Temple of Solace

Friends forever
in the currency of soul,
abiding, thriving,
in infinity,
in gold.

No beginning,
no end,
blessings sent,
love
received.

A currency of
gold,
not sold, tainted,
or left bereft.

Friends in gold
live in an abundant
state of knowing,
oak-like,
forever.

In reciprocity,
in gold,
ever after,
evermore.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2007.)

The Temple of Solace and Soul Food Cafe are volunteer run, free-to-access, online resources that help many people around the global community.

If you would like to do something to help, there are various ways to contribute:

1. Join the community and post pieces that will provide comfort and support to others.

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6. Visit the Cafepress hosted “Soul Food Cafe” online store and make a purchase.

7. Buy recommended resources through this site.

8. Contact Heather Blakey at technologicalgarden at gmail.com and become a Wild Gardener.

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This came to mind tonight as I thought of you and Darryl. It’s the first verse to a lovely old song.

I’ll see you again,
whenever skies are blue again.
Time may lie heavy between,
but what has been,
is past forgetting.

“…And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech. And it came to pass as they journeyed from the east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there. And they said one to another, Go to, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for mortar. And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.

And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower which the children of men builded. And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do. Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.

So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city.

Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the Lord did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the Lord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth.”

And the whole earth was of one speech. The language of loss and grief was confounded too. The Temple of Solace is a place where people who have been scattered and made to feel isolated can be united by empathy. Here within the safety of this Temple people of all nationalities can learn the language of loss and grief, find comfort and solace and learn how to support others.

I can no longer
Roam the valley of death
Seeking my true love
for he is not there.

I open my eyes and
see him
in the faces of my children
I listen and
hear him
whispering softly
feel his gentle caress
pushing me away
from death
insisting I live.

Honour the blessed dead,
as self would honour self,
They are wise as the stars,
float, breathe, glow, flow,
industrious.
Their ever-turning universe,
the Green Dragon,
sages, robes,
The Wise,
fire by, like flames propelled
by a different force,
believed in, known.

The Unknowable and the
unknowing, is accepted
and overseen, without
judgement or speculation,
yet it is wise beyond
earth’s knowing.

Honour the blessed dead.

(Inspired by Rupert Brooke’s “Clouds”.)

(copyright Imogen Crest 2007.)

Footnote:

Knowing virtually nothing about Rupert Brooke, yet being led to this piece of perfection in poetry on a very difficult subject, I decided to find out more about him. In my mind, when I read his words, I assumed he was a wise, elderly gentleman who had lived out a long life of rich meaning. This can be seen in his sage-like use of words, expressed way beyond the usual understanding. However, it was the biggest surprise to find him a wise old sage of twenty-seven when he died, though with much experience behind him, nonetheless. Here is the link to the Rupert Brooke Society. So I guess what I am really doing is paying homage to him, for in my own difficult time, his words have brought comfort to me. Viva, Rupert Brooke, 1887-1915, “Clouds” was written in 1913 when he was in service in the First World War at twenty-six.

Whilst driving back through Belgium yesterday morning and admiring one of their many beautiful hoardings advertising various local sites of interest (yes, some hoardings can be beautiful – or rather the pictures on them can be) I was struck by the wording on one of them. A picture of a peaceful cloister was captioned “stones that pray” (des pierres qui prient). Here are some of my photos of praying stones, inspirational because of their location or innate appeal.

A small chapel in the Belgian countryside

Bronze angels in the cloister of the cathedral in nearby Trier, Germany

A (very) small part of the beautifully painted interior of the church of St Matthias in Budapest

A statue in the same church

cemetery angels in the graveyard of the country church of Okeford Fitzpaine, Dorset, UK

Last, but not least, and my favourite – the painting by William Holman Hunt entitled “I am the light” depicted in the stained glass window of the church at Okeford Fitzpaine

One two three
Two two three
Three two three

In strange, dark, touchless world whirling. How is it I came to be here? This is not as I knew things to be. Here sight is sightless and sound is at once colour too. Pain is no longer my companion. How peculiar, as pain is a reminder that we still live.

Four two three
Five two three
Six two three

Touchless, yet I am suspended in the arms of someone, I know it. Still no breath warms my cheek, nor does his embrace warm me. Yet this breathless warmthless entity knows me well enough to anticipate every movement. My pained, contorted body has somehow become elegant again.

Seven two three
Eight two three
Again two three

I must test this body, cautiously I allow myself to dip backwards to where my hair brushes my heel. Beautiful how this dancer knows me and twirls me round bent back, my head relaxes and my neck is as long as any swan. I spin faster and find my body upright and pulled close. The stranger has no heartbeat,. Panic. Suddenly I am aware I cannot hear the beat of my own heart.

Two two three
Three two three
Four two three

What is this strange place? Who dances with me? I cannot smell, nor taste. I search for light and there is none. The dancer holds me in embrace but I cannot hold him. I try to draw breath but there is nothing rushing in and out. I scream silently. Let me awake.

Five two three
Six two three
Seven two three

Questions rise and fall with the steps of this dance. No answers come my way. The entity allows me to stand, step and dip. I am becoming accustomed to this new sensory excitement. My body is in the old sense of what once I knew, gone. This dance is pure movement no corporeal body limits me now.

Eight two three
Red two three
Blue two three

Mauve pulses forth epiphanies. Reds swarm as I fear, blues billow on surrender to the ghostly arms, greens swirl on acceptance, golds glow as I trust and let be.. At once all I am, and have been, folds into the glow of a thousand colours harmonising ripples on which to carry me away. Away and here, forever a part of, and never apart, simply and gloriously absorbed in good.

Green two three
Gold two three
Good two three

There was a great flapping of wings,
enough to cause the water to spill over the banks,
or so it was said,
this was the reason to call it Angel Falls.

I saw no angels
sitting on the bank of the river
heard no wings
flapping above my head.

Clearly the water still rushed, over the side
into a small seemingly bottomless pool
for some reason it bade me
and inexplicably I jumped.

There was a great flapping of wings
and I found myself wet and tired
on the bank of the river
beside Angel Falls.

I knew better than to look into the abyss;
how strange,
that temptation and salvation,
exist but a heartbeat apart.