Echoes or Residual Fate?

I have a notion that sometimes a life event of some significance has an echo a number of years later. That echo may be a reminder of the previous event and perhaps the need to recapitulate it or it may be an indicator of residual fate, some stuff that must get done in a given lifetime. It is difficult to differentiate between these two themes. The only real indicator is the relative permanence. The echo will fade faster than residual fate.

If for example, we were fated to meet then that fate would keep presenting until we did. If we had learning to do together, the universe would bring us together, whether we liked it or not.

It is easy to get into a mind spin considering lost opportunities, squandered fate and the like.

My dream yesterday is pointing me back to a particular time of life. The time when I was exploring spirituality. At the time I was a can of Red Stripe and a spliff, {several} sort of guy. What I noted in many of the so-called spirituality gigs was that there were a lot of “grey hairs” as in people. The gatherings were conducted, smoke free, with a cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich. Much like high tea at a boarding school or at the church centre after service. Others were obsessed with vegetarianism and healthy eating. There was a lot of polite small talk and it seemed to me a holier than thou mentality. I was in my thirties. I thought to myself; “If you guys are recruiting and trying to get people to join your ageing organisation, this is not the way to do it, time-warp city Arizona.” Some tried to evangelize vegetarianism to me. This didn’t impress the then hardcore vegan.

Unless you are really perverted the attitude of a boarding school Matron all name tags in underpants etc. is not overly attractive. Grannies telling you how to behave isn’t alluring.

And now I am that age myself.

What do I see? I see the “youth” apparently obsessed with their ‘phones and their image. If I was thirty years younger, I might even be sending dick picks to potential girlfriends. I too have become a dinosaur.

I have postulated that my recent patent application is little more than an echo of events 20 years previous. In a similar way the post of Toltec things yesterday is contemporary of that ancient phase space too.

Everybody has to gain life experience to learn and maybe it is only when one has messed up a sufficient number of times that one really turns towards learning. So maybe spirituality is a property of age? I hope not.

If I was cynical, I could get someone to write some spirituality app. and then flog it on the internet.

The question is will that phase space re-phase into an echo or actual residual fate, work to do before I shuffle of the mortal coil and pop my clogs, kick the bucket etc.


Echoes in the Dao

I’ll try to verbalize something that I have been contemplating of late and the only phrase I can find for it is “echoes in the Dao”.

There are some events that may seem small, innocuous even, which continue to have a reverberation long after they have occurred. The circumstance, the event flow, continues to echo though the amplitude damps, decreases with each reverberation.

These echoes are not mind made, they are a property of the Dao. A mind made echo is when one checks the calendar and sees the anniversary of something, a death, a marriage, a cancer operation.  These echoes in the Dao come about without the mind checking, they just ripple in out of space. One is given a reminder of something and it starts to pervade into the consciousness.

Some of these echoes, stem from miss takes, where one has not handled a situation well or missed an opportunity. In a sense something which was “fated” to happen, did not and it leaves a kind of hole, a vacuum, in the event flow of the Dao.  This vacancy echoes on in the on flowing Dao.  It can bring to mind the actors and players concerned in the events around the miss take. It offers a chance to revisit and recapitulate what might have happened. The echoes can be opportunities for learning or if not treated in this way, they are soft fishes of regret breaking the calm surface of the pond of inner space.

I have a mild hypothesis that many of the pivotal events of a life are not the big things, but tiny little, innocuous things. Yet it is around these seemingly small fulcrums that an entire life pivots. They are so small that we fail to notice them and hence miss our take on life.

These echoes are almost ghostly, yet they can offer a second bite at the cherry so to speak.  One could re-initiate the circumstance missed to some extent. Because one can never step in the same river twice, it will never be exactly the same, but a similar learning might be found, should one so seek. The trick is figuring out what caused the miss take in the first place and then not doing that which was causal of it.

Another mild hypothesis is that the universe can be very benevolent, offering unto us a second chance to behave differently. These echoes may offer us a new view of our transgressions and a chance to make amends, to atone, to add a little bit of karmic merit. If we are stubborn and waste the universes benevolent offering, it is a second and more serious miss take.

Have you ever felt an echo in the Dao?

The Twilight Echo

That subtle imprint,

The etch

The sketch of him


Never saw the germ

Sneak under my skin

That gentle djinn


No showers or spas

Might lather away

Those twilight echoes


Nor would I want


His eyes tattooed me

His soul embraced

And it soothed


To be understood

And held so,

Caressed in tears


That profound

The meaning

A sublime


And none but I

Can tell

Quiet “Haiku”

Kate Bush wrote “50 Words for Snow”, I simply love how a fresh snowfall muffles everything. Out in the countryside it is even more excellent.


the hush of an Eskimo

whispers winsome,

felt dressings in the snow


the caress of rain

on grass verdant is

a most soothing tincture


even the silence

has no echo to it

and each second, sublimes


tense shoulders shrug

for the want of it

the yearn of so many, years


a calamity now calmed

with now no wind

puffing into sails


a feather caresses

as time ceases

any, audible ticks


cotton wool soft

a whispy cloud

wandering, still pensive


oh those decibels

of  the quiet

sound so very, loud


a heart pulses

but not in vein

to breathe yet, in winter


my willow tree

now, braids her hair

and coyly winks


and now the pillows

call so  pregnant

for my brow


soon the quiet

will pull up the duvet

close my ears…..

Gloria Monday

Sic transit gloria mundi


As the smoke fades and blends in the moonlight

there is just an echo, a simple echo

one of many heard throughout the ages


An echo of a note that never had a chance to grow

and now flown far in the mists of time with

the sound of all those Christmases yet to come


Gone now and perhaps forever


The point past chance

has now tip-toed off into darkness

dressed in the shroud of pride


A silence where a smile might be

an ache to be dulled with the codeine of time

and washed down with Absolut on ice


Gone now and perhaps forever


And the will when read, had a terrible price

the artifice of it all, a haunting cost

one which he was always going to pay


He didn’t turn out well for the big event

the clothes did not fit and soon

they will be boxing him one last time


Gone now and perhaps forever


He never was much good at sitting

and he never liked to heel

not fond of rosettes or silverware either


Let others have their sweet victories

if they want them so very much

even Gloria Monday was sick in the transit


Gone now and perhaps forever


And so he in turn becomes

But an echo, a simple echo

A whisper on the wind and in the mind


Like all echoes he reverberates

for a little while off the canyon walls

and then he passes into eternity


Gone now and perhaps forever

Dans un ciel sans nuages

{ A poem within a poem?}


Far beyond the weeping bough of a tree

the amnesiac hunts echoes of his memory

intangible and just that single, mirage beyond

those shimmering ripples of a now sunset pond


C’est seulement le vent qui souffle


The chime of lotus petals are embossed deep within

pressed close, and fragile between the onion, paper, skin

folded a thousand times and a thousand times more

forged thinner on a fiery anvil by the mighty, Thor


Tout le monde attend le premier timbre du tonnère


The tiny patter of patterns in a fractured fractal core

frond ferns and feelings of an ancient heathland sore

cut to the cuticle quick of him and so perfect laced

where the abscess of absence teethes all that he faced


Et le monde tombe dans un silence profond


The hazel haze of fast and now fading mists

drops sanguine red brooks to follow each his wrist

the cloaks of virgins squeezed out of all their oil

and so do wave the waiver and turn from earthly toil


Les âmes ne marchent plus


The legions from the otherworld in black and Taureg dress

ride hair-net camels to urge the words to outward press

cyclamen ghosts made substance in an aphid’s wing

eat fortune cookies to learn the fate which they must now, sing


Les ésprits sont déjà passés


In the sparkle, sparkle shadow of the morning star

the nomad knows each every trail and he has travelled far

cursed no more and with all the demons gone

he has found the place where he might, belong.


Et enfin il est arrivé , enfin… …