The Ruined Church

Close to where I live there is an old abandoned Protestant Church. It is known only because of its imposing tower that hides behind a stand of trees and a boundary wall of well-ordered stones surrounding the old churchyard. It sits atop a small hill.

At one time there would have been a bell that would toll to call people to remember. That bell has fallen silent.

Each time I pass this high tower hidden among woods I remember the following poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Sometimes a Man

Sometimes a man stands up during supper
and walks outdoors and keeps on walking
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East
and his children say blessings on him as if he were dead


And another man, who remains inside his own house
dies there, inside the dishes and glasses,
so that his children have to go far out into the world
toward the same church which he forgot.



This poem, of course, is not about simply going to church or finding some religious group that you belong. It is about following your longing for the true Self that arises in each and every moment.



This old Protestant church is in ruins but the poem a bout what a man (or a woman) sometimes does is find what St. Paul termed a church made without hands. Outside that ruin where the bell no longer tolls and where the boundary wall is the boundless is the bell that is always ringing.



When you follow the call of that church made without hands you give the gift of blessing the world. You gift the world what it is you are here to be – not necessarily what you think you are here to do. Being precedes doing. The man who remains inside his own house is the man who has built a self-image that he tried to hold onto despite all that he feels he is called to be. Inside that image his imagination dies and this impacts on whose living in his orbit.



It is left then for the children to do what the father (or mother) refused to be – to go out into the world, often far out into the world of exile and abandonment in order to find that missing centre of the sacred within themselves.



In this poem a man stands up. He is willing to take a stand for what is calling him to become all that he is. When he takes this stand he goes eastward toward the rising of the sun, toward the place of new beginning, toward the dawn of the new day. He keeps walking. He keeps moving. Movement is a sign that there is still life flowing through him.



Each and every thing can become an invitation to your wisdom heart and mind. This invitation comes not simply in words but in symbols and paradoxes that touch your life. Creation is always in conversation with you but it does not speak in words. It speaks in metaphor. This is a language that has been forgotten by many people.



It is the most beautiful of languages that illustrates great poetry. We all know this because most all of us at ‘threshold times’ in life turn to poetry to try and give meaning to our deep human experience.



This old church reminds me of what is forgotten and that I also so often forget. I too often die among the dishes and the glasses, fretting about what I haven’t done or what is yet to be done. I have forgotten the sacred place within myself that arise in the eternal moment and gives me peace.



In writing about this old church I could tell you facts about how long ago people last worshipped here. You would have more information but the experience would not invite you to remember and reconnect to what is holy and what is sacred and complete within you. Facts about this old ruin will not bring you alive the way that the invitation to what the church represent can and is intended to invite within you.



The tower that remains is a square tower. Churches are built around what is called sacred geometry and squares are key aspects. The square is a universal shape and considered a foundational shape. It allows for solid bases.



I contemplate and am reminded how the sacred has fallen silent within me and within this land of Erin. At this time of writing, Erin is bankrupt, an outer sign of an inner poverty, and a sign of loss of real meaning. Our leaders have died amidst the dishes and glasses. They have left it for future generations to go far out into the world, the exiles that we as a nation are so good at producing.



So I hope that you might have fun with a new idea. Become a metaphor hunter. On one day let some object speak to you as a metaphor for what is important to the engagement with what is whole and what is holy in you. Let me assure you that this is a wonderful thing to do. The more you do it the more interesting your days become.



This allows your heart and mind to being to awaken to the way that creation created you to be and to become. Each day then becomes a holy day, a day when you venture to a space within yourself where you have never been before. The beauty of this practice is that you begin to come home to the beauty of who you are. You begin to see in ways that will enchant you.



Then you will be able to have a real holiday experience everyday you choose. You can make a stand and walk into the story of a holy present life in love with the creation you are so that you do not die amongst the limitation of an image you create and that is often in fear of ruin.



© Tony Cuckson 2010

A Magical Irish Story - Meeting with a Master

She said, “Children are for sharing. Not everyone can have one.” We never did. So it is a delight to share time with these creatures of being. They are still connected to their original face. They still play in the garden of eternity.

His name sounds as Finn. He has beautiful blue eyes and the blondest of blond hair. He shares his name with Fionn Mac Cumhail. This is frequently anglicised as Finn Mac Cool. Finn Mac Cool is one of the most celebrated heroes in Irish myth.

Little Finn will be tall and beautiful. Now he is small and beautiful. He is learning to talk. He is learning to put distance between his immediacy. There will be a time when he thinks about his life rather than allow it to flow. He will learn to dance rather than be the dance.

Being around children reminds me that feel their experience moment to moment. When they look they see what is before them. They do not judge their experience. They are their experience. This is why they are so delightful even if sometimes they behave as if this world belonged to them and them alone. They know this world belongs to them until they are told differently. This is their real understanding of this world. It is we who have forgotten. They are there to help us remember.

I am standing at the edge of Lough Allen. I have come to visit Corry Strand. This is where I meet this giant among toddlers. My partner Barbara has met this child before. His Mum had come to hear a concert or play at the Glen Centre in Manorhamilton. While Mum watched the play Barbara minded child. When he became fractious and upset she walked him down the main street. She held him close in her arms and sang Gershwin. He settled at the sound of this melody sang softly into his shell like ear.

He quickly learned my name. He quickly gave me the gift of his trusting heart. It came as a delightful surprise to find him placing his little hand in mine. He had decided he and I would take a stroll along the sand. We walked and came to sit by the remains of a campfire. He told me stories. These were one-word stories.

These were one word stories facilitated by finger pointing. He reminded me of the old Zen Master who tells his student “I am only the finger pointing at the moon.” Here is my little Zen master teaching me the simplicity of seeing.

One story is “stone.” The other story is “dog.” Each is direct and immediate. There is no sense of fear. There is only the continued pointing of the finger. He makes the stones come alive. He sees them before ever they have labels.

Too soon there will come a time when he lives in labels. Too soon he will think he knows what a “stone” is. Soon he will forget how he once saw the wonder of that “stone” and that “dog.” He will swap wonder for knowledge. He will swap what is partial for what is holy. He will become a rational person rather than the mysterious little being he is.

He reminds me of Yoda in Star Wars. The force is with him. He is a wise little being with a hand that shows art in every gesture. He shows me the gladness of the ever-present moment. He is selfish as all children are. This is their world. However, they love to share it with you. This world is their playground and they want you to play here too.

On this shore of Lough Allen he reminds me of that other shore. This is the one we seekers long to sail for. It takes us to that timeless shore where we are forever young. My work is to do what Finn does best. I spend time patiently allowing myself to enter this mystery of life. He is still held within it. I am the amateur and he is the pro-fessional of presence.

He is a fount of wisdom. He does not have the words. He only has his finger. He uses this to conduct dialogues with this mystery of life. He allows the music of life to play through his little body. I am only a part of the orchestra and too often I feel apart from the music. He plays all parts expertly and is the music.

Time will be when he will forget he is the play of God. Time will wrap around him and he will be taught to “do life.” He will be taught that life has to be earned. He will be advised that it is more important to earn a living rather than be alive to love. He will be taught his creativity does not fit with economics. He will become productive and competitive rather than celebratory and abundant. He will give up his wondrousness for acceptance.

He will forget that he is forever enough. If he is lucky he will meet with other wise men and women who will tell him to risk all for love. He will forget that love is all he needs. He will turn from love in action to love of activity. His is the fall from the grace of being to the non-grace of persona. We are all destined to fall from this grace. He will be loved but he will feel separate from all that is.

When he is older he will, I hope, take another hand. He will stand on another shore.
He will remember to look at the beauty of what is without labels. He will no longer see it the way that we lost in social consciousness see it. He will, I hope, one day see again via his heart. The way he sees now. When this happens he will be a giant among men. He will be Finn. He will be fair of face and fair of hair.

Thank you Finn for your instruction. I am blessed to have shared your wisdom. You are already a giant among men. You are a child of the Universe. Never forget little one. May the force be forever with you and may you stay forever young in that little heart that you are so ready to share.

Welcome from Tony Cuckson of Anamcara Experience

Let me open with the wonderful Celtic Blessing

Deep peace of the running wave to you.

Deep peace of the shining stars to you.

Deep peace of the still earth to you.

Deep peace of the Infinite Peace to you.

This is more stable than wishing the invitation to happiness. The peace invited in this blessing will allow you to ride out the windstorms of your life situation. More to come.