by Little Raven
Many people today are rediscovering what is often called, ‘the native
spirituality’ of the Islands of Britain. Occasionally we hear of such claims as
‘paganism’ being the fastest growing spirituality today. Perhaps we may have even filled
in our census forms as such, that is if you didn’t claim to be a Jedi. But what is it exactly
that we are ‘rediscovering’? Is it something that has indeed lain hidden, unseen by the
eyes which would seek to remove it forever, or is it that we are making something to fit that which
we require for our lives today?
That is in itself not necessarily a bad thing, after all we are children of the
twentieth century, living in the twenty first, and that is where we must place ourselves. But if we
are making it to what we think it should be, essentially ignoring that which has gone before, we are
certainly not ‘rediscovering’ any kind of native spirituality. What we are doing is
simple invention. While this may indeed stand the test of time and become something new and
valuable, at the moment this eclectic attitude simply creates a mess, a pottage of unconnected
concepts where the unique and wonderful individual flavours are lost. In our modern society we are
too lazy to truly learn, we want it now and will find it wherever suits us best (and remember twenty
years!). Our unique and wonderful native spirituality is lost behind the more easily available
religious concepts from other parts of the world. Chakras are not British, our ancestors did not
live in tipis, no Druid ever used dynamite to blow crystals out of a mountain. And yes, our
ancestors of course took on things that were new, when value was found in them that was applicable
to their situations. But remember they had they had the benefit of their traditions already firmly
in place and additions were made for the benefit, not the ease of those within it.
So, if I may, I would like to illustrate modern attitudes with an allegorical
description, which I have entitled ‘The Forest of Memory’.
Within the landscape of popular experience, there is a forest. For many ages it
has existed, timeless in it's patience, silent in its contemplation. Like any other forest it's
tides and currents are of the perpetual acts of continuation, of the joys of birth and new life and
the screams and pain and blood of sudden necessary death.
As it has always been and always will be.
Within this forest there is a stream, now overgrown with Hazel and Willow and
Alder, yet still the stream flows clear. It meanders across the forest floor, through ancient glades
and past the seedlings of last year. Kingfishers flit through the overhanging branches, darting
towards the surface as they search for insects in the places untouched. Occasional sudden stirrings
in the water suggest larger animals, perhaps Otters as they too search for what they require. The
shadows of large fish can be seen as they move secretly through the rocks. It is serene,
picturesque, it is the main artery of this place.
Where the stream rises from the depths of the underworld, in times past the spring
has been well tended. A stone chamber had been built around the source, with a massive capstone of a
single slab. A series of stone steps led down into the chamber at an angle, so the pool surface
could not be seen from the forest outside. Vague human shapes could be seen in ancient wooden posts
around the spring, and what looked vaguely like a human face watched from a nearby bolder, carved in
simple complexity. The spring had been neglected in recent times, so the once clean stonework had
become coloured with numerous kinds of lichen, creating a natural artwork few humans could match in
its beauty.
But it would be a mistake to think that no one remembered the clear spring or it's
past sacred nature. On the fringes of the forest lived a number of families who remembered the
stream, and visited regularly to drink of the purity it contained. No longer did these families
clear the undergrowth from the stream, or the lichens from the stones of the spring, for a reason.
The ability to see the stream was not necessary when one knew of its existence, and not being able
to see the stream was often an advantage when the unexpecting happened across it, the unprepared
found it, or the malicious sought.
In recent times the people have forgotten the forest and the beauty of the stream
which flows through it. Newer, more dangerous influences forced them to other considerations.
Eventually they turned away from the gentle tides to the immediate gratification of other methods.
The people have become greedy, they remembered their had once been a stream, and they began
demanding its water to be available instantly, pre-bottled from their specialist shops.
Some of these people have driven a well in a place they have decided is where the
ancient forest is found. But it is not the ancient forest, they have no idea what trees grow on it's
banks, or which animals find shelter under it's boughs. All they have is water, which will sustain
those who need it, but contains nothing of that which the hidden stream contains. And yet the people
are aware of the stream. They have heard of the old ones who visited, of the animals and birds and
fish to be found there, the trees which shade it’s waters and guard its banks. But not for
them the joy of the hunt, the thrill of discovery or the beauty of the experience. All they have is
what they need, and nothing of what is truly offered.
A sadness can be found in the forest of memory in these times. A sadness found in
the mother whose child has forgotten where their home is to be found, a child who is smitten with
the transient joys of sensory experience. A child who does not know, and seems unwilling to
learn.
But still there are children who visit its banks, those who seek find it’s
course, those who care protect its source. The Forest of Memory is not lost to them.
Which are you?
by Little Raven, who seeks
littleraven [at] uwclub [dot] net
