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November 2009 
Scrying through Centuries and Entwinements
Posted on Aug 1st, 2008
by 
TimeToShine
TimeToShine
IMG 0488
Very newly returned from my mother's 80th... a clan gathering in the house she served in as a wee maid of 13, with people she hadn't seen in 20, 30, 60.. years. Some we had never seen. No words yet... too soon. xox
Okay, so it's a couple weeks later and I know which bit I want to add in here... from my beloved sister Maggi Moon:
Maggi Rose Moon writes:
"....After the late night, singing till 3am with the die-hard songsters, I try to remember where I'm sleeping...Ah yes; Mum's room with the 3 beds in it. I probably get 2 hours sleep; between 3-5am the dawn light filters through to me and I'm galvanized to take in all there is to see and experience while here at The Ross Priory (to make the most of all Isa {big sister) has organised and made possible, aware that stuff could slip through the net of consciousness.
I suspect I've yet to find the spectacular gardens Mum and Dad spoke of at The Ross. so I'm out the front door facing due east in the full rays of early sunshine and heading around behind the house along the edge of the lawns that lead down to the loch side (Loch Lomond). The light is totally magical at this hour and I am enchanted....swathes of soft green mossy grass wind through mature plants and trees, leading to an old gate standing alone with no fence or wall to make sense of it; (walk through it or walk around it!). The area turns into a wider glade with an old sundial....then the walled garden; quiet and held, like holding it's breath with bewitching flowers, paths, roses and long arbor of green, I can imagine at one time ladened with grapes... Such abundance in one place!
And then the moongate....; inspired piece of creative architecture for a gateway through the southern wall of the garden... just like a moon... pushing a curve into the top edge of the wall (no actual gate) ..! have to go through though it's taped off (uneven ground on the other side, were you to step through, has been deemed hazardous). I can't quite believe this is the environment my own Mother worked in as a child during the war... I start to wonder if she was ever sent out here by the cook to get herbs for the kitchen or whether she walked here with Dad.
I have to investigate every corner of this space and after walking through the Arbor another delightful surprise; a second much smaller circular hole built into the wall near the north eastern corner. I go back to the house all bubbly with excitement to tell as many folk as possible to go see the walled garden ..I meet Don, Gavin's father-in-law and master gardener, just as I go back in, so tell him my walled.. my magic walled garden stories. He's lit up to hear of it and goes out forthwith, in search with my directions.
I spend a good hour and a half writing out 'Elegy Written in a Country ChurchYard' from a voice recording on my phone, I almost get done when the cleaner comes in to clear the bar for the coming day.
I learn from her that when the bar closed last night we were 'supposed to have moved' up into The Scott Room on the first floor.. This was the first I'd heard of it, so I go to investigate and find this gorgeous big lounge/study type of space overlooking the loch and Ben Lomond; lovely comfy private feel.. I'm already excitedly envisioning poetry readings and songs for those that want to in here for the coming day; confirmation perhaps for my 'Elegy poem' I had a strong feel to share in some form.
I learn from her that when the bar closed last night we were 'supposed to have moved' up into The Scott Room on the first floor.. This was the first I'd heard of it, so I go to investigate and find this gorgeous big lounge/study type of space overlooking the loch and Ben Lomond; lovely comfy private feel.. I'm already excitedly envisioning poetry readings and songs for those that want to in here for the coming day; confirmation perhaps for my 'Elegy poem' I had a strong feel to share in some form.
Then it's time to wake Heather, Corrina and Mum to catch the breakfast slot I'm aware some folk would miss if not woken; 8.30-9.30 (these Scots still frown on late risers!). The tables are beautifully laid with flowers and a wide selection of gourmet breakfast choices.
At 8.30 am it seems like breakfast is gonna slip everyone by....then, around 9.00, folk pile in from all corners of the house; the mum's of young one's first.
Our Mum comes in looking beautiful in her white blouse and white cardigan navy trousers she's beaming and totally lucid; she's really taking it in! Having integrated that she's the one everyone is gathered to celebrate and honour, she's back at the Ross, as The Matriarch! Finally Above Stairs, flying high above her humble 'station' of the war days.
Our Mum comes in looking beautiful in her white blouse and white cardigan navy trousers she's beaming and totally lucid; she's really taking it in! Having integrated that she's the one everyone is gathered to celebrate and honour, she's back at the Ross, as The Matriarch! Finally Above Stairs, flying high above her humble 'station' of the war days.
There's a proud swelling in me for who she has become. I want to share her story with the staff serving our tables with breakfast despite that the first girl is obviously stressed and in a very Scottish irritation mode.. When I tell her Mum's story she totally softens and adds in her own family connection with the place and reconnects with why and how she came to work here. She is clearly inspired to hear of Mum's transition from the lowest to the highest.
Now we're not just punters, we're people with real human connections to the place.
My second visit to the gardens happened that same morning with Yinka - we hadn't been one on one for about 2 years, bar a brief hello/goodbye at the Abraham-Hicks evening in Bristol a couple months back. Lots has happened in between and once again I'm drawn into the magic of the garden seeing it again with new eyes from Yinka's angle & speed (wheelchair), equally delightful in it's own way as it was at 5am.
Yinka and I reconnect as we once did in our early days of our relating.. Deep profound conversation follows as we meander & pause to reflect in the little corners, soaking up the sun and one another's company. We spend a chunk of time in the sun trap north east corner near the small circular opening in the wall, debating the value of being fully in the 'Now Moment', as advocated by Eckhart Tolle (thereby creating luminous memory moments), as against the value of reflecting and appreciating past events and therefore not fully being here now...; the balance of the two...; the possibility of managing both..; the kind of conversation that leaves my consciousness feeling happily stretched and expanded. Reflecting on the paradoxes of life.
I brush out her sun-bleached hair, remembering how I used to do this task regularly as her carer. Now a rare treat to give her the pleasure of a firm competent hairbrushing. We talk about how the hairbrushing skills of her various carers compare.
On our return to the house via the avenue of ancient yew trees we discover the headstone of the family cat; dating we think from 1938 (turned out to be 1838!); died aged 20, we read. Bizarre to think of the differential of wealth required for a family cat headstone whilst human graves go unmarked in granma's nearby village of Gartocharn.
Yinka is charmed by this little memorial to the family cat. I wonder whether Mum or Dad ever saw it and what they thought of it if they did.
The most luminous moment of the entire weekend which has etched itself into my memorybanks is the image of Mum sitting in the moongate, sun lighting up her hair like a halo. She's looking into the garden.. I'm seeing her from behind; framed in the moongate, looking beautiful.. I'm thinking of the young girl she once was; full of energy, with limited access to all this, and how her life has come full circle back to this same spot, to this point of diminishing life energy, more calm and peaceful now, close to completion perhaps, probably more appreciative of it all now.
Such Magnitude, in that one life journey... come now to one still point. She vaguely recalls being allowed to come here to this place occasionally, and that Dad had been with her. There's no sense of ownership then or now just that she's so much in the picture; an essential part of such a big round Moon, like the story of a fully giving round bellied Mother giving from her heart, giving her best. Perhaps only a Cancerian Mother knows how; ruled by the Moon and Mothering fertility..; how could she not have so many babies!? Grandchildren and great-grandchildren?! Many moons have come and gone since her early glory days of Lochside Scottish freedom and visiting relatives, her special friendships, her emergence into young adulthood, and independence.
Such Magnitude, in that one life journey... come now to one still point. She vaguely recalls being allowed to come here to this place occasionally, and that Dad had been with her. There's no sense of ownership then or now just that she's so much in the picture; an essential part of such a big round Moon, like the story of a fully giving round bellied Mother giving from her heart, giving her best. Perhaps only a Cancerian Mother knows how; ruled by the Moon and Mothering fertility..; how could she not have so many babies!? Grandchildren and great-grandchildren?! Many moons have come and gone since her early glory days of Lochside Scottish freedom and visiting relatives, her special friendships, her emergence into young adulthood, and independence.
Perhaps now the Sacred Hoop of Faith in Life and Love, that was broken can be fully restored.
xXX
Maggi
MOON
XX
Endnote: Maggi Moon did indeed have her moment, later, on this unforgettable day, in the glorious Scott Room, overlooking so famous a scene (Loch Lomond with the beloved 'Ben' Lomond mountain sweeping up from its shores), to read her (Thomas Gray's) "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard".
She read, unhindered by faded etiquette of polite drawing rooms; she read; her voice thick with her deep-river-flowing abiding Love for Her People, our people, with her pain for what they carried, for what they were 'not allowed', for what of their human dignity was not honored, for what of their human potential could not be lived.
Needlesstosay, there was not a dry eye in the house.....
Endnote: Maggi Moon did indeed have her moment, later, on this unforgettable day, in the glorious Scott Room, overlooking so famous a scene (Loch Lomond with the beloved 'Ben' Lomond mountain sweeping up from its shores), to read her (Thomas Gray's) "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard".
She read, unhindered by faded etiquette of polite drawing rooms; she read; her voice thick with her deep-river-flowing abiding Love for Her People, our people, with her pain for what they carried, for what they were 'not allowed', for what of their human dignity was not honored, for what of their human potential could not be lived.
Needlesstosay, there was not a dry eye in the house.....
- "ELEGY WRITTEN IN
A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD"
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. (this verse has passed down the generations...)
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.. (the verse we knew from our mother and her mother before her...)
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
- The Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.
By Thomas Gray (1716-71).
Access: Public
