I waited while she brought the coffee; waited and moved my feet around in the sodden boots, enjoying the effect the squelching noise had on those on the next table. Eventually, she returned, smiling at my continued noise-making.
“Stop it – you’re just being bad for the sake of it!” she scolded.
“I’m only human.” I said, wetly.
“Thank you . . . “
I looked up into those now-gentle eyes. “Thank you?”
She sat down and sipped her coffee, assembling what she wanted to say.
“Thank you for being the person who shocked me awake on the beach;” she glanced at the shoreline across the road. “Who stalked me like an idiot, in front of the watching world, to make a wonderful and illustrative point.” More coffee, then, “Who waded into a cold sea and made me see that these numbers on a circle are really vivid and imprisoning ways of seeing the world.”
“Well, yes,” I said, amazed and mollified at the strength of feeling. “That’s a very good description.”
“And they all have this, the numbers – the Types?”
“They all have their own flavours of this – though the original anticlockwise wave of the outgoing three are the anchors for the rest.”
“The Nine, where it begins, the Six and this–” she looked wistfully at the beach, again. “The Three.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling at her infectious good spirits. “I used the Three for this increase in ‘volume’ of your experiences for a very good reason.” I watched as she cocked her head to one side, studying me.
“You’re a three?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes, I’m a Type Three.” I replied.
“But you’re not just a Type Three?” she asked.
“No-one is just any single type. We all have them all, so to speak, they are the story of the unfolding human . . .”
“Just in differing proportions?”
“Exactly so, according to our formative reactions – and we are all unique, though we all share some characteristics we’d rather not confess to – notably the ‘sins’ we began these conversations with!”
Alexandra chuckled. “Oh, yes.” she whispered into the foam on her latte. “I can see that now.” She drank from the mug, then asked, “So, where next?”
“Next, at least clockwise, would be the Four . . .”
“Given that I have to catch one of the London trains today, can you give me a few gems to consider in the week ahead?”
I drew in a breath and opened the moment to the right words. “You must go forward from here with what you know. You know that each of what we might call the ‘Outcast Triad’ – the Nine, the Six and the Three – all the same child of the divine – were stages in the One Life, the One Consciousness, the result of a turning away from our original, spiritual nature – which, in one sense, leaves it self-important, an island of safe isolation, where it can make its own rules; and . . . colourless.”
I watched and drank coffee while she considered this. She took her time. Eventually, she said, “And the Three, in a sense, is where we end up – unless we carry on back to the Nine?”
“Very much like that,” I agreed. “So tell me, in your own words, what that process of becoming an outcast, an exile, is . . .”
She thought for a while, then drew in a breath to speak. I leaned across the table and placed a gentle hand on her wrist, shaking my head.
“My train?” she asked, smiling.
“No, my wet feet – but you have some thinking to do for next time.” I drained my coffee.
There was the happiest of silences as she walked, and I squelched, back to the car park by the sands. My boots were unlikely ever to be the same, again – but it had been worth it.
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Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee is usually published on Thursdays.
All images and text ©International copyright, The Silent Eye School of Consciousness, 2015.
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Serafina is sitting in the formal chair, I’m lazing on the old leather settee, which fits nicely under the angled overhang unavoidably created when the architect cunningly crafted the upper floor on to our former Lakeland bungalow.
“Why irony?” she says.
“Irony?” – I’m playing hard to get. As my portable shrink, she’s used to such tactics.
“On the top of your personal WordPress web page, it has ‘Irony’ in the middle of it . . .”
I’m going to have to answer; to reach into what was just a whimsy, and deconstruct it for the world of reason.
“I like it because it has the word ‘iron’ in it. Iron is a good image, something forged with intelligence and for a durable purpose. I like the way that great iron structures rust with age, showing what they are, rather than the accretions that cover them, like concrete.” I’m impressed with this – it’s positively poetic.
“No you don’t, you just made that up.” she says, correctly; used to my verbal escapology.
Metaphorically pinned to the old leather settee, I am forced to agree. “Okay, yes I did; but I’ve had time to think now, so the answer to ‘why irony?’ is because I have always loved the notion that ‘fate’–the gods as they used to be, reach into our lives, every now and then, and fling us about a bit . . .”
Serafina considers this. “And it’s good to be ‘flung about a bit?'”
“Yes, it’s essential; it’s what really good friends would do with you if they could read your secret heart and your real needs instead of dealing with the papier maché front we all construct.”
“And these have to be life-changing events?” she asks.
“No – in fact, most of them are quite tiny – but can have a dramatic effect in the moment, in the now; if that now has been primed, so to speak.” I consider what I’ve just said. It’s not the best-phrased construct, but it conveys the gist of the thing.
“An example being?”
She’s quite merciless, of course – this amalgam of some of the finest and most fearsome characteristics of womankind; but useful to have around.
“An example being this morning. I took the dog out for its constitutional; at the expense of my own, came back and rushed to the ensuite bathroom with a large mug of steaming tea in my hand, to be whipped around in a near airborne arc, spilling most of it, as though grabbed by a sci-fi tractor beam wielded by a mischievous and obscure small god in another galaxy . . .”
“And what really happened?” she asks, waiting, patiently for the truth.
“Okay,” I say, remembering the event in vivid details with some embarrassment. “I had thrown on one of my walking shirts, made by a company called Paramo, who utilise the strongest microfibre they can source. As I strode, at speed, into the ensuite bathroom,one of the short sleeves had hooked itself in the right door handle of the saloon-style doors. These open inwards, so I’d travelled another foot or so before disaster struck and the ancient god of distant bathrooms used my forward momentum to entertain itself with my subsequently scalded pirouette; the amazingly strong shirt remaining totally unshredded, having dumped me and most of the tea on the floor . . . but personally I prefer the tractor beam theory!”
“I see.” says Serafina. “And the moral of the tale?”
“The moral of the tale is that sometimes your best suit of armour is not the smartest place to be . . . ”
“Hmm” says Serafina, clearly underwhelmed.
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Wisdom and Grudges . . .
Despite the dubious math involved, I’m on a quest to kick my happiness factor up a few points using a list from Mindful magazine. Really have been noticing the little joys that surround me but will refrain from mentioning all of them because that would just be bragging.
So, DITCHING GRUDGES was an interesting exercise. I made a list of all the people I held grudges against. They are usually front and center somewhere, so I didn’t have to think long or hard about it. 14 people, some of whom I have held grudges against for several decades. Nobody holds a grudge like I do. I know this. I’m not proud of it. But I am trying now to just stop it already.
14 isn’t that many. I figured the number of people who have done me wrong would be much higher. I have likely forgotten some folks. These others…
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My persecutors continue their plotting, even when visiting Avebury . . .
“We also acquired the first few items for next year’s workshop, much to the discomfiture of their intended ‘victim’”
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Sue’s continuing diary of the Silent Eye weekend in the Avebury area
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Watched over by the ancient Lion and Lamb
the Summer Solstice light tries to kiss awake
the sleeping mind of Mankind
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Standing in the Eye of the Uffington White Horse
Looking down at the processional route
from ancient times . . .
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As we approach the Summer Solstice, a few pictures from last weekend’s Silent Eye weekend in Avebury. These ancient and grand stones mark the entrance to the West Kennet long barrow. At a suitably private moment we experimented with chanting and found the resonant note for this beautiful place … Quite a sensation when a Neolithic barrow starts singing back at you …
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A beautiful shot of the Yorkshire Dales in their glorious greens.
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I had arranged to meet Alexandra on the seafront the next Monday morning. I explained that I would bring us take-away coffee, as I wanted to use the half-hour to do a large-scale drawing. I had hinted that additional footwear might be required and she looked quite incongruous when she arrived, in pin stripe suit and walking boots . . .
“Only for you!” she shouted into the gathering wind. Her smile was infectious. I winced at what I had to do. I held up the coffee and she took hers. I pointed at the beach. “We have to go down onto the sand.”
She nodded, “I had a feeling it was going to be something like that!” But she followed, willingly, down the old concrete steps and onto the golden sand. Each of us took care not to spill coffee from the fragile paper cups.
I was dressed in jeans and summer boots. She looked like someone you wouldn’t expect to find on a beach, early on a Monday morning. I looked at her, holding her eyes, then began to circle her, in a predatory fashion. At first she giggled and turned to her coffee for succour; but when I carried on my actions, and she was faced with something she didn’t understand, she began to look less sure of herself. I continued to circle her like a wolf, my footsteps marking a rough circle in the sand.
She broke free from my tracks and headed towards the water line, where tiny waves were lapping onto the beach. Behind them, larger waves with white horses were building on the stiffening breeze. I smiled at the turn of events; feeling the warm wind turn gusty, and watching it blow at her hair and clothes, as she stood, trapped between the sea and my advancing but still silent figure.
She turned away from me, drinking her coffee, a small act of the known, the familiar.
I came level with her, then studied the sea, before walking into it.
“What!” I heard her gasp, “I hope you don’t think–”
But my actions cut her off, as, now up to my ankles in sea water, and sporting wet and uncomfortably splashed jeans, I began to walk a perfect segment of a circle, passing her with a still silent look, on the seaward side, before coming out of the water to complete the circle on the dry sand, dragging my feet to ensure the perimeter was clearly delineated. When I had finished, most of my circle was on the dry beach, but the final arc was submerged.
She looked at my madness. The normal humour in her eyes was gone. “Circles?” she shouted, angrily. “Is that it? Are you trying to teach me about bloody circles?” But she did not move from the spot.
Still I said nothing. It was difficult. I knew the tension was becoming unbearable and I was not doing this to be cruel. I walked to a nearby, rocky section of the beach, put down my coffee and picked up three, large pebbles. I carried them back to where she was standing, looking at her newly-insane friend, and placed them at three of the cardinal points of the circle made from my wet footprints.
Only the invisible point in the sea remained unmarked.
My feet squelched as I did so, and I, too, was acutely uncomfortable. I retrieved my coffee, which was still untouched. I looked a her angry and somewhat frightened face.
“Don’t move from the circle,” I said. “You’re safe there.”
She shouted back at me, “Safe from what, you idiot?”
I began to walk around Alexandra’s safe circle, again. “Safe from me . . .” I let the words hang in the wind.
Stunned at my response, she stood, mute in the centre of her safe prison and watched as I walked back into the sea, stopping when I was at the far point of my symbolic creation.
It must have looked surreal.
She stared at me in silent rage, then cursed as her half-full coffee cup fell from her fingers and splashed all over her safe sand. She bent to pick up the cup, but stopped. The rules of the world had gone to hell, what did it matter . . .
“Walk towards me,” I said, gently.
“Into the bloody sea–in my best legal suit?”
“Yes.”
I watched her conduct the greatest inner fight of our friendship; watched as the past months flashed before her eyes and she reviewed the kindly outcomes of each encounter. Sometimes bodies speak much louder than the mind ever can; trust triumphed and she hung her head and walked towards the sea.
When she arrived at the water line, her head still bowed, she was surprised to find two wet and booted feet standing there. I had come forward, silently, to meet her halfway – and halfway was the water line.
She looked up. There were tears in both our eyes. I held out my full and untouched cup of coffee. “For you,” I said, simply.
I cleared my throat, then said, “That’s what it feels like in the land of the Enneagram’s three point.” I shook my head in a beloved memory of my own journey. “And what it feels like when people love you enough to pull you out of it . . .”
(to be continued)
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Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee is usually published on Thursdays.
All images and text ©International copyright, The Silent Eye School of Consciousness, 2015.
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“I’ve got you an extra coffee, in a take-away cup, because I knew you were going to be late, and I’m thoughtful like that . . .”
I watched for her reaction. The word confusion was written across Alexandra’s face. I winced, inside – this was going to be a tough one.
“But . . . but I’m not late!” she protested, looking at her watch and beginning to look irritated as she flounced into the chair.
I watched her wrestle with the conflicting emotions; I had removed the normal beginning of our Monday morning from her safe grasp, and, though she had come to expect the novel, she didn’t expect the completely unknown . . .
“Arguing won’t do you any good,” I said. “It’s important that you recognise that, although I do my best to look after everyone in my care, I make the rules; and expect those who are going to help me to do it with their fullest consideration!”
Her mouth had dropped open. “You make the . . .”
Nine, ten, I was waiting for the explosion . . . “Why you pompous, jumped up . . .” And then she saw the smile. “Bastard . . .” she added, sipping her coffee and thinking, deeply, about the nearly heated exchange. I could see her fighting to get her breathing under control.
She took several minutes to consider her next words. “Yes I do . . .”
“You do?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“I know someone just like that.”
The chameleon had changed in front of her, dropping the acting and embracing the moment – one of considerable triumph on her part.
“He or she?” I asked.
“Chief clerk of our chambers, actually.” her eyes narrowed as she summoned up his inner image. “Little sod, he is, but very capable – it’s what keeps him there; but you’re either on his team or you’re the enemy!”
“For life?”
“Pretty much – he’s a great believer in absolutes.” she said. “He seems to think that he epitomises the perfect figure for the organisation.” she smiled at a memory which obviously contradicted that . . . “But here’s the thing – he gets angry with himself, as though he’s constantly failing to meet his internal picture of how wonderful he should be!”
She drank some more coffee, then added, “But it’s seldom his fault; just another example of how his vision is misunderstood. And then he returns to work, and usually works around the clock to beat himself up for not being infallible . . . “
“I’m so glad. You have the perfect Two . . .”
Her eyes were still locked in their internal gaze, remembering the picture of her sometime adversary.
“The perfect, Two,” I said softly, again, leaning towards her, conspiratorially.
She snapped out of her reverie. “The Two! Oh yes, I’d forgotten that we were up to the Two!”
“Let’s call him Will Faul.” I said. She laughed at the name.
“Okay, Will Faul it is, so what do I do with him?”
“We’ll come to the remedials when we know them all a bit better.” I said. For now, just study the people you meet and see how many of them fit into this profile.
“What’s at the heart of a Two?” she asked. “Can’t you give me a keyword, or something?”
She was looking at her watch. I knew our time was almost up and wanted to give her something in return for the rough ride.
“Okay,” I said, draining my own drink. “It’s all about image.”
“Image,” she said wistfully, already working on the ramifications of the answer. “And that’s all I get?”
“That’s all you need,” I smiled. “For now.”
She smiled back, her composure had returned. “Bloody good job we did all that prep or you’d be driving back wearing coffee!”
“Brought my mac,” I said, tapping the summer raincoat behind my chair and beaming with a huge grin that spilled over into laughter.
“It’s all about trust, isn’t it?” she said, returning my smile.
I didn’t reply immediately. I just stood up, nodding, threw the mac over my shoulder, and bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Yes,” I whispered. “And that you know it, so soon, is beautiful . . .”
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Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee is usually published on Thursdays.
All images and text ©International copyright, The Silent Eye School of Consciousness, 2015.
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Stuart – Arch ‘historicon’ and subtly deceptive plotter, continues his preparations for next April’s Silent Eye workshop, Leaf and Flame (www.thesilenteye.co.uk)
Sun in Gemini 
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