that I deem unattainable to the human mind. I am thinking as a human. Like a human I consider our existence to be uniquely triumphant in the cosmos. We have fashioned our supreme gods in our own likeness - in their thoughts and form. We have carved onto them, our own cultural bias, in giving the deity the patriarchal physiognomy of an aged bearded man. These images have been drip fed to me, from the moment I opened my eyes as a baby. They have conditioned my outlook so that, even now, as an adult who has renounced all that myth, and who tries to keep transcendental escapism at bay, even now, I succumb to the easy succour of an omniscient superhuman, to stand over the grey areas of my understanding.
But what of the yearning in my soul, for connectivity to the beauty of nature, the enormity of the cosmos, the elegance of universal laws? Is this not a form of religion? How different am I from the ancient monks who sat on this cliff face, a thousand years ago, and meditated on the mystery of the beauty of what they saw around them? I sit here in a semi yoga posture, and contemplate on the world, and my place within it. If I were to write down some words, and they were meaningful and appealed to others, then I would have the beginnings of a religion. What would my bible say?
First there was the word. It was the awakening of man and woman. When man said 'fire' the woman knew what he meant. Once that first word had been created, then an avalanche of words followed, but there was no order. To create order, man struck woman if there was no fire, when he said the word fire. Order led to peace when order was followed. Words between men led to fights, and the stronger won, and so more order was established. The strong became leaders and words between leaders were decided by wars. But wars were not only determined on the basis of strength, but also of intelligence. Soon order was based on intellectual strength. The wisest leaders had the use of the greatest amount of words. The words became too many for one person. Words became divided and more order was established. The divisions became areas of scholasticism, subservient to the leader. Words began to outlive their creators. The storage of words was the new order. Leaders recognised the value of accumulated words, and built libraries. Only the elite tended the libraries, and passed on their secrets to a selected few. For the rabble a few words was sufficient. In fact the less they knew of words the better, to use them for work, or war, or whatever the leader desired. To help satisfy their natural craving for words, the leaders created elegant stories, made up of few simple words. These simple words were the answers to all their questions. Questions were tiresome, and of no use in production, or in war. A clever leader reduced the number of simple words down, so the task of teaching them became simple. Soon they were whittled down so much, that eventually a single word could be used as the answer to most of the complicated questions that the rabble posed. Full order was established. The word became god.
I let my breath exhale slowly. I had been holding it all the while, as my 'mini-bible' developed in my thoughts. I knew that as soon as I let go, the spell would break and that that would be the end of the revelation. I wanted to scramble back into the tent at once to get a pencil and paper and write down my thoughts. I looked around with the weird expectation that some disciples would appear.
There was the sudden squawk of a gull as if disturbed, then the sound of voices raised to alert me to their presence. Two familiar figures were approaching and it was obvious that they recognised me too.
They approached with apologetic smiles. Maria's cheeks now had a healthy, red colour. She had fully recovered from her terrible seasickness. She was first to offer her hand, and as I shook it gently, I felt the soft texture of her unwork-hardened skin. Jan, more diffidently, raised his hand in greeting. I motioned to them to make themselves comfortable and excused myself as I rummaged inside the tent for a pen and notebook.
'Are you a good writer?' I asked a surprised Maria and, as she nodded warily, I commanded her to write my words.
'First there was the word,' I began and, as if in a trance, I repeated my bible opening to her, slowly, giving her the chance to note each word and trace it onto the paper. When I finished she kept her hand poised over the notebook as if wanting more.
'That's enough for today. Maria, isn't it? You are a chosen one - my first scribe.' Jan was looking extremely uncomfortable.
'Don't worry Jan, you too can be my scribe if you want.' I laughed taking the notebook back from Maria.
'It's only a bit of fun - but I did need to jot down those thoughts before I lost them. Thanks, Maria.'
Maria's eyes were beaming. She had listened to the words and was moved. I could see she looked up to this middle aged man, sitting in a half lotus posture, before her. I motioned to her to come crouch beside me and look out onto the sea. Her partner moodily followed her as she squatted next to me on my left.
'Don't say a word for a while. Just look at the sea and meditate.' My words had power to calm her and she sat there quietly staring out to the horizon. Jan too settled down and followed her example.
Three figures, on a cliff top, facing towards the sea. The evening sun was beginning to lower in the sky. The blue of the sky merged with the sea, to form a continuous blanket over us. The gulls, floating on the air, were images from a perfect reality, where all forms had ultimate beauty. The sculpted, rugged face of the cliff was a time wall, telling us of the past - each folded seam an aeon of life on the planet. I drifted off into a trance again.
The sun was setting in an orange ball when I opened my eyes. I was alone. Had they been there at all? My eyes fell on the neat script on the note book. I picked it up. Maria had faithfully transcribed the words, in an elegant hand. At the base of the page she had left a short message. 'I'll come back.' I knew she would.
I reread the opening lines of the 'bible' and felt it was good. There was more to come from the interior of my being. Revelation could not be constrained.
The word was the agreed reality. There were no linkages. Each existed without connectivity - a precious alignment of perceptions. The leaders and the rabble were content with this passivity, and voiced their desires in staccato monosyllables. It was the intellectual elite that construed to join the word by actions. 'The tree grows apples.' The static tree and apple are now conjoined by the dynamic linkage, that places them firmly in a changing reality. Reality was never to be the same. It was now a fleeting movement. A process of becoming. It could never lie still. The eye could never, now, fully capture it. The word was forever to be divided into the static non-reality and the continuous becoming.
I wrote the words almost automatically. My hand was producing a neat script, almost identical to that already on the page. I never realised that such a skill resided within me. Something was happening over which I had no control, but I didn't feel threatened. Instead I had a weird sense of peace and enlightenment. I was being exposed to a strange revelation. I had a strong desire to get Maria to come back. I wanted her to see my beautiful script, that was so like hers. Our common script must in some way unite us. There was a common purpose. I wanted her to be the first to read the words. I knew that she could explain them to me, for the meaning was becoming more vague. I read the words aloud over and over, but the full meaning eluded my understanding.
The sun had at last disappeared, and the darkness had enveloped the cliff. I was exhausted and crawled back into my tent. I nestled down on the ground-mat and, within seconds, fell into a deep tranquil sleep.
It is lovely to wake with the dawn. It's what our ancient forebears did. The pale light was always a welcome sight, after the long dark night. Light for the ancients was precious as they had no artificial light. We don't realise the extent to which false light has taken over our lives. It is anti-natural. Our real cycles should follow the course of the sun across the sky. But then so much of what we do is not for the better.
I stretched out my arms and let the thin morning air flow over me. A gull swooped down close to me and then, in a gracious curve, lofted back into the air currents, over the cliff face. The sea below heaved slowly with decadent laziness, the white
whirls of spray frothing at the rocky base. Far out to sea I heard the lonely call of the terns, as they nose-dived into the water in excited frenzy. I gave solemn thanks for being part of all this wild beauty, and then suddenly realised that I was ravenously hungry.
The tins and jars of food were still there, neatly aligned on the grass, as I had left them. I fumbled with a plastic bag and took out some bread and fruit. I broke the bread and the crusty smell made my mouth water. But I did not rush. First there was the pot of jam - strawberry- to be opened. I used my pocket knife to prise off the top. Using the same knife, I liberally spread a thick chunk of bread with the blood red sweetness. I slowly raised it to my mouth, and the scent of ripened strawberries filled my senses. I was drawn back in time to my childhood - playing in the glasshouse, amongst the ripening tomato plants. In the corner, was the strawberry patch that acted like a magnet. But, like to all good things, adults set obstacles to our attaining them. We were under strict instructions not to go near the strawberries. Naturally had we free rein, they would not have lasted beyond the day, so in retrospect I fully understand the control measures. But