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After my somewhat heated encounter with my parliament of selves I had hoped that they’d stay out of my dreams for that night at least and give me time to think. Fat chance.

It felt as though I hadn’t been asleep long, though it was way past halfway through the night. For some reason I found myself walking along Edgar Street towards the Courtyard Theatre. I think I was expecting to join a meeting of the Death Café. I went to the counter as usual to get my decaf cappuccino. I sensed something was not quite right when I bumped into Ian. He had died recently but was standing there ordering his usual hot chocolate.

‘We’re not in the usual place,’ he said. ‘We’re up near the Arts and Crafts bit.’

‘Let’s hope they don’t have a rock band next door like last time we were in there.’ I didn’t feel it would be quite right to ask him how he was.

As he picked up his chocolate, he said, ‘You go on ahead. There’s someone over there I need to talk to,’ gesturing towards a woman in the far corner holding a scythe.

I couldn’t get my coffee quickly enough. I dashed off upstairs, spilling it all over the free biscuit in my saucer in my haste to escape, hoping its cellophane wrapping would protect it.

On the next floor, between me and my destination, a group of skeletons in evening dress were practising the salsa, Mediterranean cruise-style. I had to creep cautiously around the wall protecting my coffee as best I could from swinging bones.

As I opened the door of the meeting room I realised I was in deep trouble. I could hear the strains of Hotel California coming from the next room. As soon as I stepped through the door, there they all were, every single member of my parliament of selves, including the toddler. There was no backing out.

‘Hi. Good to see you all,’ I lied.

‘Don’t lie,’ Mires grinned. ‘You’ve been dreading this. Anyway you’re here, and we thought this was the best place to meet. It’s where you claim you can come to have deep conversations about things that really matter, and that’s just what we all want to do isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is,’ I grudgingly agreed.

‘There’s a chair over there for you,’ Pindance said, pointing to a place across the table from her.

As she spoke and I walked through the room to my place at the table, the words of the song next door came through the wall.

Running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
‘Relax’ said the night man,
‘We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave!’

‘Thanks,’ I thought. ‘Just what I wanted to hear.’

But I knew that in a sense it was completely true. This was a group of people from whom I could never be free. I had to find a way of integrating our different agendas to create some kind of effective unity, a sense of common purpose.

‘Is it OK if I act as a kind of chairperson here?’ Humfreeze asked.

As he spoke I tried to calm my nerves by pouring the coffee from my saucer into my cup and rescuing the biscuit.

‘I guess so,’ was my faint response.

‘OK, then. Let’s get started. You know already that Indie wants to know how the child fits in with your plan, and that Emma values her projects and Wordless his poems beyond almost anything else. So, we probably don’t need to rehash all that, do we?’

‘No, definitely not.’

‘Right. So I’m going to ask Fred to share where he is coming from. OK, Fred?’

‘No problem.’ Fred cleared his throat to give himself time to clear his head.

‘In a way I’m a bit more anxious even than the others about where I fit in exactly.’

‘Why’s that?’ I asked. ‘We’re both trained in psychology.’

‘Well, yes, but the problem is that you’re an applied psychologist, while I’m more interested in the theory. So, your take on it will be closer to what Emma wants as an activist and is probably OK with Chris because of all this mindfulness stuff you do nowadays.’

Humfreeze grimaced but kept his mouth shut. Pancake didn’t look convinced either.

‘I get your point. I think I’ll be able to reassure you on that issue later.’

My hands shook slightly as I peeled the dripping cellophane off the biscuit. It wasn’t too damp in the end thankfully.

‘Good. I hope so. I do realise that my anxieties about my more academic approach is probably a bit the same as Chris’s need to take meditation far deeper than mindfulness as currently practised can ever go. We both share an interest in mystical states after all. But I’d better let Chris unpack all that. I think I’ve said all I need to say for now. Over to you, Chris.’

‘Thanks for that piece of clarification, Fred. I think you’re absolutely right. Meditation though for me goes even beyond transient mystical states. I’m really worried that this hearticulture idea will mean we end up being jacks of all trades and masters of none, if you see what I mean. I see different meditative practices as requiring a huge investment of time if we are to change evanescent states of mind into abiding traits, permanent dispositions to act, think and feel in creative and life-enhancing ways. Dabbling in all the bits and pieces you have stuck in that diagram, Pete, will leave us all frustrated amateurs rather than accomplished professionals. D’you get my point, Pete?’

‘Absolutely. You’re describing the sharp horns of a dilemma that has bedevilled me most of my adult life. I have too many interests to become a real expert in any. That’s why the hearticulture idea was such a breakthrough. Anyway, I’d better wait until I’m sure you’ve all said all you need to say before I try to explain.’

‘Anything that anyone else wants to throw into the mix?’ Humfreeze looked around searchingly.

Pindance, who was cradling the sleeping toddler at this point, stared hard at me across the table.

‘You know, don’t you, that I will never collude with any plan you have that doesn’t take this small child properly into account. Whether we all realise it or not, and even though he can barely speak as yet so is nowhere near as eloquent in expressing his needs as we are, our fulfilment absolutely depends upon caring properly for him so that he can thrive.’

‘Believe it or not, I agree with you completely, Emma, and I think my model does rise to that huge challenge. When you are all ready I’ll try to explain.’

‘Are we all done then?’ asked Humfreeze. After a short silence he decided they were and turned to me.

‘Over to you then. Convince us if you can.’

My heart was beating fast. The critical moment had arrived. I drained the last of my coffee.

‘I’d like to take it up from the challenge Indie left me with. My answer starts from the dream you are all familiar with, the hearth dream. I won’t go over it in detail at all, but you remember the powerful charge it has had and still has.’

They all nodded.

‘I’ll just focus on the word hearth and its implications for our present purposes. It combines heart and earth. When I was born, for the reasons we discovered in our last exploration together, part of me stayed buried in my heart, almost stillborn in a way with the force of amniotic grief, as though it was in a grave underground, in the earth. The work we did made it clear that the chamber of my heart that contained the child was more of a womb than a tomb. Even so I have an intensely strong feeling that this part of our family, as it were, has a strong affinity with the earth, even more than yours, Emma, in spite of your strong desire to campaign on environmental issues. The child’s connection is an intense emotional and intuitive bond.’

The intent silence with which they were listening was almost scary. My throat felt really dry. I asked for some water before I could continue. I took a sip before I marched on.

‘You may feel that what I am going to say is simply a joke but it’s not. I feel that the child needs a name that belongs to the earth but connects him as deeply with me as well. I would like for us to agree to call him Peat Humus.’

The tension in the room broke into gales of laughter.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Pancake howled.

‘I am. Really I am. Think about it. He doesn’t have to mix out there in the world. He doesn’t need a birth certificate or a passport. What he needs and what we need is the most powerful reminder of his true nature and of the deep and powerful connection our hearts have to forge, not just with the transcendent realm of the spirit, but also with the earth upon which our material selves ultimately depend. Our heart is the bridge between spirit and matter and this will help us always remember that. When our hearts and the earth are consciously and closely connected we have our hearth, a symbol of our true home and safety.’

‘I think I’m beginning to see where you are coming from,’ Pindance whispered, rocking the child gently as she spoke. Wordless, the nature poet with writer’s block, couldn’t have looked more pleased.

The others didn’t seem so sure.

‘And after we name the child so, then we can go on to see how the words heart and earth can also be used to remind us of how our different aims and skills are ultimately unified. The letters of the words can be used to remind us of the arts, for your poems, Bill, and of action, for your preferred way, Emma, and of reflection, Chris, and teaching, Indie, and the head’s deep experience, Fred. I know that’s not perfect, but it’s as far as I have got at present, except to say that hearticulture, to be effective, needs to draw on all your disciplines and modus operandi. It needs to keep them all in balance though, at the same time, rather than have any one of them dominating and becoming a single area of expertise for its own sake.’

I paused at that point to check out the reception I was getting. There was a puzzled frown on all their faces and an unhappy exchange of glances between Pancake, Humfreeze, and Mires. Maybe they weren’t happy that the word for their passion in life had only its first letter. Wordless was bought off by the presence of the word art as a whole and the connection with nature in particular, and Pindance was perhaps somewhat reassured by my sense of the infant’s importance.

I pressed on regardless.

‘Hearticulture is the discipline at which I want to become as expert as I can, and that will only be possible if we all pool our preferences and skills and work towards the same end. That may be tough sometimes, because it won’t allow any of us to become the world expert poet, psychologist, meditator/mystic, activist, teacher we might dearly love to be. What it does mean though is that as a unified team we can be an expert hearticulturalist, before I die and take you all with me.’

I was relieved to see that cracked a smile on everyone’s face.

‘To be honest though that’s not why I’m doing it. The satisfaction of hearticulture will come simply from practising it however badly, and in that way learning to do it better. This is what needs to be done for its own sake, while all our other arts and skills are practised for hearticulture’s sake. All my life, I suspect, I’ve been unconsciously striving to achieve a creative fusion of all our different strands of activity, and now it seems we have achieved it. I think it will work because, for me and hopefully for all of you as well, the heart is at the core of us all and is a bridge between matter and spirit, earth and heaven. Does that make sense? Can we all pull together with this?’

There was a long silence. Faintly from the other room I could hear the words of Gerry Rafferty’s under-rated song and felt them ease my heart:

If you travel blindly, if you fall
The truth is there to set you free
And when your heart can see just one thing in this life
We’ll set out on the journey
Find a ship to take us on the way.

It seemed to go some way towards easing the angst of all the others as well.

‘I think I can begin to see how this might work,’ Wordless shared, ‘how it will stop us fighting each other over whose pet project should have priority, how it will help us recognise that everything we come across can be tested for whether it furthers this aim or not, and if it does we can all pool our skills together for the best possible result, and if it does not, we can just forget it and move on where possible.’ Strong feelings were making the usually carefully coherent Wordless hard to follow.

Not everybody was nodding as he spoke. The art, in a heart connected with nature, had got him on board at least. The rest, except perhaps for Pindance, were not so sure.

Just at this point, my wife got out of bed and woke me up. That was unfortunate but I hope it didn’t matter, because perhaps for the first time in my life it felt as though I might just have found a way to bring all my warring selves together in peace at last, and I at least had a clear and practicable sense of what I needed to do with the rest of my life and best of all, how I needed to do it.

I had come a long way from my diary entry of 17 years ago when I was struggling yet again to work out what my priorities really were, with only the metaphor of ‘carpenter of minds’ to help me, and I wrote, wondering whether underneath it all I really wanted to be a writer:

Many writers have been completely self-centred. They have, in the cliché, perfected the art but not the life. At present I think it’s fair to say I am perfecting neither the art nor the life. To paraphrase Landor:

I strove with some, I almost loved my wife,
Nature neglected, next to nature art –
Somehow lost contact with the fire of life.
It sinks but I’m not ready to depart.

Only half a joke really. I’m getting older and losing energy year by year. My poem The Quarry seems truer by the minute. If I’m not careful there’ll be no time, no energy left, and nothing done, unless being a carpenter of minds part-time face to face has been enough.

Let’s hope I have enough effective reminders in place to keep the train of this new plan on the rails and moving forwards. Only time will tell. It wouldn’t be the first time if I have mistaken a stopover for my destination.

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Digging Deeper

I needed to explore the implications of the hearth dream more deeply.

The progression up to the understanding explained in the last post and beyond is intriguing.

When I first had the revelation that the fuel was a pun on my name in its shortened form, I took a narrow view of what it meant. The name my parents gave me was ‘Peter’ with all the associations of rock. When I first began to work on the idea of ‘peat,’ I felt that the dream was saying that I should draw on the essence of who I was, not the persona my upbringing had fabricated in me after the image of my silent and stoical father, hiding his undoubted love behind a wall of reserve.

Then, pushing it somewhat further, the idea of burning Pete came to mind, which suggested the idea of self-sacrifice. But increasingly, as time went on, an even deeper meaning, complementary not contradictory, began to come through: perhaps ‘peat’ was not ‘me’ but came from something outside me and far richer and much more substantial. The earth became a symbol for the realm of spirit and peat came to represent the power that could flow from that realm into my being to give me the strength, energy and wisdom to do far more, far more effectively than I could ever do by any other means.

Even this leap of understanding didn’t get me to where I am now.

Even more bizarrely a post I republished in October this year after a three year gap didn’t quite clinch the matter, even though it reads as though it did. It’s about hearticulture. I wrote:

I know that the term ‘hearticulture’ could still be seen as one-sided. I’m the gardener and you’re the garden. But in terms of the Bahá’í perspective that would be missing a crucial point: I need to tend my heart, you need to tend yours and we can both help each other in this process. We both can help each other develop a growth mindset, to borrow Carol Dweck’s terminology.

Once we begin to see what this means, every interaction with another human being, or even with an animal, insect or plant, becomes an opportunity to facilitate our growth and the growth of the being with whom we are interacting. And, what’s just as or even more important, they can facilitate ours.

That heart is an anagram of earth just makes the metaphor even more appealing. I have come to realize that hearticulture is my true passion. Everything I do is influenced, perhaps even entirely reducible, to that purpose. I want to understand myself and others better, that’s true, but not just for its own sake, but for the purpose of growth. And if our hearts grow, so will the earth as a whole benefit. When our hearts shrink, the world dies a little. If all our hearts should shrivel completely, the world as we know it would be utterly destroyed. We would wreak such havoc that Hiroshima and Nagasaki would be utterly dwarfed by the consequences.

Basically, I have to learn how to expand my heartfelt sense of connectedness so that it embraces the whole earth. I believe that’s what we all need to learn. I want to learn it too, and as fast as I can, but I have discovered over the years that the metaphor of gardening applies here also in a way. I cannot grow faster than the laws of nature and the limitations of my own being allow. To paraphrase a Bahá’í pamphlet on making the equality of men and women a reality, hearticulture will also take love, patience and the passage of frustratingly long spans of time.

What hadn’t I yet understood?

As I’d reaffirmed in my small portable notebook slightly earlier, hearticulture is my ‘passion.’ The insight I got at that moment, after my morning’s meditation, seemed a critical completion of this decades’ long process.

I realized that my central interests, including poetry, psychology, spirituality, culture, meditation, blogging, deep conversations, reading, writing, reflection, consultation amongst many other things, are all only tools for this purpose not ends in themselves. I don’t write poetry for poetry’s sake and the same is true for all the others in the list. It suddenly became as plain as a pikestaff that if anything I am doing contributes in some way to the nurturing of a heart including mine, it qualifies: if it doesn’t contribute in that way, it doesn’t qualify, no matter how reflectively I deceive myself into thinking I’m doing it.

When I wrote the original post I saw hearticulture as just one among my various passions, perhaps even my most important passion. But that was not enough. I had not really understood what my heart meant when it influenced me to write ‘Everything I do is influenced by, perhaps even entirely reducible, to that purpose.’

I’ve always known that I do not really understand all that my best poems mean when I write them, but I fooled myself into thinking my prose was another matter. There’d be no hidden messages from my heart in the text. I couldn’t have been more wrong in this instance. Reading it now I suspect many of my readers will have understood that post better then I did myself as its writer.

Right now hearticulture is looking like the organising principle, not just the main focus of the rest of my life. I hope I am managing to convey that this is a major leap of understanding on my part. It is going to affect my understanding of how I should live my life as a Bahá’í as well as how to deal with situations where I feel at odds with the people around me. In fact, the core of my understanding of a central aspect of Bahá’í spirituality adds up to exactly this.

This probably needs a bit of unpacking.

To the casual observer it may seem odd that I am fretting over my calling when it should be obvious I already have one. I’m a Bahá’í. What more do I want to know, for heaven’s sake?

I only wish it could be as simple as that.

There are hundreds, if not thousands of ways of serving the Faith. No one can do them all. Everyone has to choose. It is that choice that concerns me. Each human being, I feel, is called upon to contribute something special to the progress of the world of humanity and to do so in ways that utilize all their special gifts and capacities. Also, when what I am doing seems to be useful but bears little relationship at all to the Faith I believe in, how should I judge whether to continue doing it and in what way.

The Faith I follow has shaped the way I feel I should do whatever I do. It does not dictate to me how I should respond to all the demands life makes of me, beyond the obvious guidelines about what is right and what is wrong. For example, I had to determine for myself, in the light of my understanding of the Writings of the Bahá’í Faith, how I should work as a psychologist without infringing the ethics of my profession. Now I am retired I have to prioritise what I am doing, not just how I am doing it, given that I am free to choose how I use much of my time.

Gardening the heart is the metaphor, adapted from the references in Bahá’í Writings to planting seeds in the garden of the heart, that enables me to integrate all my practices and preoccupations into one coherent approach to experience, labelled a ‘calling’ in this sequence, and to distinguish what should demand my attention and energy, and what should not. It helps me prioritise. It resolves the problem of apparently competing claims, which the concept of reflection alone could not do. Reflection did not take away the tension and the guilt when I was doing something I felt was important, but which I thought should give precedence to something else, and I lacked any criterion for deciding on the matter conclusively.

I wrote the poem I’ve included above, though not one of my best, to remind me of key aspects of all this.

It’s ironic that with the relief at discovering that hearticulture is my calling (and probably always has been), my blood pressure, which had been a problem for some months, perhaps at least in part as a result of this struggle, almost immediately began to fall. Taking care of my organic heart needs to have its rightful place, it seems, among my new priorities.

A few days ago there was an insightful post on the Bahá’í International Community website by Daniel Perell, explaining the compelling need for us to operate on the basis of our interconnectedness. Below is a short extract: for the full post see link.

The body politic has been likened to the human body: its advancement as a whole is best served by the collaborative functioning of its subsidiary parts. In a world becoming more interdependent by the day, the importance of these ties is clear. Yet, today, it seems like the individual parts each function for themselves, not the whole. The transformation required for humanity to continue to advance calls for a profound reassessment of the parts—the various constituency-based identities we hold so dear.

This is not to undermine healthy forms of identity. The legitimate pride members might feel about advances made by their group, or the power of collective action taken around shared concerns, could be likened to strengthening muscles or increasing lung capacity within the body. These dimensions of human existence are helpful insofar as they work in service of the whole. But to the degree that attachment to limited definitions of “we” undermine collective well-being, they are no longer productive.

This is not an issue of parochialism alone. Clearly, it is problematic if I care primarily for those who are demographically similar to me, and exclude others from my circle of concern. Yet a more subtle challenge lies at the structural level. More and more, we recognize that a roomful of people who are all committed to the advancement of humanity in its entirety will, nonetheless, struggle to the degree that their efforts are pursued through the paradigm and machinery of constituency constructs.

From a historical perspective, the capacity to conceptualize humanity as an organically united whole is both recent and quite revolutionary. Our ancestors gradually developed more expansive notions of identity as society was organized at wider and wider scales. But, by and large, a global vision was not required for the species to advance. Today, human activity in one corner of the world can have profound effects in another. If we ignore the reality of our unity, we do so at our own peril.

Given the historic changes of the past two centuries, it is not surprising that our social institutions struggle. Most were initially established to serve a geographically limited, and often relatively homogeneous, population. Those numerous systems and structures were then gradually linked to one another through the web of treaties, agreements, and institutions known today as the multilateral system. These were steps forward, to be sure. But today’s patchwork system of rigid sovereignty overlaid over increasingly fluid and cross-cutting identities is altogether insufficient, whether at the global, national, or even local level.

It was sunny but cold as I waited outside All Saints church. I was five minutes early and looking forward to seeing Daisy after such a long time. The last time I bumped into her briefly was at the Courtyard Theatre after a Death Café meeting. She’d come back from her foreign travels but we hadn’t met since as she was still settling back into some kind of routine.

I kept scanning the crowds in High Town but could see no sign of her. I checked my phone to see if I had her mobile number as well as her email, but I didn’t.

After another five minutes I saw a figure in the middle distance in a burgundy coat waving at me. After greeting each other we moved into the All Saints Café. Some people see this as rather like the money lenders in the Temple, but to be honest it’s hard to see how the church could be kept in good repair without some way such as this of raising large sums of money consistently over long periods of time.

It wasn’t busy and we were soon at a quiet table upstairs with our herbal tea and cappuccino.

I was lost in wonder at the places she had visited, especially in the four months she was on her own. She had even dared to go into the jungle some place I can’t remember, and been carried away by the intense beauty of nature in such a setting. She described it as a ‘once in a lifetime opportunity’ that she was glad she had taken when she had the chance, even though it seemed a bit of a risk beforehand.

When she asked me how things had been for me, the most dramatic development I could think of mentioning was my recent insight into hearticulture as the organising principle of my life from now on. For some reason I didn’t think of mentioning the cruise my wife and I had been on.

The hour we spent together flashed by. I gave her an invite card to our weekly wisdom meetings before I dashed off to walk home and get the car to pick up my wife from work.

As I walked back they started up again in my head.

‘Did you hear all that crap?’ It was Emma Pancake, my inner activist, whinging as usual about anything that might interfere with her incessant urge to be doing something as fast as possible. ‘Hearticulture! It was bad enough when we had the battle over reflection. That was a normal word at least. I’d got some idea what it meant. But he’s even invented his own word for this new fad.’

She sounded really worked up.

‘Calm down, Emmie,’ soothed the meditative Chris Humfreeze. ‘I really think he may be onto something here.’

‘You always take his side with these flaky schemes, Chris. I haven’t got time for all this. The world is going to hell in a hand basket. We’re speeding towards a tipping point with climate change and more species are dying out than when the comet that killed the dinosaurs smashed into us, and you want me to calm down. Grow up for God’s sake!’

‘Don’t bring God into it, Emma,’ Fred Mires, my Dr Psychobabble, chipped in. ‘You don’t really believe in Him – not most of the time, anyway. You’re far too busy to pray. If we want to know what someone really believes, watch what they do.’ He was trying to tease her out of her tantrum but it didn’t work.

‘You can shut up as well, Fred. I may be outnumbered but I won’t be outgunned on this. It’s too important.’

Humfreeze tried to defuse the issue by taking a more reasonable line.

‘What brought this on Emma? You’re usually only this passionate about the equality of women.’

‘The cruise he went on and that stuff he was reading about the earth opened my eyes. I suddenly realised how much as a woman, in this arrogant patriarchy we live in, I have in common with the earth. It patronises and exploits the planet in the same it has done and still does with women. And the potential damage is even worse.’

She was about to take off again into a rant.

I could hear Indie Pindance, who had been rescued from the cloud of oblivion left over from my childhood hospitalisations, murmuring something in the background but no one was listening. She was probably speaking quietly so as not to wake the baby we had exhumed and of which she was the main carer.

William Wordless stepped in.

‘Thanks for sharing that, Emma. I think it would be a good idea if we all stayed calm now and tried to talk about this sensibly. I love nature as much as you do, Emma, as my poems prove, but taking some time to talk this through properly isn’t going to kill many more creatures than we’ve lost already.’

He was sounding tense but managing to stay reasonably calm in the way he spoke. ‘I’m not sure I like this anymore than you do, but I’m not sure I understand it clearly enough yet to be sure.’

‘I agree.’ Pindance made herself heard at last.

I wasn’t pleased to hear Emma at the others’ throats over my insight that hearticulture would be the organising principle of my remaining time and energy in this material world. She clearly didn’t get that this included something important for all of them. I didn’t feel like tackling this as I hurried home. It would have to wait for another time.

* * *

At the wisdom meeting in our place that night there were only four of us there. I hadn’t expected Daisy to come to this so soon after our conversation, so I wasn’t unduly disappointed. The crucial thing was to keep running them every week.

One of the quotations we used included these words: ‘. . . when man does not open his mind and heart to the blessing of the spirit, but turns his soul towards the material side, towards the bodily part of his nature, then is he fallen from his high place.’ This reinforced my desire to win over my parliament of selves to my new plan: as far as I could see it was the best, perhaps the only way of motivating myself to lift my game to the required extent.

After the meeting and before getting ready for bed, I sat in my study and worked on a diagram that captured what hearticulture meant to me in a way that would help me remember and stay focused.

Even while I was doing so I couldn’t help catching fragments of the on-going heated exchange among my parliament of selves.

I remembered how I had felt, five months ago now, when we exhumed my buried neonate self, and I had hoped that my toddler self would be able to mature to the point of joining with the rest of us as we worked at creating a single sense of a unified self that could perhaps become capable, if not of tuning directly into spiritual reality, at least of developing a clearer sense than ever before of the direction that this transcendent reality required me to take for the rest of my remaining days. I felt I had found that clearer sense and what I had to do now was persuade my rabble inside to buy into the plan.

This was not going to be easy. I decided to meditate my way into their conversation. I closed my eyes and tracked my breathing for a short while. I wasn’t deep enough to see them but I could hear what they were saying clearly.

‘We’re going to have to talk to him about this. We need to explain that we’re not happy with yet another change of direction. We haven’t even sorted out what the last upheaval meant.’ Mires was drawing on all his knowledge of conflict management to articulate a way forward they could all agree to.

‘Can I join you for a short while?’ I asked gently.

They couldn’t hear me at first.

‘I’m on board with that,’ chimed Pindance, ‘but I can see that Emma is still chafing at the bit.’

‘Dead right I am. Still, my being furious isn’t going to solve anything. We can only sort this out together, and, though I hate to admit it, we’ll have to involve him as well.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ Humfreeze enthused. ‘I really appreciate that because I know it’s not easy for you.’

Pancake grunted something I couldn’t quite catch.

‘Can I join you for a short while?’ I asked again gently but louder.

‘What’s that you’re scribbling? Not another of your stupid flowcharts, is it?’ Emma barked. She might be on board but she was still rocking the boat.

‘’Fraid so,’ I said, wincing slightly at what might come back at me.

Before she could retort, Wordless took over the reins.

‘Listen, Emma. My poems have as much to lose as your potential projects, and I want to check out whether this new brainwave will make room for what we both need to see happen. If not I’d rather dump it. But a ‘kindly tongue,’ as they say, will attract more positive attention than angry rants and insults, so can we agree to cool down the temperature, and treat each other with a bit more respect.’

After a moment’s silence, Emma relented. ‘I’ll try,’ she said.

‘Do you want me to explain what I’m up to or do you want to ask me questions and share your reservations?’

I could hear the low buzz of ideas being exchanged.

‘We don’t need you to explain the model . . .’ Mires paused trying to find the right words.

‘We just want you to tell us how we all fit into your plan,’ Pindance finished his sentence for him. ‘And how is your plan going to help the tiny child inside you that I’m doing my best to look after without much help from this lot?’

‘Steady on,’ Humfreeze broke in. ‘We all take turns to look after him to give you a break.’

‘Yeh, great. But the sum total of the time you all give is less than half the time I spend with him. How fair is that? He’s getting to the age now where he’s learning to talk and he’s asking loads of questions, most of which I can’t answer. Don’t forget, I was shut out of sight for seven decades, while you lot were watching everything that the hearticulture manufacturer over there was aware of, and learning from it. So, be fair. This is just as important an issue as your poems, Bill, and your projects, Emma. And your meditation, Chris and your psychobabble, Fred, if it comes to that.’

The words sounded angry but she was clearly almost in tears.

I was beginning to feel quite daunted by the complexity of fitting all these apparently competing needs into the framework I was working on. I gave a desperate look at my diagrammatic model in the hope of some inspiration.

‘Pete,’ shouted my wife.

I crashed out of the conversation.

‘Yes, love.’

‘Can you switch off my phone when you come to bed.’

‘Will do.’

In a way I was grateful for the interruption. It might give me some more time to think on it over night. I just hoped I wouldn’t meet them all in my dreams just yet.

As far as I can see, for just over 20 years I have been given hints of various kinds and have responded with varying degrees of understanding. The picture at the head of this post gives one example. Not till now though do I feel I have reached anything close to a full understanding. By now I mean mid-November 2018, the time of writing, rather than January 2019 when this post has been published.

There was an unexpected insight, which came to me first on the 7th of November last year. While I’d been clamouring, for months before that, for guidance about what I was meant to be doing with the rest of my time in this body, I discovered that my ‘calling’ had been staring me in the face for at least two decades, and I’d been more or less unwittingly following it in part at least for even longer than that – in fact, since at least 1982 if not completely unconsciously moving along the right path since 1976.

I just hadn’t had a name for it and was only aware of it in parts rather like the blind men with the elephant.

As I will explain shortly, even when I found the name for it a couple of years back I still didn’t completely understand what I was talking about.

The Dream 

A rag rug

My hearth dream was probably the first prompt I received. Readers of my blog will be familiar with this but in case not here is an abbreviated version of my most recent effort at decoding it more fully.

This is the dream: ‘I am sitting on a rag rug, the kind where you drag bits of cloth through a coarse fabric backing to build up a warm thick rug.  The rags used in this case were all dark browns, greys and blacks. It is the rug, made by my spinster aunt, that was in the family home where I grew up. I’m in the living room, facing the hearth with its chimney breast and its cast-iron grate and what would have been a coal fire burning brightly. I am at the left hand corner of the rug furthest from the fire. To my right are one or two other people, probably Bahá’ís, but I’m not sure who they are. We are praying. I am chewing gum. I suddenly realise that Bahá’u’lláh is behind my left shoulder. I absolutely know it. I am devastated to be ‘caught’ chewing gum during prayers but can see no way of getting rid of the gum unobserved.’

I want, for present purposes, to focus on what for me has become the core of the dream’s meaning, a meaning which is still evolving even though this dream is now more than 20 years old – still in adolescence really so there’s probably more to come.

Taking the imagery first, the image of the hearth is richly significant. The word ‘hearth’ is comprised of several other key words: ‘ear,’ ‘hear,’ ‘earth,’ ‘art’ and most powerful of all ‘heart.’ All of these words were separately of huge significance for me though I had some sense of how they might all fit together. I’ll skate over all but the heart for now.

This only got me so far though. I needed some other way of decoding the full import of the dream.

When we are doing dreamwork, we need to remember how each dream element is part of the dreamer and we can unlock the meaning of the symbolism not only by tracking our associations with it, but also by pretending to be the element in the dream and speaking as though we were it.

The result in the case of the fuel burning in the hearth was dramatic. I had been really struggling to make sense of this part of the dream. What had a coal fire got to do with my situation, except as a memory of childhood with relatively little relevance? I decided I needed to sit right in front of the hearth of the house I was living in at the time and speak as the fuel itself.

The Fuel: I am peat. You dig me from the earth and I burn. You feed me to the flowers and they grow.

Need I go any further really with what I said? The pun on my name is enough, really. That first moment contains the key to unlocking a whole treasure chest of meanings.

On the 26th April 2003, at least five years after beginning to work on the dream, I wrote in my journal, trying to summarise some of my insights:

I’m part poet/writer, part psychologist, part educator, (both subsumed by the term mind-wright) – the words wright and writer catch one part of my essence – my tools are words by and large – mind does not quite catch the other part – soul is too grand and beyond my competence – the nearest I can get is being a wordsmith and a heartwright. The word heart helps because it includes in itself the words art and (h)ear, an essential combination of skills or qualities entailed in heartwork. It leads back to my concept of heart-to-heart resuscitation. Hearts have to connect. That it also links with my archetypal dream of the hearth, where the fire of spirit burns to give warmth to the mansion of being, makes it all the more powerful a word to use in this context. The essence of my being – peat – is to fuel this process. An additional thought: 28.04.03 – if you place Heart and Earth overlapping you get Hearth. Each is also an anagram of the other. In the Bahá’í Writings the heart is often spoken of as a garden and of having soil. Also I have prayed for God to ignite within my breast the fire of His love and Bahá’u’lláh refers to the ‘candle” of our heart. Hearth eloquently combines these notions of the heart as a garden and as a container of fire. What does this mean in practice?

At this point, while I was aware that being a poet or a psychologist etc failed to capture the whole story, I had no real idea what the whole story might turn out to be.

At one point, I tried to capture the essence of all this in a poem, meant really for my own consumption, but it might be worth sharing here:

From my heart’s earth,
peat, my hearth’s fuel,
yearns to give warmth
to the chilled soul.

Even so the penny that dropped in November remained suspended in the air at that point. More about the penny’s descent on Thursday.

Yesterdays

This is the final post before the New Year. I’m taking my usual Christmas break as traffic is very light on my blog over that period. I’ll re-emerge from hibernation on Monday 7th January with a post that reads like a fusion of a New Year’s resolution and a follow up to this poem. Season’s greetings to all my readers.

For Visual Illusions – go to http://www.lottolab.org

It seems a good idea to republish this sequence from almost six years ago to complement the recently completed sequence on transcending the crocodile within and providing more detailed background to its thinking. This is the last of six.

Only Our Simulations to Go  On

At best we never achieve more than a simulation of reality. Even something as apparently clear-cut and concrete as colour is no exception. What we perceive as red is really nothing more than a wavelength of light and our experience of red is a coded response that has been allocated quite arbitrarily. We could just as well have experienced the “red “ wavelength as blue! More abstract things are of course even more liable to be the product of construction and elaboration in the brain-mind system which habitually fills in the gaps in experience as best it can to make sense of it all. For present purposes three aspects of this simulation concern us most: experiences, beliefs and flexibility.

Experiences are the raw material of the mind. They are what we access of the inner and outer worlds through our senses, albeit modified by the interpretive activity of the brain. Experiences range from mainstream to the extremely idiosyncratic. Dreams are about as idiosyncratic as experience gets for most of us unless we are placed in strange, extreme and possibly frightening circumstances. For some people however dreams seem to become part of their waking reality.

Beliefs are the ideas we form usually on the basis of experience. We often make heavy emotional investments in our important ideas. These then colour experience in turn and can even distort it at the time it happens or in memory. Again beliefs range from the conventional to the extremely unusual. Even the most middle of the road person can find their way of looking at the world morphing into strange and frightening shapes as a result of such things as prolonged isolation.

Experience suggests that most people manage to negotiate their way through the world without too much of a problem on the basis of the models of the world they have developed. Many people whose experiences and beliefs are well outside the usual run of the mill rub along quite well. There are relatively small numbers of people whose beliefs and experiences are not only unusual but also very troubling. These are often the people mind-workers have to deal with. The majority of them have only short-lived difficulties.

Much of my work, before I retired, was with those who are stuck in their difficulties. Their experiences are unusual, troublesome and intractable. It is in helping people deal with this intractability that the model of mind-work I am proposing here is most useful.

Steering between Rigidity and Chaos

Most of us live somewhere between rigidity and chaos. Our models of the worlds are sufficiently malleable to respond flexibly to the shifts and changes of the world around us. If systems of thinking are too unstable or unformed we will be unable to make sense of our world and make reasonable responses to it. If they are too fixed and too compelling we cannot adapt when circumstances require it. The antidote to such unhelpful fixity is the flexibility which comes from reflection, relatedness and relativity.

Complete fixity, which often though not always in psychosis results from the kind of high emotional investment and simplification of thinking that feelings such as terror can induce, makes therapeutic work of the kind I am describing difficult. Someone who believes that their survival is in doubt is unlikely to see too much point in a leisurely exploration of their inscape! If the terror, or whatever is driving the investment that is creating the fixity, can be somewhat reduced, then conversation becomes possible. I suspect that medication, where it works, achieves its effect by calming someone down.

Increasing our Leverage

Once conversation is possible two powerful tools, implied in all that has been said above, become available. First, some space can be created between consciousness and its contents, and secondly there is a chance for more than one mind to be brought to bear upon the experiences. The space can be used for people to compare notes as equals – as two human beings, both with imperfect simulations of reality at their disposal, exchanging ideas about what is going on, with no one’s version being arbitrarily privileged from the start. There is a wealth of information that suggests most strongly that this process of collaborative conversation (Andersen and Swim), of consultation in the Bahá’í sense (see John Kolstoe), of inquiry (see Senge), of interthinking, can achieve remarkable results: Neil Mercer talks of the crucial function of language and says:

it enables human brains to combine their intellects into a mega-brain, a problem-solving device whose power can be greater than that of its individual components. With language we are able not only to share or exchange information, but also to work together on it. We are able not only to influence the actions of other people, but also to alter their understandings. . . . . Language does not only enable us to interact, it enables us to interthink.

I’d like to slightly alter the wording of one sentence there to capture the essence of what I think I’m describing:

We are able not only to influence the actions of one another, but also to alter one another’s understandings.

I feel that the conditions that I have sought to describe in this sequence of posts go a long way towards making effective interthinking possible. Effective interthinking and mind-work are closely related activities. Neither can happen at their best and most constructive in the absence of good relationships, reflection, relativity and relatedness.