37

In the hollow of the rock

Sylvia Shawcross

It is cold again at night and the raccoons that reach their little hands up to the bowl of food are not there under the porch light again. When it was warmer they stirred in sleepy hunger to feed but now they are in their dark dens. With the recent snow now draped on branches, spring seems far away again.

And that is when the somber thoughts arrive. Stray thoughts that keep you up at night—about the state of the world and the struggle of the human condition and how it is that I should find myself here in this time. I am, of course, not the only one who wonders this.

I have to remind myself that children still laugh and the sun, once a deified marvel but now all scrutinized into flares and magnetospheres and proton fluxes, despite this gross indignity of science, still rises in the morning as it always has. I also have to remind myself that in my next life I’ll have to pick a better time to reincarnate for I don’t much like the way things are going in this one now. It is unfair. Many would say that. It is unfair. It is particularly unfair to the old.

For all our wisdom and experience, we have not the strength we once had and we look with worried eyes to the younger ones. We cannot save them. We haven’t the time now. It is not our world anymore. It is a generational fear. Maybe it was always like this but it seems different this time round. So different. We can only hope we taught them well. For as much as they would listen.

When it is cold again I think we can go for a walk. It is better this than sitting silent at a window looking out or watching screens that tell you nothing. It is a place you need to know.

Come with me. We’re going somewhere I’ve been many times but of course, not for a long time now. We will walk into a haze of memory perhaps fresh cleaned by romantic notions but nevertheless, a place, a time, a wandering. And it is summer there. It is always summer there now for it is not likely I will ever see this place again as I grow old and time spins faster and makes carnage of the future in its relentless way until there seems so little left to hold of it. It was always this way though. Not just for me.

This place I will take you to is by the Atlantic Ocean. I was partially raised there and it is a place you would love if you knew it as I did, the meandering day-dreaming child. I would sometimes stand on the cliffs where the wild ground-evergreens sprawled and foxberries grew to catch the wind in my hair.

Can you feel it? Now that I have brought you here to the edge of the ocean? You will feel it soon. The wind. When we emerge.

There is so much life in that wind, as if it is newly born there, breathing. Like the ocean seems to breathe. Can you see the rise and fall of waves as if that great shimmering expanse catches its ragged breath on the rattling shore? Sometimes at night I think I hear it still but that is just a fancy of course. There is no ocean here. But sometimes the flow of traffic could be that same rasping of stones swept out in exhalation. It could be. I’m telling you. But then, what does that matter? I’ve forgotten where we were again.

We are on a path up to the top of that far high hill where the Thinking Stone is. It is the best place. We will stop there. Dally. For we are children again. We have no sense of time or pressing need. Just a dog that follows us and the crows that call. We don’t even have a watch—what is that possibly for? We have the chattering of squirrels in the spruces and pines, the scrambling of flustered birds, the return of the seagulls from the far boats, the hunger pangs that tell us it is time to go back. We do not even think of it—going back. There are always the blueberries if we want to take a little longer.

Although alone, we are not lonely. There are words all around us. Do you hear them? Of course you do. You are here with me.

It is not such a far walk, up the hill along the shoreline where the path is carefully placed to avoid the edge where the cliff swallows have their nests just underneath. You could easily fall through their underground hollows and that might not be good for it is a long way down to a rocky bed. You know the swallows nests are there though because the foxes have dug holes down. Sometimes there are bits of feathers but you try not to think of that. There are none on this walk.

You must try not to think of the eagle that sometimes sits wicked on the Thinking Rock watching prey. It will not be there when we arrive though. It is not time yet for the wind is too strong for the hunt just now. The eagle is crouched somewhere in the high trees waiting. And we are just reaching the Thinking Rock.

It is bigger than you, even as an adult—the rock. It is perched right at the crest of the high hill not so far from the edge. It is smooth from the wind and salt spray and the scrabbling of eagles’ talons. It has been there for a long time. You can find that hollow in it to sit and watch the world. Far over there, that horizon is England or Scotland. Maybe both.

Can you taste the salt from the wind? It is coming from the sea. Later it will come from the land when the sun shifts. But as long as it is coming from the sea then you can find your way to think because the words are all around you then.

You can see the distant container ships from faraway lands headed for the big harbour south and the island stretched awkwardly over the horizon line with the lighthouse at its end. There are lobster boats and buoys. There are cormorants and seagulls and terns and crows of course. But the crows are behind you. They prefer the forest in the day mostly. There is the ever breathing sea and wind. There are the cliffs stratified with seams of coal and prehistoric rocks layering time in sediment. It is all there.

Do you see why I’ve brought you here now? It is all there. All you need to know. The words are all around you now. In this place. There are no crowds to watch you or to play to, to adore or abhor you. There are no others to judge you or tell you or confuse you. There are no voices you did not ask for. No opinions that break or make you or take you to places you do not want to be. The words are not lettered education. They are not convoluted explanations or rationalizations. They are not demands nor entreaties. They do not operate from guilt or shame or pain or fear or the needs of others. You have nothing to prove to anyone. In this life anyway.

Do you see the sediments of time layered there that places you so infinitesimally small inside its vastness, its eternal vastness? Can you sit quiet on the rock while the eagle waits and the foxes dig? Can you see the world, the whole world in the far-flung ships of trade, the far horizons, the light that guides from the island? Can you feel the breath of time and the hopes dancing truth to lies? The feathers in the wind? The scent of pine forests cradling? Can you see the way the waves break on that point of shore? The way it parts one side to the left, the other to the right? Rolling. Constant. Eternal. The sweep of the human condition broken on the rocks but it is not the waves but the rock that endures.

You are there with the wind and the words that have found you. They are the words of your soul. Heed them well. In this time. In this place. Find your way here when you need to. To think.

We are each alone but not alone. We will answer one to another when the wind dies down. Until then, remember that the rock endures. It endures the wind and the water and the sharp scratches of eagles at its edge. And you will be that rock. Go now from here, until you need to return. I will walk with you then too if you like. We’ll watch the lighthouse at dusk.

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Erik Nielsen
Erik Nielsen
Feb 19, 2024 6:30 PM

Simple ascetic life. Atlantic is rough.
The philosopher Diogenes lived by choice with nothing in a barrel. The hollow of the rock.
comment image

Ron Marr
Ron Marr
Feb 19, 2024 6:29 PM

Thank You.

Dag
Dag
Feb 19, 2024 9:04 AM

A sanctuary. So very beautiful! Thank you!

Johnny
Johnny
Feb 18, 2024 10:40 PM

‘Like the ocean seems to breathe’

Can I please steal/borrow that awe inducing line Sylvia?
It deserves a song.

The ocean does breathe, metaphorically and actually:

https://eos.org/research-spotlights/worlds-biggest-oxygen-producers-living-in-swirling-ocean-waters

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 18, 2024 10:47 PM
Reply to  Johnny

Of course you may Johnny dear

Johnny
Johnny
Feb 19, 2024 10:08 AM

Thanks Sylvia.
Speaking of ‘rocks’ and oceans, here’s an ear worm for you.
It’s a classic Aussie rock song from way back:
It still gives me goosebumps:

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 20, 2024 2:08 AM
Reply to  Johnny

Lovely. TY for that Johnny

Todd Hayen
Todd Hayen
Feb 18, 2024 9:56 PM

Stunningly beautiful. It reminds me of Mary Oliver…

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,t
he world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 18, 2024 10:47 PM
Reply to  Todd Hayen

There! That is sublime comfort. TY Todd

Matt
Matt
Feb 18, 2024 9:24 PM

Eureka!

comment image

— David Jones

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 18, 2024 11:18 PM
Reply to  Matt

It is a bit further east methinks no?

Matt
Matt
Feb 19, 2024 3:22 AM

Well, Sly, let’s just say that an ever so delicate adjustment to the tuning of your mind’s eye, a slight blurring — try removing your inner imaginary bifocals or pince nez, and, voila! — might help eliminate the precise correlation with GPS coordinates, similar to what your writing increasingly does to my mind.
It’s kind of more of an “astral” orr “Utopian” impression, yet, at the same time, somehow, literally and precisely true.
ATLANTIS, wherever you find it, is deeply submerged and dark, whatever its location.
You are a lifeline.
A lightline.
Oxygen.
Thank you, once again!

Matt
Matt
Feb 20, 2024 1:55 AM
Reply to  Matt

‘scuse mee, Syl!

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 20, 2024 4:47 AM
Reply to  Matt

There is nothing to pardon dear Matt. 🙂

Matt
Matt
Feb 22, 2024 7:50 AM

Welcome, to the Underworld, Syl, to Atlantis! I am taking everyone down with me, and bringing everone else, along for the ride. Showtime, in Atlantis, is about to begin. Cheers! Wish me luck and protection, I am going down the rabbit hole, into the abyss, and, the belly of the beast, the very lair of les AnalphaBêtes Sauvages, to direct confront the Cyclops. ALMIGHTY GOD HELP ME!

Lulu
Lulu
Feb 18, 2024 6:03 PM

Sylvia, that was sublime. I just love how you transport us readers to special places and offer different perceptions. Your sound clips are a lovely supplement to your writings.

Many thanks.

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 18, 2024 10:49 PM
Reply to  Lulu

Thank you Lulu. I do insist.

Big Al
Big Al
Feb 18, 2024 5:48 PM

I was talking to my granddaughter the other day about the Vietnam war and draft cards (I missed it by months but ended up joining anyway) and how many would “flee” to Canada after getting their cards as a sort of sanctuary against U.S. imperialism and militarism, and to avoid getting whacked in Vietnam. I lived in NW Washington State as a teenager and we used to drive up to visit Vanc B.C. or Victoria and most times we’d just get waved thru by the border guards. Or they’d ask us if we had any apples. Compare that to now. Not just Canada, but everything, the borders, passports, shots. There is no more sanctuary. Wow, all in one lifetime. Imagine what’s next.

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 18, 2024 10:49 PM
Reply to  Big Al

That is why it is so much harder on us old people. We still remember.

Erik Nielsen
Erik Nielsen
Feb 19, 2024 6:36 PM
Roger
Roger
Feb 18, 2024 5:23 PM

Thank you Sylvia.
I think that a warm fire in the mind
Can drive away the darkness
November The 5th.
Bonfires Flames and Embers
Around the bonfires stand communities
Children Burn Sparklers and Adults Candles
Effigies atop the bonfire fear the flames
At the seat of the Fire Embers Accumulate
Dreaming at Home Communities retire
Slumber hangs over the Town
The Bonfire smolders unobserved
Effigies, Sparklers and Candles All Embers Now
Flames lick the skies spectacular
Sparklers delight and perform fleetingly
Candles support but one fragile flame
Embers , wax and Magnesia
Calliopsis or Magnesia fueled from embers
The Health of the embers combustible flames
Who celebrates the embers endeavors
Who sees the symbiosis of the combustion and the fuel
All fate leads into the embers
All Embers fate to blow as dust
All Flames from the embers driven
Do the flames celebrate the embers for their finery?
R G Lewis
November 5, 2016
Peak Bullshit. Shits fucked up and bullshit. “Don’t Look Up” (Irony)
PUBLISHED DATE:APRIL 27, 2022

Roger
Roger
Feb 18, 2024 5:27 PM
Reply to  Roger

Exegi Monumentum
By A.S. Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian

We heard him say, “I will destroy this temple that is made with hands, and within three days I will build another made without hands.”
-Mark 14:58

I’ve reared a monument not built by human hands.
The public path to it cannot be overgrown.
With insubmissive head far loftier it stands
Than Alexander’s columned stone.

No, I shall not all die. My soul in hallowed berth
Of art shall brave decay and from my dust take wing,
And I shall be renowned while on this mortal earth
A single poet lives to sing.

Tidings of me shall spread through all the realm of Rus
And every tribe in Her shall name me as they speak:
The haughty western Pole, the east’s untamed Tungus,
North Finns and the south steppe’s Kalmyk.

And long shall I a man dear to the people be
For how my lyre once quickened kindly sentiment,
I in a tyrant age who sang of liberty,
And mercy toward fallen men.

To God and his commands pay Thou good heed, O Muse.
To praise and slander both be nonchalant and cool.
Demand no laureate’s wreath, think nothing of abuse,
And never argue with a fool.

CaptainSpock
CaptainSpock
Feb 18, 2024 4:43 PM

Thank you for this writing..

Amidst this time which some say is the darkest part of the Kali Yuga, on a soul level if we are able to remain centred in our heart as the most demented archetypes govern, then our evolution is amplified.. The darkest phase of the Kali Yuga is near the end.. Keep the faith and stay centred.. Resolve all fear of death and enter the infinite whilst still embodied.

ariel
ariel
Feb 18, 2024 7:29 PM
Reply to  CaptainSpock

Yup. you got it in one neat little package. You might add awareness of the breath in your heart/chest space as it goes in and out. As often as possible.
They already threatened us with death anyway, and so what?
We’re still laughing.
I was once busted by the Guardia Civil Trafico for listening to whale song while driving on the autovia near Madrid. Cost me 80 euros.

CaptainSpock
CaptainSpock
Feb 22, 2024 7:47 PM
Reply to  ariel

Yes.. Drunvalo Melchezedek’s, Merkaba activation is a potent practise for this time and if enough people awakened that energy field a dynamic shift would occur.. If not, then the people who step into it will have safe passage in their Merkaba vehicle through the dimensions… A hefty fine for simply listening to the Whale song.

ariel
ariel
Feb 22, 2024 8:40 PM
Reply to  CaptainSpock

Well actually my guide(s) or whatever at the ATM of the first service area outside Madrid told me forcefully NOT to withdraw 200 euros that morning. The Guardia Civil bikers wanted more than 80. But when I told them that 80 was all I had on me they went back to the bikes and had a huddle, then they came back and told me that they’d dropped the charge 2 levels, and would now only charge me – 80 euros.
Avoid getting involved with the Spanish legal system.

Voltaria Voltaire
Voltaria Voltaire
Feb 18, 2024 4:25 PM

Sanity. Thank you. You don’t have to pick a better time for your next life. You are already making it, continue.

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 19, 2024 3:21 AM

Thank you for your kind words. I don’t want to reincarnate if I’m honest. 🙂

Raoullo
Raoullo
Feb 18, 2024 3:56 PM

Beautiful prose that deserves being sung.
I remember a time when words had magic
when poetry was an art and listening was a virtue worth gold. Thank you for bringing this back. Please do connect deeper and across worlds, as it may be the easiest way to atone.

Here’s one for you: “The Breath of the Ancestors” by Birago Diop

https://www.alexburgerart.com/poetry-mourning-part-2/

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 19, 2024 3:21 AM
Reply to  Raoullo

Magnificent. Truly.

Johnny
Johnny
Feb 19, 2024 8:51 AM
Reply to  Raoullo

Thanks Raoullo🙏

Jane
Jane
Feb 18, 2024 2:26 PM

Thank you, Sylvia.

Cape Breton ?

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 18, 2024 9:15 PM
Reply to  Jane

most decidely

Cynicon Implant
Cynicon Implant
Feb 20, 2024 8:27 PM

I’m from Boston but our family had a summer place in Cape Breton on the Bras D’Or Lake (across from Baddeck). Magical place. Thanks for the lovely piece, Sylvia.

Ray
Ray
Feb 18, 2024 1:13 PM

Sylvia, I can tell it’s you just by reading the title of your article. Much better to wake up to your wisdom than CNN. Thank you.

Sylvia Shawcross
Sylvia Shawcross
Feb 19, 2024 3:21 AM
Reply to  Ray

Oh its just me rambling. TY Ray. 🙂

Ray
Ray
Feb 19, 2024 1:06 PM

“rambling” is a charming way to describe the trips you take us on. They are never tiresome. Please continue, Sylvia.