.

“Well that’s what this Michael or Brian cove says,” said Sam. “However, that’s new information to me, I can tell you!” A relieved chuckle circulated the room.

“Yeah, well, I started having my doubts about this Michael fella but I had no other leads,” said Hemi. “You never know who you can trust, do you?”

“Yeah, not even burglars, Hemi,” said John, punching him playfully on the shoulder.

“Yeah, suppose so,” said Hemi, smiling broadly for the first time – bright, white teeth in a brown face, lighting up the room. “Anyway, you wanna’ know the story or not?”

“Yes, yes, Hemi, keep going, please,” said Belinda, sitting forward on her seat, hands clasped.

“Yeah, well, where to start,” said Hemi, looking up as if for inspiration. “Aah, I discovered – well, I think it’s right – this Michael fella’ is working for, or maybe with, a George Sanderson …”

“George Sanderson?” asked Sam, looking shocked. “The Assistant Commissioner, Special Operations, of the London Metropolitan Police? That George Sanderson?”

“Yeah, could be,” said Hemi. “He’s got something to do with security and police and stuff. Seems to have a lot of strings to pull.”

“You’re dashed right he does!” said Sam. “And he’s the sod who they were taking orders from where I was held!”

“And other things I found out,” said Hemi, warming to his tale. “I went through his stuff once or twice and it could be, not really sure, but this George Sanderson could be paid – paid bloody heaps if the stuff I read was correct – aah, paid by one of the power companies here or the petrol companies. Maybe they’re all the same. Y’know, owning one another …”

“Aha, it’s coming together now,” said Sam with a deep sigh. “God, why didn’t I see it all before? See, they captured me with the plans in my briefcase but, because the plans cannot be seen in artificial light, they thought they were useless pieces of paper. They promised to release me if I gave them the “proper” plans, which is why I got you, Mary, to bring another set of bogus plans, like the ones John and Belinda were carting around.”

“Ours were bogus?” asked John, looking astonished.

“Sorry, John, that was for your protection and I’ll explain it later,” said Sam looking embarrassed. “We need to focus on our immediate situation, I’d suggest.”

“Oh shit … sorry, yes!” said John, slapping his palm to his forehead. “So if you’re right, Hemi, the corporations pay the police to do their dirty work. And if it goes wrong, the government servants’ heads roll.”

“Well, heads are already rolling,” said Angus. “There was a something in yesterday’s paper, at home – someone up there tipped them off about the police holding John’s car without authority. There was even a hint the police may have actually stolen it – bit brash for the paper, really.”

“Oh hell, I did that!” said Mary, feeling flushed and faint.

“Hey, hey, just stop a mo’, guys,” said John. “We’re going to have the police knocking on our door so what do we do with Hemi? I gotta’ say I have a good feeling about him.”

“Look, I just want to get our stolen taonga back and get out of this bloody place,” said Hemi. “Enough rain here to sink a waka!”

“I think Hemi knows enough to help us and we might be able to help him,” said John, excitedly. “I vote we stick together with Hemi.”

“I do too, John,” said Sam. “What do you say, Hemi, old chap?”

The Maori, the Orca Eye and the Miracle

Many years ago I took over a position of accountant from a man who had only been in the job for several weeks. I wanted to know why he’d been sacked. It seems he’d studied accounting at university for five years and had both a bachelors and a masters degree in business administration … but he did not know how to do the daily bankings. In fact, there was a great number of simple, practical, daily tasks he did not know about.

As A Course in Miracles tells us, words are but symbols of symbols. Words are not experience. Words are not knowing.

Having been both a student and a lecturer at universities, I have known some great intellects who have studied the words of the sages and have degrees in philosophy and theology. They can quote with ease from the Bhagavad Gītā, the  Koran, the Bible and many other sacred texts. They can tell me the genealogy of Moses, the eight limbs of Yoga and the story of Mohammed. Yet some of these learned men cannot tell me their experience of God.

Some of these men, of course, have had profound experiences of God – the deep, abiding peace, stillness and oneness that sweetens the soul and brings one home. But some have not.

I have also talked with Maori Kaumatua, Aboriginal Kadaiche men, South African Sangornas and Hopi elders who have read and written few words in their lives and, when asked about God, simply smile and become still. As they do, I feel their experience and realise there are no words for it.

Some time, in the long ago, I was staying in a hostel in Kununurra, in the north of Australia. One of the residents was a particularly obnoxious Maori chap who chain-smoked and swore loudly much of the time. He had a pot belly from too much beer and missing teeth from too many pub brawls.

One day, as I was sitting by the pool, Hone (his name) sat beside me and asked how I was. I braced myself, hoped he’d take his loud, nicotine-stained, beer-smelling self away soon and smiled as pleasantly as I could. He’d recognized me as a fellow Kiwi and wanted to talk about the homeland he’d not seen for too long.

Eventually, the conversation moved on to how this illiterate brawler had been a fisherman in the waters above Australia for nigh on twenty years. He explained how they’d drop one end of the net in the water with a crew member in the water to hold it. The boat would then run out the rest of the net for a mile or so and, eventually, return to the paddling man and trap the fish in the circle of the net.

One fine, calm day it was Hone’s turn and, as he paddled in the water, holding the net as the boat disappeared from his view, he prayed to a God he didn’t believe in for no sharks to appear. His non-existent God complied as no sharks appeared. However, what did appear was a killer whale, an orca. Panic-stricken, Hone’s body went rigid as the orca approached. It stopped side-on to him, it’s unblinking eye within arm’s reach.

As he told me this story, tears started down his cheeks for, as he said, he looked into the eye of God. He said this several times. As he looked into that orca’s eye he saw himself, he saw God. That’s the only way he could explain it and, in that moment, his heart and mine, his knowing and mine, connected. As two grown men shed tears and shared the experience of the Eye of God, no words were necessary. No words were possible. None at all.

When we recovered ourselves and others at the pool stopped staring at us, I asked him what had changed for him, since then. Nothing on the outside had changed – he still liked his beer and cigarettes – but something had changed inside him. As he’d looked into that orca eye, a lifetime’s anger and fear dropped away, never to return. He had hurt no one from that moment on and he even started experiencing more and more moments of peace – the smile on his face described that peace more eloquently than any words could. I’ll remember his cheeky and peaceful smile longer than I’ll remember any fine words. Thank you, Hone, for reminding me of God.

And now to Mary Collins' story, continued from the previous blog ...

"Don't move an inch! Stop, right there!" said Ahmed, evenly, stepping over the sprawled bodies. "Hands up! Now!" The tattooed man obeyed instantly. "Now, into the room here or I blow your knees off. Understood?" The man obeyed silently and walked timidly past Ahmed and into the room.

Angus rolled off the human pile and leapt across to pounce upon a pistol he just realised was lying by the felled man.

"Dangerous place, this London town," said Angus as he stood up with the pistol in hand, gingerly pointing it towards the prone man who groaned and leaked blood into the deep carpet. "Mary, can you call for an ambulance or something!" yelled Angus, recovering his composure and senses.

"Well, don't just stand there and stare!" shouted John, helping Sam and Mary up as curious heads appeared at doorways along the corridor. "Help this man here - he's been wounded. Tell the management, someone, and is there a doctor here?" Most heads quickly disappeared behind slammed doors and one man stepped forth.

"I'm a medical officer," he said as he knelt over the prone and groaning man at Angus' feet. Two uniformed hotel staff members appeared at the end of the corridor, with a first aid kit, as Angus left the medical experts to it and returned to the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Do we need the police as well?" asked Ahmed as he motioned the tattooed man to lie on the floor, face down.

"No, no police, believe me!" said Sam, tucking his grimy shirt in. "They could well be behind this … well, protecting those behind this."

"The police? Behind this?" asked Ahmed, alarmed, as he pulled the man's hands behind his back. "Has anyone got anything to tie these hands together, please?" Halee slipped off her tights and handed them to him. He smiled his thanks to her.

"Look, Sam," said Mary, straightening her suit, "I don't know what's going on with you and the police but we can't keep them out of it, can we?"

"Hardly!" said Belinda. "A gun's gone off, a man's lying in a pool of blood, people have been alerted and the ambulance is on its way."

"And what are they going to find when they come in here?" asked Halee. "A Kiwi tart, a Scottish woman dressed as a man, a Pakistani in costume, a scruffy pommy, a Scot and two M?ori guys. Questions might be asked, don't you think?" Everyone laughed at the strange spectacle they realised they would present.

"Well, we can run and keep running or we can stop and face it all, I suppose," said Sam, plonking himself down in a chair with a weary sigh. "Don't know about you lot but I'm quite fed up with running. Quite fed up, I must say."

"Well, my Da says ye can run but ye can never get away," said Angus, kneeling beside Ahmed as he tied the man's hands. "Yer sins will always follow ye."

"Our Da said that?" asked Mary, surprised. "I never knew he said anything wise in his life! But I have to agree - we're going to be surrounded soon and I don't know about you lot but I'm sick of pretending, sick of acting like I'm coping, sick of pushing against the damned wall, sick of, aah, I don't know, everything. I'm too tired to bother, actually." Sam stood to embrace her and she gave in to Sam's embrace. "But I'm not blooming well going to cry though," she said defiantly into Sam's chest.

"I committed a crime," said Ahmed. "I shot a man. I will not run from that. Never."

"But it was in self defence," said Belinda. "He was about to shoot Mary and Sam."

"Yes, Belinda, you may be correct," said Ahmed, smiling. "But I must let the law of this land decide that. Honesty and openness is peace of mind."

"You're absolutely right, Ahmed," said John. "Koia te kaupapa o te rangatiratanga, o te tika, me te maung?rongo o te ao. It is the foundation of freedom, justice, and peace in the world. So, it looks like we're staying so let's get this brother into a chair, a bit more comfortably because he's not going anywhere either!" John, Angus and Ahmed helped the stocky man roll over and get up into a chair. Sam and Mary sat side by side on one bed, Halee and Belinda on the other bed, Angus sat in the other chair while the two remaining men stood beside the seated man whose scared look was soon replaced by an embarrassed one.

"So what you all looking at?" he asked defiantly.

"Maybe you just tell us who you are and what you're doing here bro'," said John.

"Why should I do that? Who the hell …." said the man, who stopped as Ahmed took his pistol from his belt for the second time that morning.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell us exactly who you are and what you're doing here," suggested Ahmed evenly.

"Ah, yeah, I suppose it won't do no harm, pass the time of day," said the man, more nervous than defiant now. "Well, I'm Hemi Ropata and my tribe is Ngati Whakaue from Rotorua. That do?" Ahmed raised his pistol as if to examine it. "Oh yeah, you wanna' know te korero, the story, huh?"

"Yes we do, bro'," said John.

"Jeez, I could do with a smoke," said Hemi.

"Talk first, smoke second," said John.

"Yeah, right, te korero," said Hemi, squirming to make himself more comfortable. "Well, you see, these pakeha, these English people, stole some of our tapu taonga, our sacred pieces - three of them - and we wanted them back, see. We tried the government and the police and all that official shit … oh, sorry ladies, but they did nothing. Just a lot of excuses about, what they call it, official immunity or something."
"Diplomatic immunity," offered Sam.

"Yeah, that's it, diplomatic immunity," said Hemi, smiling at Sam. "So these diplomatic people took our taonga - pounamu, greenstone, from our tupuna, our ancestors - and the elders wanted to keep doing the stupid government thing but a group of us said, 'stuff that,' and so Eru and I, we's  volunteered to get the stuff."

"Why you two?" asked John, smiling knowingly.

Being Dog-matic, Human and Walking Our Talk

I recently applied for a job as editor for a magazine based round The Secret. Like most things, The Secret is not the whole answer on how to achieve our full potential with peace and joy. Nevertheless I felt that, through the medium of the magazine, I could help to inspire many, many people to realise and live the greatness that they are.

Then, two days before the interview, I discovered that the magazine’s owner, my potential employer, had been less than honest with many, many people. Living in a luxury home with a luxury car and a luxury lifestyle, he had taken other peoples’ money to invest on their behalf. That money seems to have disappeared without trace or explanation. Wages have remained unpaid for many years, as have a number of creditors.

We’re talking about large sums of money, very large sums, but the amounts, to my mind are irrelevant. Even the non-payment of wages and promises is not so bad, in the scale of things – we all make mistakes and, sometimes, people find themselves out of money for all sorts of reasons.

The difficulty I have with this person’s actions (and not with him) is that he denied that he had lost huge sums of money – despite the clear evidence – and there was no apology or contrition. Promises he made on national television were not kept and he would not take responsibility for making or breaking those promises.

This man is a devout Christian – something he boasts about on his website, his FaceBook and LinkedIn profiles and other public places. He’s very proud of his Christianity. I’m sure, however, that if Christ ever made a mistake – intentional or otherwise – he’d fess up, take responsibility and do his best to make amends.

Not so this Christian. This, of course, does not make Christianity wrong. It simply tells us that some Christians are not walking their talk.

While I was discovering these “interesting” facts about this man, this potential employer, I also discovered that one of the presenters in The Secret DVD had been arrested for manslaughter. Again, this does not make The Secret wrong – it just means that one of The Secret’s adherents, one of its faithful, was not walking his talk.

The lesson I take from this is – a lesson we all know but need reminding of, from time to time – is that no philosophy can save us or give us enlightenment, success, peace or whatever else we’re looking for. Whether it’s Christianity, The Secret, Buddhism, Hinduism or any other philosophy, they are all only part of the story.

“So, what’s the other part?” you may ask.

“The other part is us.”

When you point at something, a dog will look at your finger and a human will look at what you’re pointing at. If you want to be dog-matic, you’ll make your philosophy or religion your answer. If you want to grow as a human, you will look at what your religion is pointing at – God.

And, verily I say unto thee, God makes no demands and has no rules – he simply welcomes us back as prodigal sons. God does not force his/her prodigal sons to return home – we have to be willing to return. We have to be willing to practice being the Christ within us and walk the daily human walk – stumbling, forgiving, making amends and trying again.

Using the principle that’s common to The Secret and to Christianity, I know that if I want an employer who tries to walk his talk, then I must first do that.

And so, today, I’m walking. 

And now, how is Mary Collins walking? Her story is continued from the previous blog ...

"Maybe it's a ruse by Sam to put someone off his scent …" said Ahmed, interrupting.

"You mean he sent those people after you to save his skin?" asked John, incredulously. "He wouldn't do that, would he?"

"No, no, I've got a feeling … just a feeling, mind," said Angus as he lifted out paper after paper. "There's something here we missed last night. I'm sure of it."

"I wish you were right …" said Mary.

"Hey! I bloody am, Mary girl!" exclaimed Angus, holding a sheet up towards the window as the March sun tried faintly to shine through. "Look, look what's written …"

"But we've read all that stuff … well, skimmed through it, anyway," said Mary, interrupting him while peering at the upheld sheet and munching her last sausage.

"Nah, yah silly bird!" said Angus, chuckling. He shuffled closer to her, being careful not to spill the remaining breakfast from his lap. Everyone else moved closer. "Don't look at the words, the typed ones. Look at the … aah, I don't know what you call it … like a watermark or something."

"Yes, yes, I can see it, Angus," said Belinda. "It's faint but there's definitely words sort-of inside the paper. She grabbed more sheets from the briefcase and handed them round. "See if there's any more like it."
They all held sheets up to the light while carefully balancing plates of food and cups of tea and coffee on their knees. Then the phone screamed through their fervour and, immediately, everyone dashed into the fray, tossing breakfast remains and paper aside to plunder pockets and bags in search of mobile phones … all except Angus who reached over and picked up the hotel phone.

"Hello? Ah, I'm Angus. Who is this? Sam, Sam who? Sam …"

"Oh Sam, Sam!" said Mary, snatching the phone from Angus. "Where are you? I waited for your call …"

"Yes, yes my dear, I'm sorry I wasn't able to call as promised," said Sam, interrupting her. "But here I am! Would you mind awfully if I popped in now? I'm at your apartment so where are you from there?"

"Oh Sam, it's so nice to hear your voice," chirped Mary. "And you're out, you're free …"

"Mary, Mary, please tell me where you are. I may not have much time," said Sam quickly.

"Right, yes, sorry," said Mary who then gave him the name and whereabouts of the hotel, along with their room number. Sam hung up immediately while Mary held the phone to her ear still, cherishing the sound and though of him being free and near. Then the fears moved in - would he be interested in her, would he be a changed man, would he …
"Where's Sam, Mary?" asked Angus, interrupting her thoughts. "When will he be here?"

"Soon …" said Mary with the silent phone in her hand while her mind floated off in some other-worldly reverie.

"Soon? God, you bloody English are hopeless, aren't you!" said John, playfully punching Mary's arm. "Ask an Englishman 'how long' and he'll tell you 'not long'. Ask an Englishman 'how big?' and he'll tell you 'quite big'. Ask an Englishman 'when?' and he'll tell you 'soon'. Getting facts out of an Englishman is like extracting teeth from a beggar's bum!"

"John, you forget you're married to an English person," said Belinda, laughing. Awkward laughter from the others.

"I can't forget that love!" said John, putting his arm around Belinda. "Charm, politeness, culture, history - you've got it all. But looking for a fact in an Englishman … or English woman … is like looking for courtesy in a French driver." Abandoned laughter from the others.

John's tirade was interrupted by a knock at the door. The laughter stopped while everyone looked at each other. The chances of very good news and very bad news were equal and no one was prepared to open the Pandora's Box the door represented.

"Can I come in?" asked Sam and Mary flashed to the door with unaccustomed rapidity. She opened it to a haggard, slightly untidy and thinner Sam than she'd known before. She faltered, seeing the same Sam she saw last night, now in the clear light of morning.

"Yes, Mary, my dear, the full light of morning reveals all," said Sam, smiling lopsidedly while apparently reading her mind.

"Oh, Sam, do come in," said Mary, recovering but unsure whether to give into her urge to hug him or to behave a little more correctly in front of her Regional Director and other assorted people.

Sam wrapped himself around her but her body wouldn't move. Was this really happening, she wondered, after all this time? Was this the real Sam Lord, the friendly, affable, sophisticated, off-hand Sam Lord she'd known, wanted, desired?

"Am I being too forward, Mary?" asked Sam, releasing his hold a little. The loosening of his hold activated her arms, somehow, and she grabbed him with a ferocity she'd not known before.

"Not too forward, Mr Sam Lord, just too bloody backwards for words!" said Mary into his grimy shirt, smiling through her tears.

"I don't know why it takes a crisis for us to realise we don't live forever," said Sam, relaxing gently back into her. "There just may not be a tomorrow to do and say all those things we've always planned to … oh, Mary, I've been through a tiny bit of hell and I'm not going through anything else, hell or heaven, without telling you how much I … aah …" He stood back with his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. "Okay, here it is, my dear, I need to say …"

"Watch out!" yelled Angus and John together as they dashed across the room with Ahmed in close pursuit. With a perfect All Black tackle, John felled Mary and Sam as Angus fell over the three and Ahmed's pistol boomed in the plush suite. A yell came from the corridor and a white man dropped and a tattooed, brown one, eyes wide and mouth open, faltered in indecision.

The Ab-Original Journey - Part III

This (true) story is continued from the previous blog ... 

And so, there I was – my first pub job, in the middle of outback Australia, loving the wide open spaces, blue skies, horses and my crazy workmates. It seemed so right but I couldn’t imagine any connection it had to do with my deep, incomprehensible desire to spend time with the Aborigine people. None of them came into the resort in the first few weeks and I began to wonder, quite seriously, if I was stark, staring mad, despite the joy of being in this place with these people.

Then, one afternoon, a road gang came in, thirsty from their work. I served them, several times, and one of them, an Aborigine, addressed me as Philip, though there was no way he could have known my name. I dismissed the niggle of curiosity, amid the flurry of serving beers and, eventually, my shift ended. I went out, had a quick wash, changed my clothes and returned to have a beer with two work mates. As I stood at the bar, waiting for Martin to get my beer, the Aborigine road-worker sidled over, leaned on the bar next to me and stared. Feeling awkward, I pretended he wasn’t there till I had to look back. He had the biggest grin plastered across his brown face as he held out his hand and said, “Bout time you come back, Philip. We bin waiting 300 years see you!”

Martin was patiently waiting for me to pay for my beer but my body wouldn’t move. Jimmy (as he later introduced himself as) paid for my beer and led me, groggily, to a table for the two of us.

There was no small talk – he just launched into a description of our time together in a previous life, a description that matched, perfectly, the dream/vision things I’d had a week before, travelling around Uluru. Despite the whole idea of me being an Aborigine hundreds of years ago and then meeting a brother from that time in this lifetime … aah, I don’t know … it seemed so illogical, so nonsensical, so unlikely and yet so right. So normal. Apparently, way back when, we were attacked and killed by white men and, just before our deaths, we made a pact with each other to meet up again and help bring peace to the parched and angry land of our birth. This pact, he said, had drawn me through the centuries, through the dreaming, to meet with him at this time.

As my shift had finished, he told me it was time to remind me of my knowing, my abilities. I clung desperately to the seat as we careened across the rough terrain in his battered Land cruiser and, after half an hour’s exhausting and painful dash, we stopped a hundred yards from a cliff face.

In the centre of Australia there are massive underground rivers. Looking from the air you can see the courses of what look like dried-up rivers. Beneath the sand – sometimes six feet, sometimes a hundred or feet or so – are deep rivers which nourish the land and its creatures. Where these underground rivers bounce off a cliff there is a dent in the sand, like a dried-up pool. This is where the kangaroos prefer to drink … and the kangaroos aren’t silly. If there was water in the pools all the time, the dingoes would sniff them out and lie in wait, in packs, to attack the kangaroos.

Jimmy explained how the kangaroos sing the water up when they want a drink and sing it back down before the dingoes catch them drinking. Squatting on the ground beside one of these dried-up pools, Jimmy started singing and clacking two stones together. Soon, water rose from the dry ground to form a pool about two feet deep. He told me to drink but I couldn’t – it felt as if I was trespassing on the kangaroos’ sacred space. Jimmy smiled and said the kangaroos had asked him to teach me this and for me to drink the water. I don’t know how he talked to the kangaroos but he was adamant I receive their gift with gratitude. I scooped water up and it was the sweetest, most delicious water I’ve ever tasted. I felt so clean, so alive, so much a part of the land – not on it but of it, somehow.

Jimmy then handed me the stones and told me to sing the water back down. I felt awkward, embarrassed and unsure of what to do. He insisted and I tried to copy his sing-song and stone-clicking and, before my eyes, the water slipped away below the sand as if saying goodbye.

“See, you never forget in 300 years!” said Jimmy with a huge grin.

We walked across the flat, empty sandscape and, as Jimmy turned the Land Cruiser to head home, he waved at the water hole. I looked around and there were four big reds standing at the empty pool, staring at us.

“They pleased you come back,” said Jimmy.

All I could do was smile and wave to the kangaroos. They seemed to have appeared from nowhere. I know kangaroos don’t smile but I was sure they were then.

After that, Jimmy would turn up in his battered vehicle, unexpectedly, and take me to different places to show me the land in its dreaming – the reality of the land beyond what our eyes see. He seemed to know when my erratic roster gave me time off and I always felt comfortable in his presence, despite the unusual, illogical things he showed me.

Then, three months later, he dropped me off after showing me how he could put on the invisible dream. As I got out, he told me it was time for me to go and that I’d return and make good the pledge we made all that time ago. He disappeared in a swirl of dust, without so much as a goodbye, and I left the next day for Derby, Kununurra, Darwin and then home to New Zealand.

I have no idea how I’ll honour the pledge I apparently made with Jimmy but I’m sure the way will turn up as unexpectedly and as naturally as he did.

And now we return to the (nearly true) story of Arthur Bayly and Mary Collins, continued from the previous blog ...

"Arthur, can you speak, can you hear me?" came her voice as her concern washed over him. "Your eyes are open, my love. Are you there?"
"Yes, yes, I'm here … awake," he said softly, knowing she needed reassurance in physical form.

"Oh Arthur, it's been all night and now you're back," she said as he felt a dampness on his face and then her soft face against his cheek …. her soft and very familiar face against his cheek.

His temple, his cheek, were caressed in warmth and his eyes closed at the sweetness. The caress stopped and his eyes opened. The face became less blurred, more distinct. He knew the face. It had a name. His mind reached for the name. It did not come. He looked more intently and the focus improved. Her face was still close, still saying words that were starting to straighten themselves out and become separate, nearly distinct.

The thudding continued to close in on him and a small pain crept into his head. His mind went to his body and he could sense nothing - a no-body, a no-sense, unfelt, unsensed. He tried to move a finger and was surprised to find it was there, as usual. Satisfied, he looked back at the face, now becoming more distinct, more … mmm, more … oh gosh, he knew that face! It spoke of love, caring and a deep history to him but no name came. It then spoke a name, its name, and he was filled. It spoke of Joan and all those shattered fragments of memories fused together in a quiet completion of a life that was his own. He tried one arm and it had a familiar weight. He tried raising it and fancied it did as he bid it do. As his arm reached for Joan's face, he felt dripping on him and she embraced him as he smiled and was complete.

The thudding had filled his head now and its intensity was growing.

"Is he alright?" asked Arthur weakly.

"Is who alright dear?" asked Joan.

"The man," said Arthur, taking another breath. "The man I hit."

"Ah him, that damned Sanderson?" asked Joan. "Yes, you rather damaged his kidneys and other bits, you savage man, you!"

"But … is he alright?" asked Arthur, desperate for an answer as he struggled for another breath.

"Well, he was in a pretty bad way after you'd beaten him with that vase and cabinet," said Joan. "I didn't know you had it in you, darling!"
"I didn't hit him with it …" protested Arthur weakly.

"Well, no one else was there to do it!" said Joan, laughing and interrupting him before he could get another breath. "You're quite the hero, my dear!"

"But I didn't hit him with …" said Arthur with more to say while his strength to say it deserted him. He needed to know if the man was alright but the thudding was closing in. He just wanted to escape it, in blissful sleep, which was also closing in.

"And the others?" asked Arthur weakly.

"Yes, unfortunately Sanderson got taken off to hospital while Amanda and Toby were arrested," said Joan. "One of Martin's colleagues is working with Lord Atkinson to have them released."

"Oh dear," said Arthur as words became harder to manage.

"Can I tell you what else happened?" she asked and he sensed … knew … her need to keep him talking, keep communicating, lest their link be broken. But only the link between capsules could be broken, he knew, somehow. The link between essences was always there.

"Yes dear, what happened?" he asked to help reassure her he was still with her. In that moment he knew all that had happened. It was not a sequence of events, one thing after another that went through his mind. It was as if the Hands of Time - the Hands of God, perhaps - held the long telescope of time before him and then had silently collapsed it so that all events and sequences came to him in one bundle of knowing. He let her tell her story, however, for the throbbing was closing in and he knew he must return to more sleep to have it soften its thudding.

He could hear her voice telling of events that he already knew as the deepness of sleep called invitingly to him. Soon Arthur wasn't aware of anything.

The Tribe Gathers
Wednesday, 14th March 2012, 6.48 a.m.
As Arthur softly snored in the key of G minor and dreamed in the key of C happy, the world went by without him; living and dying, laughing and sighing, truthing and lying, selling and buying. In that other imaginary world, Mary and her cohorts, with briefcase of uncertain contents and menacing intent ... well, anything uncertain is always menacing, in our fevered minds ... woke to a different day. If it's possible to wake from a night of not sleeping, that's what they all did. All but Ahmed looked bleary-eyed and slept-in. Ahmed, of course, looked his usual dapper self, despite wearing yesterday's clothes.

Choosing not to appear in public any more than they needed, they gathered around Ahmed's and Halee's coffee table, seated on beds and chairs, as a quiet London slowly stretched and yawned. Mary and Angus tucked into a hearty English breakfast of fried eggs, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, beans, toast and tea while the others preferred fruit, muesli and coffee. With the previous night's excitement over and without the familiar office and roles around them, Mary, Ahmed and Halee looked awkwardly quiet while John and Melinda looked on, bemused. Angus, like a bouncing puppy just released from his kennel, grabbed the precious briefcase Mary had brought with her and rifled through the papers, between mouthfuls of hot, dripping food.

"Dere's gotta be somethin' here," he said, undeterred by the frowns and smiles around him. "Dere's just gotta be."

"Look, Angus, we've been through it," said Mary, pouring herself another cup of tea. "There's nothing there …"

The Ab-Original Journey - Part II

This story is continued from the previous blog ...

Szuson and I didn't see each other on the overnight trip but, as we got out at the Alice Springs station, she asked me where I was staying. I had booked nothing, trusting in providence, so agreed to go to the hostel she'd booked into. It didn't feel right, somehow, so I went in search of different accommodation the next morning.

I was drawn to a hostel in the main street and walked past it several times. Each time I got a feeling of rightness, a warmth, as I approached. I booked in, still feeling uncertain about why I was in Alice Springs, in this hostel and even why I had been prompted to come to Australia at all. I was given my key, went to my room and froze. On the shelf was a huge, white coffee mug with one word in bold red writing - Philip! It was even spelt, unusually, with one "l" as my name is. I opened the top drawer and there was a new, unopened, tin of boot wax.

I cracked up laughing, knowing that I didn't know why I was here but knowing I was in the right place. I finally relaxed.

The next day I joined a group of young people on a guided trip round Uluru  and Kata Tjuta* . From the moment I saw Uluru, my right eye started streaming and it stopped abruptly as we left the area, three days later. Sitting in the noisy bus - loud music and constant chatter - I was presented with many visions as the red, dusty desert flew past my window. It was as if I was remembering a time, long ago, when I was an Aborigine and we hunted kangaroo in groups. We'd call to the spirit of kangaroo and we'd be guided to an animal that had volunteered to feed us. It was apparent, in these dreamy/visiony things I was having, we could all talk to each other in our minds over very long distances. In fact, distance was irrelevant - we could (and did) do it sitting next to each other or hundreds of miles apart. There was also the mystifying - then terrifying - spectacle of strange white people coming to our land and the land cried to us in pain.

Back in Alice again, I didn't know what to do so I hired a car and drove west - "go west, young man," the advertisement said! I stopped often, walking up most (maybe all) of the gorges on the route and, at one point, I sat on a mountain ledge and felt like I was talking to a circling eagle and to the spirit of rain. Black clouds formed and I just made it back to the car as the heavens bucketed down for half an hour. I later discovered that it had not rained there for the last six years.

At the end of the road was a resort that didn't feel right so I drove back towards Alice and slept beside my car on the side of the road. Later I was told that was lunacy on account of the poisonous snakes and spiders that abounded. Not knowing what I don't know is sometimes a good thing.

The next day I went east of Alice and, late afternoon, I ended up at Ross River, a very rustic, very basic, very Australian, tourist place. It felt right and, as I booked in, I asked about horse riding - I hadn't been on a horse for a long time and, seeing them in the yards, yearned to be back in the saddle again. As it happened, their monthly, two-day horse and camel trek was just starting. The receptionist dashed out to stop them from leaving without me while I threw my luggage into my room and changed into my boots and akubra.

Only two of us went on horses while the others (a party of ten Germans) went on camels. The other horse rider, Grub, worked at Ross River and, after racing each other over the rough and dusty terrain for over half an hour (so exhilarating!) we walked the horses to give them a rest.

The camel riders were miles away and, in that wide space, I asked Grub, half jokingly, if I could get a job working there. He said a barman had been given the sack the previous night and if I spoke to the manager, I was sure to get a job. I told him that I had never worked in a bar, at a tourist resort or in any kind of accommodation or waiting job. That, he said with a smile, would be no obstacle - ask and the job would be mine. My soul expanded as the landscape did and the two days went by too quickly - riding under the wide blue sky and sleeping under the star-lit heavens was awesome.

When we got back to the main buildings, I asked about a job and Grub was right - I started my first bar job a few hours later. And, in that isloated pub in the middle of Australia, is where the Aboriginal people came to me ... which I'll explain in the next blog.

*Uluru is Ayers Rock and Kata Tjuta is The Olgas.

In the meantime, enjoy a little more of Arthur Bayly's story, continued from the previous blog ...

"Did you feel that?" asked Amanda quietly.

"Yes I did," whispered Toby.

It seemed as if the mysterious and gentle zephyr had touched them as one rather than each of them individually. They both felt this, somehow, but might have found it hard to explain it to others … even to themselves. They knew what had happened and the shared experience - though brief and simple - touched them deeply, though they knew not why. Their hands sought each other out and, as their fingers intertwined, it seemed that the massive room and corridor in which they were standing filled itself with a presence - warm and caring, somehow - and they felt a deep safety, a quiet unconcern, for what was about to unfold. All their uncertainties, fears and questions were enfolded in this presence, this sense of deep and ancient caring and they needed to do nothing but smile and wait for further guidance from within.

Toby put his arm around Amanda's shoulders and she leaned into him with a sigh.

"So, what are you two doing? Snogging?" asked Dottie in a loud and commanding voice as she strode down the corridor. Amanda and Toby separated, looking shocked and embarrassed, confirming Dottie's suspicions.

A Head Job
Wednesday, 14th March 2012, 8.16 a.m.

Arthur, Arthur, came a sound, a whisper on a breeze, that slipped quietly through his dreams. Arthur, Arthur slid through gently, serenely and on those words he sat, gliding down a grassy slope in the warm afternoon sun, guided by a grace that was not his own. He was content to be led on a word that felt familiar, down a hill he'd never seen but knew intimately. As he glided on, one Arthur behind the other, he realised he could lie back if he chose. Sitting up pleased him as he could see the flitting swallows above, the parting grass before him and the sun glinting on the sea far below. He approached the sea and it seemed to come no nearer.

As he looked up he fancied he could see - or was it feel? - a thudding in the clouds behind him.

He became happily drowsy and lay back on the two Arthurs with no sensation of their touch. Looking up he saw not sky but a face; a face he knew well, he supposed. The face was close, blurred, and its lips were moving, saying something - saying, "Arthur, Arthur," the very words he was lying on, sliding on. His eyes saw the face but didn't look at it - he looked through it, wondering - how could that be there, not the sky.

The thudding in the sky seemed to be closing in. It was definitely a feeling now.

The face moved back and the mouth - a familiar mouth, somehow - was still moving, saying Arthur and other words. He could see the eyes now and, like the mouth, looked sad happy … mmm, sad happy? Yes, that's what they looked like. The face still filled his sky as he slipped gently down the grassy slope towards the sea. There was a light now, behind the face, shining through hair and around the edges. There might be, perhaps, other sounds, human sounds and the birds had stopped chirping.

The face moved closer and seemed comforting; warmly comforting and he was pleased it was there. His forehead was touched gently, caressingly, and he smiled.

And then the smell of the grass gave way to the scent of roses … mmm, not quite roses, but a scent he knew well, a scent he longed would remain. The scent, whatever it was, revived old chipped memories, fragments of events unconnected, parts of a life that felt familiar, parts of several lives, perhaps - child-times, adult-times, baby-times, teenage-times, all scattered about as confetti in the gentle breeze of his mind. This scent, so familiar, brought with it smiles, disappointment, sweetness, loss, fear, calm, hurrying, boredom and exquisite peace as after love-making.

As he looked at her emerging face he realised he wasn't seeing it as he usually saw faces, saw bodies, saw things. There was no distinct nose or mouth or eyes, no individual pieces, different from other pieces. It was like an unfolding picture in lights but not individual, twinkling lights … it was a picture in light, one light, bright and subtle. He imagined he was looking at a patch of water on a still lake, into which a small pebble had been dropped, a hundred yards away. The surface of the water before him might be moving. It might not be moving. He was not sure. The light, her light, might be moving. It might not be moving. He was not sure. He knew her light to be different from the background light and the light of other beings but he wasn't sure how he was distinguishing these differences.

In the gentle light he sensed a concern, a worry about the container, the capsule, labelled as Arthur. Ah, yes, his small capsule - that was what she feared for. He understood her fears and was, at the same time, bemused for he knew there was nothing to fear, to worry over. The small capsules, with all their different labels, were not what was really there.

He looked in and saw … no, not saw … knew his capsule was open - perhaps for the first time - and a larger essence had been released to encompass … well, everything, really. There were no boundaries, no limits, and it just sort-of flowed into other essences, slightly separate but not.

The capsule he'd known so well seemed to be closed and, inside, it held all its fears and concerns. He was touched and the formless light of his essence enfolded her capsule and she burst into tears - a flood of tears so long held back and now released with the relief of an ancient knowing that cleansed face and soul.

"Arthur, you're back, you're awake!" came her voice through the mist of his gentle perplexity. Unused to such a way of seeing things … of knowing things … he relaxed, unconcerned, and enjoyed the small blissful waves of light as they caressed him.