Robert F

The Catacombs Under Ancient Rome

Once upon a dreamtime, once within a strong dream, I am using a candle to navigate the long, dark, maze-like catacombs under ancient Rome. Perhaps I’m an escaped slave hiding from the imperial Roman police. Or I’m here for an outlawed Christian worship service. Or to revere my ancestors.

For the catacombs under Rome are vast underground cemeteries: miles upon miles of claustrophobic tunnels carved out of soft volcanic rock, many of them filled with crypts and tombs and stacked bones.

So in this dream I am walking alone by candlelight through dark cities of the dead. But not truly alone. For besides the runaway slaves and God-intoxicated Christians, other shunned and forsaken souls also make use of these tunnels; as do the occasional twisted ones who would prey upon the weak and the unaware.

Which is why survival alarm bells go off when I hear footsteps close behind me.

I walk faster, taking random left and right turns at each intersecting tunnel, going up and down levels in this spooky, disturbing multilevel graveyard.

Pausing to catch my breath, I glance back over my shoulder. All I can see is my shadow, cast by the candle onto the stone passageway behind me. Only my shadow. Then, soft but unmistakable, the menacing sound of approaching footsteps.

I run for my life. The candle in my hand gutters wildly. Shelves full of human bones fly by. Skulls gaze at me impassively as I run, each skull once graced with a face, and having eyes to shape and behold a world.

I run and run and run until exhaustion sets in and I can run no more. My implacable pursuer comes ever closer. Finally, sensing that impending doom is at hand, I impulsively turn around, unwilling to have an unknown assailant take me from behind.

The low flame from the stub of my candle shows me who’s been relentlessly chasing me through the dark underworld of the catacombs. And I’m filled with loathing and disgust.

Because standing before me is a leper.

His skin is rough, discolored, and ulcerous. His hideously disfigured face has collapsed in upon itself. Yet he is gazing at me with almost wistful eyes.

Then he opens his arms.

At first I am only able to focus on the gnarly stumps where several of his fingers once were. Then I suddenly know what his open arms mean, and I shudder reflexively. His open arms say that he’s waiting for an embrace.

Oh no! This despicable creature wants me to embrace him?! To hold him in my arms?! May it not be so!

Slowly, though, unbidden wonderings start to arise. How long has he been burdened with leprosy? How old was he when he first caught this curse? Who was the last person to give him a hug?

What kind of life does he have in the so-called normal world? For he does have to keep going up there for minimal food and water. And on the bustling streets of Rome — 50 or 60 feet above where he and I now stand — most people will quite understandably fear and avoid and abuse him. Is this why he keeps returning to the underworld? Are the catacombs a refugia for people like him?

And what about me? Why do I keep returning to a labyrinthian city of the dead?

These musings last only as long as it takes to sigh deeply and draw a deep breath. Then, with resignation and compassion surging through me, I open my arms and embrace my companion. As I do so his leprosy-contorted face morphs into my own. I awake from the dream trembling, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that who I am now holding is myself.

Mama Gaia, Papa Starlight

A Prayer of Remembrance and Repentance

Mama Gaia, Papa Starlight, your children we all do be: We who live on the land, fly through the sky, or swim in the sea.

You gifted us with life, and set within us a seed-like image of what we are to be.

Help us unfold this image ever more fully, that we may come to know and love and be one with our fellow creatures, just as you, Mama and Papa, know and love and are one with us.

Teach us to love those who have harmed us. For prices must be paid; and we, too, are not yet reliably kind and mindful.

Temper your human children as gently as may be. We so easily go astray, and lose our way, and are slow learners.

May Grace shield us from overeating the fruit on the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. As the needful and often subtle temptations arise, strengthen our compassionate restraint.

When time ripens and this tree has served its purpose, guide us to the tree of life, whose leaves are for the healing of people and nations.

An early Candlemas celebration at Light Morning.
Photo by Victor Fischer.

Halloween helps us deal…

Each year, near the middle of October, strange figures start appearing in the front yards of suburban homes that are otherwise unremarkable. Foreboding tableaux of skeletons and graveyards, ghosts and ghouls, or an occasional witch, greet neighbors and passersby alike. Such lawn ornamentation has become almost as popular as jack o’ lanterns and trick-or-treating.

Yet on a recent morning walk I happened to see one of these displays with fresh eyes. For as I paused to gaze at three skeletons, dressed in bright clothes and seemingly having a good time, a sentence spontaneously took shape in my mind: “Halloween helps us deal with our subliminal fears.”

Seasonal Images: Autumn 2021

Glimpses of Light Morning’s homesteading lifestyle in autumn.
Links to photos from earlier seasons are here.
(Click on any image to enter slideshow mode.)

Crying For the Beauty of the Earth

I awoke with this dream on November 28th, the morning after a momentous neighborhood celebration of Thanksgiving in 1997. The celebration took place in Rivendell, Light Morning’s new and still-under-construction community shelter. Nearly twenty-four years later, “Crying For the Beauty of the Earth” remains one of the strangest and strongest of my strong medicine dreams. While it seemed to come out of the blue, it was presaged by a song by Bob Dylan called “Not Dark Yet.” The dream was a descent into unimaginable darkness, and the following eleven days were darker still.

What Is Worship?

Prologue

What follows was originally intended to be shared with a small circle of fellow Quakers. But as the writing unfolded, it took on a more general relevance, which is why it’s now appearing here. An earlier post, Two Roads, traces the ongoing influence of my Quaker family background. Another post, Medicine Wheels for Story Orphans, explores the evocative similarities between the lives of George Fox (who founded the Religious Society of Friends), J.R.R. Tolkien (who wrote The Lord of the Rings), and Carl Jung (whose Red Book is discussed below).

For those unfamiliar with Quaker ways, and especially with the unprogrammed branch of the Quaker family tree, meetings for worship last about an hour and are mostly silent. Now and then a Friend may offer a brief inspirational message. These sharings are often called vocal ministry.

The Lofty Chronicles: 8

This continues an ongoing series of posts about a young girl growing up
and pursuing child-led learning at Light Morning. The series begins here
with an introduction. Links to the other posts in the series are here.

A few notes about the following journal entries: Lauren has asked everyone to call her Lofty. In my journal I sometimes use one name and sometimes the other, and she herself sometimes goes back and forth between the two. / We’re a common table community, meaning that we take all our meals together in the community shelter. / We’re also off-grid, so we heat and cook with wood and use kerosene lamps for light.

Tracing Gender Lines

The Lofty Chronicles: 7

The Old Paths

Bedtime Stories (Friday, 7 February 1992) Last April (here) I listed the books that Joyce, Lauren, and I had been reading aloud as bedtime stories. Here’s what we’ve read together since then.

Gifts of Unknown Things, Watson
Star Wars, Lucas
The Empire Strikes Back, Lucas et al
The Return of the Jedi, ibid
A Wizard of Earthsea, LeGuinn
The Tombs of Atuan, ibid
The Farthest Shore, ibid
Treasure Island, Stevenson
The Adventures of Robin Hood
Afternoon of the Elves, Lisle
George Washington Carver, Holt
Carver’s George, Means
Oversoul Seven and the Museum of Time, Roberts
A Swiftly Tilting Planet, L’Engle

The Lofty Chronicles: 6

On Loan From the Universe

A New Kind of Family (Thursday, 5 December 1991) A passing impression this evening of life in the emerging Light Morning form of family. After supper, Joyce went to a village meeting at the Institute for Sustainable Living and Marlene went to a weekly gathering at our neighbors Harry and Doris. The rest of us are sitting around our off-grid community shelter which is lit by kerosene lamps.

Adam’s in the kitchen reading the current issue of Harrowsmith. Ron’s by the wood-stove studying a book about dreams. I’m on the couch with an old issue of Whole Earth Review. Lauren is sitting on Tom’s lap in the rocking chair, listening to stories about his youth, for which she seems to have an insatiable appetite and which Tom loves to share. Everything’s warm and cozy and family.

The Lofty Chronicles: 5

The Irony of Pinocchio

You Can’t Just Say No (Monday, 2 September 1991) Our new grain grinder has just arrived. It’s an expensive machine whose large flywheel should make it much easier for us to convert wheat berries into whole wheat flour. Even seven-year-old Lauren can crank the handle with no trouble. She’s thrilled to finally be able to grind flour with the rest of us.

Unfortunately, the output is far below both our expectations and the claims of the manufacturer. After seeing how little flour it seems to produce, we use a timer and a measuring cup to run some trials between our older, harder to crank machine and the new one. The results clearly show that the new grinder will have to be returned.

Our daughter, however, has not been included in this decision-making process. Lauren’s eyes fill with tears when she learns that we’re going to ship back the beautiful new machine she’s been using to help make flour. All our reasons and statistics are meaningless to her. We who value making communal decisions by consensus have acted as though consensus is for adults only, thereby disenfranchising the littlest member of our community. We have, in effect, become a bunch of neighborhood bullies.