The Lemurian Abbey is a peaceful sanctuary, a virtual bower of bliss. Make sure to take the time to visit it and join me (as the Abbess) there.

 

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darken’d ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
’Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o’ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, ’tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city’s din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm’d and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half-finish’d: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

When Helen McIntosh suffered a massive stroke at 43 her career as a Senior Curriculum Officer for Primary Education in Victoria came to an abrupt end. Reclaiming her life was a slow and painful process. The stroke robbed her of the life she had known. As she waited for endless treatment and physiotherapy she found herself observing things in a new way. When she struggled to walk, head bowed, she noticed things she had not seen before. Ants caught her eye; she noted the expressionless looks on the faces of the people who passed by. With her heightened powers of observation Helen found a lot to write about and she retreated into a journal for solace and to express anger, loss and grief. She used her notebooks to note down improvements and to record phrases that just came back into her head.

Eventually Helen wrote three books, including a collection of poetry titled 'The Interrupted Lunch'. This work gave back a life that had been interrupted by the stroke.

Life's crisis have a habit of interrupting our lives. One of my former Year 12 students wrote about the impact of The Amber Demon on his life. He wrote about how his father's alcoholism impacted on him: One would think that after all these years, some measure of immunity would have been achieved - but no, the reality is that today I still feel the same rush of adrenaline, the same build up of tension in my muscles that I first experienced many years ago. Nothing has changed. I sit here listening to the argument in process in the kitchen. Each retaliation is more damaging than the last...I reach a point where I can't bear to hear any more. I begin to muster up enough courage to take me into the lion's den...My attention is drawn to Mum's tear stained face - he sits, a glass filled with the amber fluid, fluid that acts as fuel to sustain his anger....Like a hunted rabbit I retreat to my only place of refuge- the place where I can escape the torment that stalks me. At least for a short time I can forget; become absorbed in my music. I wile away time in the complete darkness of my room.

Like Helen, Brett's life was interrupted by events out of his control. Indeed, most of the students I worked with had their lives on hold for one reason or another. The truth is that all the people I work with find that their lives are halted by the debris life hurls at them. Over coffee a friend shared that, after a series of life altering disasters, she felt she could no longer look forward to the future - that she lacked a focus. I could relate to this. My husbands cancer halted our lives for nine months as we went through the round of operations and chemotherapy and, despite talking about what we would do when 'the war was over', it felt like it was never going to end. Numbed, we moved from one day to the next, never daring to plan too far ahead..

The most depressing part of bereavement, trauma, incurable illness or even unemployment is the imprisonment that it brings. Like a prisoner of war the sufferer does not know how long their term will be. Not only is the prison term of bereavement uncertain, but it can be unlimited - a never ending cycle of despair. This can lead to what can be called provisional existence, where everything in life becomes provisional upon something happening and the participant can feel as though there is no point continuing.

Viktor Frankl, a survivor of the holocaust, in his book 'Man's Search for Meaning', writes that the 'Latin word finis has two meanings: the end or the finish, and a goal to reach. A man who could not see the end of his "provisional existence" was not able to aim at an ultimate goal in life. He ceased linving for the future, in contrast to a man in normal life'. Frankl explains that when 'a man ceased living for the future...the whole structure of his inner life changed; and signs of decay set in. When a person loses faith in the future and moves into a provisional existence their lives are doomed. A decline in physical and emotional well-being can be seen in people's refusal to see people, to get dressed, to engage - they lie prostrate, numbed by the pain of it all.

It is in this context that we each need to be reminded of the power of the creative arts to resuscitate our imagination and give us back power over our lives. It is the arts which hold the key to the the sense of finis which comes when we have an ultimate goal. It is the arts which have the power to free us from the provisional state and enable us to resume our lives and put the traumatic events to rest.

Given the dysfunctional lives of many of the adolescents I worked with as a secondary school teacher, I found that I turned to quirky alternatives to stimulate their imaginations. My students all loved the guided imageries, declaring that they were 'trippy'. The guided imageries enabled them to retreat to a place of refuge, a place where they could escape the torment that stalked them. They all knew how to turn out the lights and listen to music in the darkness of their personal retreats, but guided imageries demonstrated that there was an inner world that they could retreat to - a place where they could find solace and experience life differently.

Viktor Frankl affirms my deep commitment to teaching children to experience the rewards of an active inner life. Frankl observed that people who were able to retreat from their terrible surroundings to a life of inner riches and spiritual freedom survived, despite less hardy make-up.

After extended periods caring for their partners, after having had their lives filled with visits to the hospital and to the chemist, the women I worked with in Craigeburn, as a part of the Melbourne Citymission's Palliative Care Bereavement program, found that death bought a new void and that their lives were still on hold. Being caught in the frozen vortex that is grief is a bit like being trapped in a bottle, or a gilded cage. You know that there is life outside the hospital and away from the bedside, but it seems distant and unattainable. Besides, when you do go out everyone seems to well and happy by far and you can feel like the only person who is suffering.

Under the rule of the White Witch in C.S. Lewis's Narnia series, everyone lived in fear. It was always winter and Christmas never came. All who committed treason or opposed the witch were turned to stone. The women who came to my group at Craigeburn had felt the touch of the white witch and felt entrapped in stone, entrapped by grief that would not go away, grief with the power to turn them into granite. Their energy and imagination died with their husbands.

In the Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe it is a truly wonderful moment for the children when they witnessed the witch lose her power and saw the statues coming back to life. As Aslan breathed on the frozen ones Lucy says 'Oh, Susan! Look! Look at the lion. I expect you've seen someone put a lighted match to a piece of newspaper which is propped up in a grate against an unlit fire. For a second nothing happened; but then you notice a tiny streak of flame creeping along the edge of the newspaper...'

It was like this at my group in Craigeburn. At first the change was barely discernible but then a tiny streak of gold seemed to run through these women, then it spread - then the colour seemed to lick all over them as the flame licks over the bits of paper. Suddenly there was life and it was obvious that the life blood had returned. This is deep magic and I felt humbled as Emily explained how she was able to live more peacefully now, thanks to the work we have done.

So what is the magic? What helped these women alter their perspective? What was the defining moment when they could rest in peace?

Each had a different view, for different things triggered a response in each. For Emily the turning point was making Descansos. After the descansos exercises and the round table discussions as they came to grips with how to make it, Emily went home and created the most magnificent collage. She began by pasting tranquil garden images over her page and then began to cut her family photos. One by one, in groups, she put each of her children and their children. Only when she finished did she look and think that the photo that was missing was the one of her and her husband Doug. For the first time she was able to take his photo and put it on the page without crying. When she looked at the completed collage she saw the legacy of their marriage and knew that she had something to live for.

Alva turned the corner when she completed her treasure box, a box she covered and carefully filled with flash cards to remind her of the things she loves, the things she can look forward to doing. There amid the cards is a card depicting her yearning to restore furniture. When she begins that project Alva will restore more than the dresser she is searching for.

In 'Man's Search for Meaning' Frankl writes that 'any attempt to restore a man's inner strength in the camp had first to succeed in showing him some future goal. Nietzsches's words, "He who has a why to live for can bear with almost any how. Whenever there was an opportunity for it one had to give them a why - an aim - for their lives, in order to strengthen them to bear the terrible how of their existence. It is indeed woe to those who see no more sense in life, who have no aim or purpose.

In order to carry on we each need a purpose. So, although to the untrained eye, although an onlooker might think that we are just playing cut and paste and talking, the creative arts that I introduce in my workshops give each of us a why.

Each of us leaves with a far stronger idea of who we are and how we can live. Within the creative arts lie the magic ingredients that have the alchemal power to transform, within the creative arts lie the ingredients to make an anti freeze for the soul to protect the soul when winter comes.

Footnote:

Glycol is the primary ingredient in Anti Freeze. This property lowers the freezing point and ensures that the cooling system will not freeze in sub zero temperatures. When working with the creative arts, to resuscitate your imagination and ensure that the soul is not turned to stone, there is not one specific ingredient. Unlike cooling systems humans are not all the same. So it is a matter of experimenting.

Make it your practice to check the exercises in 101 Ways to Nourish Writer's Spirit or the Dig Tree . Check the Peeling the Onion exercises and forums at Soul Food.

Eternal mind, thy seeding spark
Through this thin vase of clay
Athwart the waves of chaos dark
Emits a timorous ray.
This mind enfolding soul is sown
Incarnate germ of earth
In pity, blessed Lord, then own
What claims in thee its birth?
Far forth from Thee its central fire
To earth's sad bondage cast
Let not the trembling spark expire
Absorb thine own at last.
(An old Greek Hymn)

My great grandfather, George Chale Watson, drew on this Greek Hymn and noted, during his voyage throughout Polynesia during the 1860's, that his contact with the natives ofTanna provided ample evidence of the brain's latent capacity. As he met the islanders, he had cause to wrestle with the notion that the brain contained all the necessary information and only needed direction for the 'incarnate germ' to grow, that there was a 'key of knowledge' that could awaken the dormant mind of the natives. He writes that "Man being what is defined as a living soul: a manifested consciousness imparted from a Supreme Being: a Supreme Life. That which claims regard as Man proper is a complexorganisation of Body, Soul, and Spirit, the latter being the 'seeding spark', the 'incarnate germ' which has fallen into matter wherein to acquire consciousness as a soul."

'Far forth' from our maker, cast in earth's 'sad bondage' our 'central fire', the 'trembling spark' is at risk of expiring Each day as I work as a teacher of English in this highly technological age, almost completely devoid of ritual and ceremony, I am shocked at how much at risk we are of extinguishing the fragile 'trembling spark'. However my work with people ranging in age from 11 to 80 has proved conclusively that there is a latent capacity, a key of knowledge that lies latent within us all and that when we use our sensory powers to tap into this powerhouse our literary skills flourish.

When Robert Graves pointed out there was great, official prestige that somehow clings to the name of the poet and that poetry would seem to be based on some sort of magical principal he made the writing of poetry seem difficult. Poets, we are told, can bewitch and they seem to be able to name the latent forces residing in all objects and all nature. Just as William Blake had cause to wonder at 'what immortal hand or eye, could frame' the tigers 'fearful symmetry', so man has looked upon the verse of poets like Blake and asked what power 'could twist the sinews of thy heart?'

These beliefs have made writing inaccessible for the multitude and as people have drawn comparisons between themselves and the Titans of literature they have fed the view that writing remains the realm of a talented few. Yet many great poets, writers and artists have made it clear that they are no more than a conduit for some subterranean force outside their power and that it is really a far simpler process that is involved. It is simply a matter of making oneself open and available.

As the birds come in the spring
We know not from where
As the stars come at evening
From depths of the air; …
So come to the poet his songs,
All hitherward blown
From the misty realm, that belongs
To the vast unknown

 

Within his poem 'The Poet and His Songs' Henry Wadsworth Longfellow provides a clue as to the whereabouts of words. Contrary to popular belief it would seem that if we can believe Longfellow one does not need to go in search of words or even think unduly in order to write great poetry. According to Longfellow 'when the angel says, 'Write!' it happens as if by magic'. You simply need to have made yourself a receptacle for the words.

Pablo Neruda supports this view in his beautiful poem 'Poetry' when he writes about how "it was at that age…Poetry arrived in search of me." Poetry came and 'summoned' him to write and as he "wrote the first faint line, faint without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom" he saw "the heavens unfastened and open."

When I shared this view, a belief that differed from the messages they had been given, grades five and six students looked at me with eyes like saucers. To test the premise of Neruda and Longfellow I asked them to close their eyes and reminded them to trust that the words would come to them and that they did not need to go in search of clever phrases. All that they had to do, I explained, was to write down the words that came to them. Then I led them through the following guided imagery.

Close your eyes and allow yourself to make yourself comfortable. Put your head on your arms on the table in front of you if you like. Concentrate on your toes. Wriggle them. Imagine that you are barefoot and walking down a dirt path towards the stream you can heard trickling over stones. It is very hot and you are eager to cool off. Upon arriving at the stream you dip your toes into the cool water and sit on a mossy stone listening to the distant waterfall pounding. You watch the water as it swirls in eddies over the stones and watch as a school of beautiful fish swim past. The fish brush against your feet as they swim towards the sea. Suddenly you are astonished to see the young fish turn into fresh young word and even more amazed to see the words leap out of the water in front of you. Snatching your pen and paper you begin to write quickly in order to catch them before they disappear.

Fresh young words appear on crisp white pages within moments. It makes no difference what our age. The wonder as the feisty words appear, ready to be deciphered is the same. The following pieces were written within ten minutes of completing the guided imagery.

Stillness! Silence! I can't take it.
By the hour I start to forget recent information
Like boats leaving the dock on their way to sea…
One day the docks of my mind will reach some far away island and rest until the next silence.
Mike. Year 6 Haig Street Primary School.

Looking at the fish I started getting hungry. My stomach was getting loud. The picture of fish sizzling on the pan was in my mind. The fire under the pan was red and orange and nice and warm. Irealised I was day dreaming. "AAAAAAAAA ". I shouted as I fell into the river. All the word fish started surrounding me. The words on them were getting difficult like confirmation and graduation. Suddenly they started to swim into my mouth. Dictation, information, detention...I couldn't take the horror of it any more. Each word was getting more and more difficult. Then I noticed that I was getting smarter. I could spell words I didn't even know that existed. My body was getting smaller and my head was getting bigger. I swam over to the shore and ran into the bush. I felt like very tired. I couldn't believe my eyes! The fish were jumping out of the water and turning intocolour full parrots. I couldn't believe it I was learning! (Kingsbury Primary School)

Trickle your smooth hands along our slippery scales and feel all the beautiful things
Then sing along with the waterfall and listen to the howling stream
Hop in and take a swim with the fish and see our homes and babies faces that beam
Let us tickle your toes and make you feel at home.
Then sit and relax and think of all the things we have sung.
Mirinda McDonald Haig Street Primary School

All that a writer needs then is simple faith that the words will come. All that everyone, including young children needs to do is trust the process and put themselves at the mercy of the subterranean force that is available to us all. All cultures have a way of explaining thistransformative force. In African magic it is the word Nommo, that is believed to create the images. Before Nommo there is Kintu, which is a thing, which is no image. Nommo is the procreative force that transforms the thing into an image. An African poet uses the procreative force to transform the thing into symbols and images.

In an attempt to come to terms with the mysterious power of the artist the Spanish poet and playwright Federico Garcia Lorca called the force 'duende', a kind of undiabolic demon. The dark sound of 'duende' comes from within the roots thrusting into the fertile loam. It is from this loam that the Spanish poet believed that real art emerges.

In classical times the poets believed that the Muse, daughter of the Titaness, Mnemosyne, was the source of their words. She had the power to bring a vision of truth before their eyes. Zora Cross, an Australian poet described the Muse as 'a minx with a spell for a smile' who 'gallops a wagon of whims through the skies' and teases 'capricious and pranks all the while'. Young children who try to provide an explanation of the source of words imagine their veins filled with ink and words bursting forth from their fingers. A youngster observed that he is surrounded by words. 'They are all around us.' They come from the sky, the earth, a passing shape, and a spider's web.

While scientific analysis can not locate the precise source of words, reason tells us that our brain is like a receptacle for emotions, memories and perceptions, but we do not see how it is filled. So, the mystery of word making lingers, for, just as we cannot see the nutrients seeping through the life giving roots of the tree, we cannot see where words originate. Perhaps there is a huge word house in the brain, but if there is its location defies scientific analysis. It remains pure poetic magic to witness words forming on crisp white paper and to witness the moment whenduende breaks in and a deep and authentic force wells up and words flow seemingly of their own account

Whether one names it Muse, 'Duende' or Nommo one is speaking of an invisible force not unlike the force that promotes growth in a tree or drives blood through our veins. It would seem that one has no choice. We must submit to the force that has the power to forge sudden visions. It is a case of the writer self-abandoning and bowing to this inventive picture making power. At this moment doing nothing is a form of action. Doing nothing is opening ones mind to word visions. Doing nothing is opening oneself to being a word magician.

To fan the seeding spark the first step I take is to introduce my students to the magic and ritual of ancient mythology and narrative. Narrative is basic to human beings. People love to tell their story. Narrative has been a part of the common life,honoured and enjoyed by a large number of people since antiquity. It was needed for hymns and supplications to the gods but it was also a repository of stories for people who were deeply interested in the achievements of their ancestors. It provided the means to celebrate glory, victory, and a way for people to announce their achievements.

The truth is that we live chronologically, experiencing our lives as a succession of events, but it is not until we look back that we see the picture forming and begin to write our narrative. In the first instance we rehearse living through reading stories, using these stories to extend our experiences and to experiment. Stories give us categories that help us to evaluate our daily experience and help us to make sense of our lives. When something happens to us it is a normal impulse to tell someone about it. Framing events as a story helps us get things in perspective. If we cannot tell someone else, we tell it to ourselves, sometimes compulsively over and over, trying to make sense of it all. Story heals and palliates our pain. Stories narrate us into being. We can invent a world for ourselves.

It has been my practice, for a number of years to offer students a variety of techniques to receive words as part of their daily writing practice. To find a way to begin our storytelling I have found that it helps to usecoloured paper to design a front door for the workbook we will gather the words that come to us. Have you ever stopped to think about the personality of a front door? Front doors come in a variety of materials shapes and sizes. They include the dignified Cathedral door, the pretentious door to a ritzy hotel, the revolving door, the forbidding prison door and the humble tent fly. Front doors acquire a personality of their own, often acquiring the character of their owner. Front doors have a lore all of there own. "What sort of front door are you?" I ask my students to turn their front cover into a door that reflects their personality. Only when they have made an elaborate doorway, a door to their inner being, do I ask them to introduce themselves in writing, using the door as a metaphor. The words flow easily but speed is the essence. Faster, faster, I crack the whip. "Run, run, run as fast as you can", I urge them. "You can't catch me I am the gingerbread man. Don't stop to think just write", I cry if I see someone stopping to think before adding a word. The daily practice, the daily assault on the senses has begun.

The daily patter always involves story telling about the human being and how much potential it has. It involves looking at how we gathered knowledge even as we lay in the womb, how the seed from which we rose in the dark womb must have carried knowledge, contained a pattern that would shape us. We discuss the peculiar habits we must develop if we want to become original writers and let the world hear our unique voices. Enjoying time alone, day dreaming and idly staring out windows at world around us is deemed essential. I explain that it is never a good idea to be in a violent hurry but far better to dawdle and look around in case you miss something important. It is also a good idea to stop and look through the keyhole or up a chimney and smell the charcoal if you want to see the world differently. Another comical thing I like to do is to make it a rule to do certain things on certain days. For example, we make it a practice to walk barefoot on the school oval on Mondays and stop and talk to the colony of crows that reside in our school on Tuesdays. It is healthy to puzzle and think over the strange things that come into our heads instead of driving them out like stray dogs. Far better to actually think about what happens when an autumn leaf dives to its death and when the sun kisses our arm.

After regularly sitting in quiet contemplation, fishing the streams of his psyche, Jonathan Mynard, a Year 12 English student writes a rich piece about his 'Faith'.

I have never seen the wind. But the trees branches wave to one another and the leaves flutter. The clouds meander from horizon to horizon, appearing to block the sun and passing soon after. I feel a force on my face that penetrates my clothes and ruffles my hair. It makes me shiver and wish I could be inside where it is warm.

I have never seen sound. The crash of waves on sand, the bubbling of a creek as water races and dodges over rocks. The voice of someone special, a sweet word uttered in love. The harsh word spoken to pierce, to hurt. The silence that becomes louder than sound, that is depressive, heavy. The music that is infinitely complex but so simple at the same time.

I have never seen love. The inexpressible something in the eyes, communicated at many levels. The actions that speak more than words and proves deep care and trust. The tender touch and few comforting words offered for a troubled soul.

I have never seen time. Yesterday I was young, today here I am, and tomorrow I will be old. Silence, depression, and anticipation: do clocks really never slow or stop? Tomorrow becomes today which neither here is content. For it must slip into yesterday and yesteryear and I am powerless to interfere.

I have never seen me. The thoughts that stream endlessly, the wishes hope and dream. The person trapped inside my body, who writes the words more than the hand, speaks more than the tongue or lips.

I have never seen God. The universe exists, the earth is here; life and purpose permeates them both. The close friend whom I know and communicate with. The knowledge, the assurance, the purpose, the revelation; the relationship, the love experienced, the peace, the hope.... All true and real, invaluable. I have never seen the wind.

Jonathon wrote this only after repeatedly practicing stream of consciousness writing. He had the remarkable capacity of detaching himself in the bustling classroom, distancing himself from the jostling for power, concentrating on the task at hand.

To stimulate the process further I describe how throughout history people have turned to a multitude of spirits to invoke the creative impulse. '(Medea) invoked the gods of the woods and caverns, of mountains and valleys, of lakes and rivers, of winds andvapours .' Apollinaire wrote that 'There are poets to whom a muse dictates their works, there are artists whose hand is guided by an unknown being who uses them like an instrument...they are not men but poetic or artistic instruments'. We agree that a kind of self-abandonment is necessary and children suggest using dreams and daydreams as material. I light candles and explain how to invoke Calliope, the Muse of creative inventiveness to gain her input and access knowing, We wander along the sacred way and place our simple votive offerings, a stone or a flower, before the Muse. I open my dictionary and let my finger fall on a word, such as 'eddy'.

We write about eddies. I write, eager to ensure I meet my daily quota of words. "An eddy is a circular movement of water causing a small whirlpool. It is the movement within the wind, within a fog. To whirl around in eddies. An eddy current is alocalised current induced in a conductor by a varying magnetic field. The 'trembling spark' gathers strength a blue haze riding its flame. Calliope and her sisters are the magnetic field - projecting an eddy current that embraces me. It is Calliope who creates the whirlpool of magnetic circles around me and causes books, with just the piece of information I need to fall from shelves into my hand, opened at the right page. It is Calliope whose magnetic force draws my finger to the very word 'eddy current'. It is Calliope, as the goddess of memory, who helps me dip into the well of remembrance and draw out pieces from the past to put the jigsaw together and see the past, present and future forming a complete picture. It is Calliope who sows the seeds, the 'incarnate germ', and carefully waters her seeds, so that they might grow. To experience inspiration is to feel her magnetic force - to be gripped, to walk robot like to the computer and to begin to type, fingers gliding over the keys, forming words that will cling to a page. To experience Calliope is to feel inspiration, to feel a quickening, to feel a stirring within, to note the acceleration, the stimulation, to be aroused and feel signs of life. Calliope make creative fires burn more brightly stirs the soul. To be touched by Calliope is to feel the concentric ripples of the magnetic field, to hear the electric buzz, to see the light beams dance, to be embraced by them".

We each share what we have written, humbly standing reading to the soundtrack of Il Postino, reading luminous words that have been hauled from Neruda and the labyrinthine corridors of the psyche.

Laura-Lee writes

Naked in a world of poetry the river flows deep with unused words
Words which emerge deep from within the soul Which whisper soundlessly into my mind.
With wings the words drift deep from the heavens and when I reach out
Words come onto my blank paper and form sentences
The shade of my moving pen reminds me of a world so big
Fire doesn't burn and water doesn't flow into the river and I stop and come back to my world and turn my eyes towards my paper.
Without thinking my hand starts to form words.
It is as if poetry has arrived in search of me. It came down from the heavens into the palm of my hand, enabling me to move my pen.
It is as if my mind and soul has been taken over by some creature that cannot speak but uses my hand, my pen, my paper to put its feelings, emotions and heart onto my piece of paper.
Laura Lee Year 8 La Trobe Secondary College

It is always a moving experience to see the common human thread that links us. During the pregnant silences, as we feel the energy swirling and the sensation that can only be described as a quickening werealise that Ariadne's thread is real. Often applause breaks out spontaneously, as it did when Ben 18 read

Under waves, beneath shining skies, behind playing youth and wading age
While beach balls and body boards skim blue and green ripples
A boy's wrinkled fingers turn blue
And white bubbles cease their trek from the lungs
Unseen angels, with the force of gales upon candles
A flame extinguished
The irreplaceable, replaced
Replaced with emptiness
Eyes widen, gasps are heard. Perhaps creative inventiveness is as automatic as any other reflex.

Teipora Bishop a young Cook Islander at Haig Street Primary School, who has experienced great difficulty expressing him-self on paper has come to believe in this reflex. He has come to love the 'writing sessions' that I run on a fortnightly basis, but is mystified by his newly acquired capacity to write on these occasions. When I gave him acowry shell he was jubilant. Coming from the Cook Islands he knew the value of this shell. When we put the seashells to our ears and asked the shells to speak to us and tell us the secret words that would guide us, Teipora said that his shell kept repeating just one word. The word was 'soul'. When we did a guided imagery and explored the inner recesses of a seashell to find a safe space to write he used the following words to describe his experience. "I walked down a pinkish corridor but as I walked my footsteps made echoes and the echoes kept on saying soul, soul. When I got to the other end there were four doors. I chose the first one. I could not see anything. It was dark and spooky. I chose the third door. This door was made of shell. I opened it. It was so bright that I couldn't see anything but bright white light. Then a figure showed up. It looked like a king and a god. I felt like I was going to heaven. The figure kept on saying soul, soul, but then the door shut and I got sucked out of the shell and here I am."

Teipora's writing demonstrates that when we abandon and write with the Muse we gain access to an internal theatre of the psyche and self-understanding. Like Teipora we can learn to use language in a way that we had never dreamed to be possible. Youngster's understood the potential of the Muse (sub-conscious), to inspire and capture their imagination, after they had written about their imaginary friends.

Jai, a grade 5 student at Haig Street Primary School, wrote: "My imaginary friend is called Tim. He is a beautiful little black dog. He died a few years ago but I think he is still with me. When I feel upset, I feel a little tongue licking my tears away. When I am cold all I have to do is think about Tim and he will make me warm again. When I am lonely I talk to him in my head. If I ask a question I don't know he talks to me and gives me an answer. When I feel lost, I talk to Tim and he tells me what to do throughout the day. When I have to make up my mind about hard things he tells me what to decide. When he was alive he liked to eat whatever I did. Sometimes when I am eating I hold my food in the air and close my eyes. When they open a bit has been taken out of whatever I held out. I love him very much! He is one of my best friends."Jai is clearly accessing the wise one within, his adviser and comforter. He discovers just how to handles difficult situations.

Be not mistaken, the Muse does not always present in the same way. She is a dazzling shape shifter. Mark, a Year 10 student, writes about his vision of a muse "He comes out of thick black fog the fog swirling around him with fierce momentum. As he gets out of the fog the fog gets sucked up behind him as if it is a creature itself. His hooves kick up dust as they slam on the dark ground. As he walks he has no boundaries, no walls, just freedom. As he breathes in and out the steam makes pictures, not of love, nor comedy, just war, blood and hellish visions. The dust on the ground kicks up and flutters down with the pictures of pain suffering and torture. As he swings hisaxe he makes a picture of death, sickness and disease. His bows do nothing but pierce the hearts of men and women, destroying all hopes and dreams. But yet, when I look at him I see the gold ring as purity, his half man half beast shape as humanity and nature…As I watch him walk new ideas flood into my mind as if it were magic…I do not have a name for him. He does not need one as you can see him for what he is."

In the end though it iss all so simple. Embrace the subterranean force and words come from deep within. In the movie The Postman we see the opening of a young man's soul to the power of poetry. As he discovers the passion of life, he comes to believe anything is possible and finds the courage to live his destiny. As I observe the power of words, as I bear witness as young children come to believe that anything is possible I have found the courage to live our my destiny and become an advocate of the creative impact of the written word. When we submit ourselves to the force we can invent ourselves. When we invent ourselves our self-esteem grows and the words 'know thyself' gain new meaning.

My Destiny
I saw a bright light of peace and freedom
I was heartbroken and did not know quite what to do I walked down a rocky path of sorrow
Until I reached my destiny It was full of friendship and happiness I was treated like a king
Until I became too greedy My destiny was gone forever and so was I I no longer existed I was just a myth
Kaine Naggs Haig Street Primary School

Copyright 2001© Heather Blakey. All Rights Reserved.

"Oh for poet - for beacon bright
To rift this changeless glimmer of dead gray
To spirit back the Muses, long astray
And flush Parnassus with a newer light"

Ptolemy 1 was on of Alexander the Great's favourite generals. After Alexander's death, Ptolemy seized Egypt as his share of the divided empire and he became the founder of the Ptolemic dynasty that ruled Egypt for three hundred years. Around 290 Ptolemy, an educated man who enjoyed the company of artists, philosophers, poets and other writers, established the Museum and Library in Alexandria which were to make fame for that city. Ptolemy decreed that copies be made of all the books of the world and the writings of all the nations. Ptolemy 11 improved upon the example of his father, inviting as guest's famous poets, critics, scientists, philosophers and artists. He made the capital beautiful with architecture in the Greek style and, during his reign, Alexandria became the literary and scientific capital of the Mediterranean.

When the Ptolemies built an institute of higher learning called the Mouseion, or Temple of the Muses, in Alexandria, they not only created a great centre of literature and science but also rescued Greek literature from decay. The preserved the classical works of Greek literature and provided a sacred site where one could be with the muse. The Mouseion boasted a roofed walkway, an arcade of seats, and a communal dining room for scholars, rooms for private study, residential quarters and lecture halls and theatres. Its great hall, suitable for meetings and conferences, its arcaded walks and vast dining room all facilitated exchanges between scolars. It enabled a very special kind of communion, an opportunity to break bread together. So that they might devote all their time to study, members of staff and scholars were subsidised by the institution itself and paid no taxes. They received free meals and accommodation, good salaries and a host of other amenities, including servants.

The Pharaoh appointed a priest as the administrator of the Museum and a seperate Librarian was responsible for the collection. Over 1000 scholars lived in the Museum. They carried out new scientific research, published, lectured, performed the first systematic study of Greek literature, edited, critiqued, and collected al Greek classics and also gathered translations of Assyrian, Persian, Jewish, Indian and other nations' literature having nearly a million works in its holdings during the late Ptolemic period. The museum was the cradle of modern science, of rhetoric, philosophy, medicine, anatomy, geometry, geography and astronomy, The art, literature and learning of Alexandria greatly influenced Rome, the other pole of the Mediterranean basin. The Roman poets Catullus, Propertius, Ovid and others drew inspiration from the Egyptian fountainhead.

No one is sure what the great institution looked like but the Greek geographer Strabo described it as part of a richly decorated complex of buildings and gardens. The library stood for at least 300 years after its foundation, but strangely, there are few facts and many theories about the cause of its destruction and disappearance, and certainly even about the century in which its demise took place. Some historians believe that in AD 30 the library was party lost in fire and finally destroyed by an earthquake. Others claim that it was burned to the ground in 48 BC, when Egyptian ships attacking Julius Caesar's troops were set on fire and the flames were carried the library by a north wind.

Another story is that, with the decline of interest in the library, manuscripts were gradually used as fuel for heating the city; another that fanatical Christians, worried by the pagan writings stored in the library, spread the rumour that gold was buried on the site; the library would thus have been gutted by searches for its treasures. The Encyclopedia Britannica says Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, probably destroyed the libraries buildings.

The loss of the wealth of Alexandria's learning must be one of the great calamities of the ancient world for the most complete collection of all Greek and Near Eastern literature was lost in one great conflaguration. The enormity of the loss is illustrated by accounts of some 700,000 rolls being destroyed by fire in the Mouseion when flames spread from the Egyptian Fleet.

Fortunately all has not been lost. In the words of Athenaeus of Alexandria "And concerning the number of books, the establishment of libraries and the collection of the Hall of Muses, why need I speak, since they are all in mankind's memories?"

Here, within the sanctuary of the House of the Muse and the Lemurian Abbey mankind's memories are rekindled and burn brightly. Lemuria and The House of the Muse capture the spirit of the Mouseion and while institutions like this thrive, as new travellers come to the door, bearing candles of light and hope, Ptolemy's extraordinary beacon remains alight.

In his book 'Ecstasy' Robert Johnson points out that we live in a world almost completely devoid of good-quality ritual and ceremony. An increasing number of people have lost contact with old ways and are denied the nourishment that comes with tradition and collective ritual. Contemporary Westerners have little concept of the mythic world and are actually afraid of it. Where as, prior to the twentieth century, myth and fairy tales were the repository of wisdom of a whole culture they are now relegated to the fantasy world of childhood. Television and information technology have removed a lot of the story telling which once took place and now many children miss hearing the old stories.

Psychologists like Carl Jung have observed that when we begin to understand myth on a deep level we open ourselves up to communication between our conscious and unconscious selves, gaining important insights and so enriching our lives.

James Hillman elucidated the potential of fantasy and personification when he wrote about the house the psyche actually inhabits. According to Hillman this house is "a compound of connecting corridors, multi leveled, with windows everywhere and with large ongoing extensions under construction, and sudden dead ends and holes in the floorboards; and this house is filled already with occupants, other voices, reflecting nature alive, echoing again the Great God Pan."

Modern man may not appreciate it but all of the gods of mythology continue to claim residency within the house of the psyche. Take Dionysus for example. He is still alive and well in the subterranean dungeon. In Ancient Greece Dionysus was the god of wine and ecstasy. His cult promised individual salvation and held particular appeal to women. The Dionysian cult was of particular concern to the ancient authorities and in 186 B.C. the Roman Senate passed severe laws against orgiastic rites of the newly arrived god. Several thousand maenads were subsequently executed. But Dionysus himself clearly escaped, for his spirit lives on in similar behavior which can be seen today. Unfortunately, the divine ecstasy of Dionysus often manifests itself in addictive behavior. Dionysus has come to embody some of the darker sides of human behavior.

While the Romans gave Dionysus a really bad name, Socrates knew that it was pure folly to upset the gods. When he lay, stretched out on the delicious slope of grass with Phaedrus he enjoyed the shade of plane trees that spread out their boughs and luxuriated, thoroughly enjoying the summer scents and sounds. He knew that Dionysian rituals were of benefit to him.

When Phaedrus read his treasured speech and Socrates responded with a provocative discourse on love Socrates was suddenly troubled. Sensing that he had offended Eros, the God of Love, the son of Aphrodite, Socrates was compelled to produce a second discourse proposing that love is a condition of the soul.

The gods of ancient mythology have a lot to offer us. Prior to the twentieth century Greek mythology provided a major source of inspiration for artists and poets. Indeed a cursory glance of the art collections of the world reveals that mythological themes were second only to the stories from the Bible.

Given the rich treasury that lies within mythology it is possible that if we take the time to honour Dionysus and other gods and goddesses in small, ritualistic ways, they will bless us and restore the muse.Within the safety of our journal and visual diaries it is possible to travel deep within and rekindle the spirit of Dionysus. We can make our own Dionysian rituals and discover the world of anticipatory pleasure without engaging in wild revels which were of such concern to authorities. If we are daring you can feel the flow of Dionysian energy and permit it to ripple throughout the bloodstream, right down the tip of the fingers and into the pen. Through writing it is possible to live out those parts of ourselves that can have no practical expression. Through writing it is possible to satisfy inner urges without doing any external damage. It is possible to express the seemingly inexpressible. Writing offers us a Dionysian ritual that saves us from nastier addictions.

For example: try the following exercise that is based on the premise that within the garden of Dinoysus, deep within our psyche, lies a sensuous world, filled with a profusion of nature's fruits. It is just a matter of finding your way into this walled garden.

Play some pan flute music like Medwyn Goodall's Medicine Woman and sit quietly in front of your journal, holding a simple seashell in your left hand and your pen in the right hand. (Assuming your right hand is the dominant hand. You can reverse this) Caress the shell with your fingers. Let your eyes travel over its surface. Let the music that Pan used to attract the nymphettes waft into the house within. Breathe deeply. Close your eyes and quietly wander into the corridors of your shell using your senses. Look around. What do you see, hear, smell, touch with your naked feet. Wander through the multi levels of the shell compound. Peer through unopened doorways and windows. Notice your surroundings. Feel the surfaces. Move to the compound where Dionysus and Pan have retreated. Find the doorway to their space. Note what the door is made of. Let the door come alive. Is the door prepared to open itself? Do voices call out? What do you hear? Allow the pen to write whatever is entering your mind. Consider writing the dialogue you have with Dionysus and Pan. Ask them how you can unify them with your everyday self. Ask them how to write.

Make it a ritual to do similar writing exercises. You will find a collection of exercises here at Soul Food.
Meanwhile, here are some other practical rituals that may just enhance your writing and your sense of well-being.

Write letters to a number of people telling them how much they mean to you and plan future things together
Since all sports are natural Dionysian activities try going for a 20 - 40 minute walk. Upon returning write for the same amount of time.
Create a visual collage to honour Dionysus. Remember that he was closely associated with Pan, nymphs, wine, swings, merriment.
Release pent up feelings
Write a Dionysian definition of psychological sunshine and anticipatory pleasure. List the things that you would love to do if you didn't think people would think you were silly.
Plan a Dionysian event for your home or workplace. Throw a children's party for your friends to celebrate your next birthday. Have a costume breakfast party and then let the day happen. Dress as Pan or a nymph or a medieval maiden. Stay in costume all day and write.
Write a Dionysian creed to live by.
Read the Princess and the Muse, the myth that I live by and write one of your own
Write a letter from Dionysus to yourself and have a friend post it. Receiving a letter like this will have an interesting effect.