A wonderful post from Alienora Taylor, our Dancer, on the launch of the Silent Eye:

All my life I have seen myself as clumsy and cack-handed so, being chosen to play a dancer in this weekend’s Silent Eye Birth was confronting, to say the least.

I also wanted to create something tight, beautifully-crafted and perfect to express those days – but, for reasons which I explain in this piece, the journal I wrote during the weekend is going to take the place of more sculpted words. The following quote, taken from a much longer entry for Saturday 20th April, expresses the above:

‘We talked, almost continuously, Dean and I, which was great – about, amongst other things, over-reliance upon Facebook and how the lack of contact with the world can be dangerous and damaging on all sorts of levels; how taking a walk, touching earth with feet and hands, feeling the sun on your body, can be so healing and invigorating.

‘We also talked about the fact that one cannot truly sort things out through the medium of keyboard to laptop writing. There is something about that loving and creative circle of heart, hand, pen, paper (which, of course, I’m using now!) that communicates soul-truths and the real self in a way tapping upon keys never can…’

Sunday 21st April – late

I am back home, looking out at a darkening sky – very tired, having been up since 4 a.m(!)…but, oh, what a brilliant and happy weekend! As a group, we gelled brilliantly – and a sub-section of the more raucous and rebellious of us (me, Dean, Matt, Kevin, Katie and Jordis) became fast friends and were exceeding loud, bawdy and funny at every meal, firing off hilarious one-liners all over the shop; it was such a relaxed and free bond, almost as if we were siblings!

When we drew up at the back entrance yesterday, Sue, smoking a nervous cigarette and resplendent in tangerine, was there; we hugged and later, when I came back from stashing my stuff in my room, she was waiting for me with a large canvas. And, upon it? The beautiful midnight blacks, purples, silvers and blues of the Dark Wings picture she painted for me a while back. I was incredibly touched, and absolutely love it.

Dark Wings picture, painted by Sue Vincent, and a gift to me..

The intensity of the five related ritual dramas ( especially the final one in which my character, The Dancer, had to do a dying swan – or, as I put it in my usual self-deprecating way, a dying pterodactyl…) was almost overwhelming and I was in tears as I bowed to the light, to the Guardian and made my way out of the Temple.

It was a journey of the mind, the soul, the body and the emotions. I felt as if I had been flayed, exposed for what I really am – and touched by the breath of the Creator.

There is something very special about the bond which develops during ritual drama (or, indeed, more traditional rites) – the group soul, the intensity of non-verbal communication; the moments of absence (when you are taken over by an inner being, when the ensouling process clicks perfectly into place); the moments when you stop being the observer, step into – and become immersed in – the multi-sensual world of the rite; the two worlds existing side by side: the physical ‘reality'(in so far as you can say that) of the Temple – the shape of the Enneagram; the Keepers dotted about, white-robed and orange-sashed; the nine Pilgrims in their places, white-robed with odd splashes of colour (the Actor’s mask, the Tyger Lady’s fur, the golden cloaks of King and Queen, the Dancer’s purple cloak); the Child seated in front of the central light; the tangerine robes of the two Troubadours…

…and, behind it, a strong sense of a vast rocky cavern, deep in the high mountains surrounding the monastery: its echoes and silent susurrations (sensed rather than heard) ; its faint drippings and splashings; its scent of incense and odours of roughly cured wool and sun-dried linen; its chanting of bell and voice; its curious whispers of serenity and stern purpose; its hiding of the Child, the special Child – and its strange detachment from the rest of the world.

…blue, blue skies, I saw, and snow, deep snow, and a hawk soaring overhead.

…very odd sensation, to know the familiarity of wild red hair, white robe, plain rope cord, patterned purple cloak, to watch and grow anxious…

…and then to disappear, for want of a better word, into a different world where a wounded King, bowed down and overwhelmed, lurches across a narrow ridge, near collapse; a cold plain of existence where arms reach instinctively to offer warmth, comfort, succour, support; where the pain of being not-quite-the-best (chosen only because the Queen was absent) was tempered by a genuine love, a real need to help, a willingness to sacrifice, if necessary, EVERYTHING…

…and then the sense of its all being too much, the bitterness of failure, the threat and pain of the scouring radiance of pure flame, the epitome of light – and the agony made manifest (in a scream, I was told later, by those I had inadvertently frightened)…

…and the awful crippling weakness, heaviness, anguish; the once-light dancing feet tethered; the enviable grace toppled by grief”s gravity; the bright spirit smothered by overwhelming loss and sadness; the swan wings clipped; the long neck fading upon white soft feathers; the valiant heart beating ever slower; the contrary power of utter lassitude hurling the battered fragments towards the abyss…

Saved. By the Queen. By the rival. The better-than. The rightful consort of the loved one.

‘Twas ever thus. Down through the ages. A pattern repeated endlessly – baton passed from girl to girl, century to century, until the lesson is learned , the shape questioned or the pieces rearranged.

And the tears. For the Pilgrim music. The end of the Fellowship. The vessel’s inner wounds exposed by the dance. The symmetry and wonder of it all. The wish not to leave the Child, the Keepers, the bright Troubadours, the magical Shamanic Drummer, the Upholders, the familiar tall figure of the Guardian…the wish, above all, to remain in the ritual space, to delay the return to ‘real’ life…

The memories, of the group canvas now containing many colourful painted images and a paragraph taken from this volume and written in my neatest handwriting; the jamming sessions with the Drummer, him on his Shamanic drums, anklet of bells tinkling-or singing Irish songs; me on fiddle or recorder; Sheila dancing, with pixie ears and elven gait; me playing ‘Mad World’ on piano, the Drummer singing…

Outrageous laughter down the pub with Allan, Anne, Stuart, Matt, Kevin, Katie and Dean – aching and rolling around! Our final meal, talking about garlic condoms – and the new range of vegetable ones in a more general sense – hilarity springing up from such comments as, ‘Bet that’s got a big BULB on the end!’

Then, the Iron Age Roundhouse being built outside, in a field, and the invitation to help stomp the floor into being which I, caught in a welter of mud-based childhood memories, was unable to resist.

Watched by the smokers amongst our merry band, I donned a thick black jumper and wellies, tied my hair in a ponytail and sauntered down to the branch-woven structure.

What fun! Clay was heaped in rigid piles, water sprinkled, and the stomp began. Clump, clomp went the welly-clad feet, whilst a bright blue sky smiled knowingly overhead (having seen it all before) and a coldish sun winked through the bare roof space.

Soon, I was mud-spattered and laughing mightily as clay flew everywhere (even, as I discovered later, up my nose!). One of the guys there explained about the way Iron Age man arranged his Roundhouse including, I was delighted to discover, a space, as he put it, ‘…for burying Granny…’ Ah! they did it right in those far-off days. Earth to earth, no messing…and lots of mess!

Eventually (and, perhaps, inevitably), I got stuck, welly-wedged tight in the now-packed clay – but not before ‘throwing’ a very rough bowl and leaving it on a handy withy to dry. A small child tried to pull me out – and failed! I pulled, heaved and ho’ed…and shot free, with a revolting squelch, leaving both wellies and a sock (rather a fancy black and pink number) behind.

Cold clay paddling was great! Such fun to feel the mud oozing between my toes!

The wellies plopped out; the sock I have donated to the foundations…

Showering took AGES, and I left clay deposits all over the tray at the bottom!

My inner eye now moves to Saturday, early evening – and me, still dressed in robe and purple cloak, posing by stone shed whilst Matt took photos – and then seeing, afterwards, his astonishing image of us all. The nature of it I shall not reveal because it will be shown soon, and I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Suffice it to say that, to me, it sums up the weekend better than any words could.

Photo by Matt Baldwin Ives ( Matt, our official photographer)

The website with the image work:

http://milescross.co.uk/

And then I move to the Birth of the school itself: the 4 a.m waking; Matt knocking on my door to make sure I was ready, bless him; the silent vigil outside the Temple; the sight of the Father, Mother and Son within, and the vigil continued; the Mother rising and leading us all – warmly dressed and still silent – out into the crisply cold air, sunrise’s fingers beginning to scratch red streaks upon the sky’s skin; the slow measured walk up a track, an inquisitive lamb bleating, gambolling and approaching our voiceless procession; the climb up the hillside to a field ridge below trees; the low-flying hawk appearing at just the right moment…

Then, the laughter as, giddy, tussocks pulled me out of gravity’s logic and I trembled all over the grass! The linked arms, hugs and lovely camaraderie…

My love and thanks to everyone there, especially Sue and Steve. It was wonderful, magical, humbling…

And I, no longer constrained by my mind’s rigidity of vessel shape, found my Inner Dancer.