Thank you, thank you, thank you! And May compassion fill our hearts truthfully! Love Elisabeth
*E**lisabeth **T**epper **K**ofod* *Facilitadora de Procesos de Transformación* Genuine Contact Trainer & Co-owner Master Practitioner. Coach & Trainer PNL Terapia Sistémica - Constelaciones Familiares *A proud member of the Five-to-Fold Facilitation Team* [email protected] +34 667 84 68 62 *Próximos talleres: * 08, 15 y 22 de enero de 2015 - *Arcanos Menores - Introducción al Tarot - Herramienta de Crecimiento Personal* 10 de enero -* ¡Llegó el 2015 y con Proyectos Claros!* 29 ene, 05 y 12 de febrero - *Simbología y Significado del Tarot de Rider-Waite* A partir del 03 de febrero (32 semanas) - *Formación TAROT - Coaching for Life* On Fri, Dec 26, 2014 at 12:28 PM, paul levy via OSList < [email protected]> wrote: > Dear all > > Wishing you a happy winter season, Christmas (if you celebrate it) and > fulfilling New Year. > > Below is a little winter tale for Christmas. I wrote it last year - it is > essentially about self-organisation in Nature, particularly enjoying the > essential notion of "self". > > I hope you enjoy it. > > warm wishes > > Paul Levy > > > *The Tale of the Squirrel* > > In the heart of the Ashdown Forest stands one of the oldest Oak Trees in > England. Here, Winter settles with its full force, a moon-white frost lying > at dawn until the November sun is high over the Kent horizon, teasing its > way through the thick canopy of trees, bereft of leaves in the late Autumn > cold. > > The Oak tree is home to several families of grey squirrels who burrow > through crackling leaves and cold, damp moss hillocks, and mazes of > overgrown roots. > > Here, a squirrel of some six summers was foraging for acorns, building his > store for the coming winter, which would bring no snow but much icy rain > and chilling winds which would whip through the forest, creating > fern-swirls, and a furious circle-dance of brown leaves. > > The Squirrel already had a place to shelter through the winter though, > since the warming of the land around, his hibernation would be in fits and > starts. Nevertheless, it is secret place of cosy, warmth. Squirrels, more > than any other animal in the forest, can feel cosiness. > > On this day, the 30th of November, Winter’s approach is keenly felt by the > animals inhabiting the ancient forest, and the Old Oak knows it in its root > and sap. > > *But something terrible has happened.* > > The Squirrel of Six Summers who, if he had a name, would be called Mr > Curious, for that would best enfold his particular nature and behaviour, is > in trouble. Whilst foraging among the roots at the foot of the Great Oak, a > branch has fallen, weakened the night before by a pair of barn owls, > resting on their flight back to the farm buildings near Hoathly Hill. > > The squirrel’s back leg is trapped – not broken – but Mr Curious cannot > move. For many hours, since the earliest moment of dawn, Mr Curious has > lain, wrapped in a clammy coat of fear, unable to move, now feeling the > chill in his tiny bones. All about him rove fellow squirrels; they look at > him, noses twitching in the icy air, indifferent to his anguish. In a few > days, if the little creature cannot free himself, he’ll be finished, and > there’ll be more acorns for his fellows to store for the coming Winter > season. > > Mr Curious pulls and pulls, trying to free his leg, but it is no use. His > companions would try to free him, but it is not in their nature to serve > each other so. Their love is in their fur, not their hearts, and they > cannot direct it, except in the early days of bringing forth their kith and > kin in the dream of golden Spring. > > Now, it has begun to rain, and grey Mr Curious is hungry and shivering > with the growing chill. Night is approaching and there will be other fears > to be curious about. > > Now listen, and you might hear it!. (Though you’ll hear only its effects, > in the subtle change in the wind’s cry, or the quickening of the rustle of > oaken branches). Something is flying through the air, trunk-height, fast as > a forest fairy, though not a fairy. Usually they do not fly so low; they > drop, like falling stars, tearing past the sunlit side of the moon, arcing > earthwards. They find their mark like a homing bird, or Cupid’s arrow. > Their light can be seen, if you still all of your concerns, a flash of > yellow gold in the corner of your eye. They are like wisps, though they fly > with more purpose, there is no hint of drifting about them. > > *For this is the soul of a young girl, a babe not yet born, finding its > way from the fixed stars, looping around the near planets, past the milky > moon, then plunging to earth, before speeding through the clear night air > to the union of its mother- and father-to-be, the moment where spirit spark > ignites passion, and the universe is realised once again, through the > alchemy of the One in All.* > > Through Ashdown Forest, you’d see the beam of golden light, flashing > through the trees and skimming below the branches, just above the line of > ferns and gorse bushes. The shimmering sprite-form travels quicker than > sound, though slower than light, and would dance past the great Oak Tree, > oblivious to the plight of poor Mr Curious, his bushy grey tail now sodden > and bedraggled in the driving rain of November. > > Dance past it would, but it halts in its flight of purpose; for a fleeting > moment it stays its course. For each soul, coming to conception is unique, > bearing with it its own unfolding story. And this soul bears, amid its > bright-golden sheen, a hint of violet, the hue of compassion. > > As the spirit-child stops, mid-air, the rain ceases its fall, droplets > hanging like jewels on a chandelier. The air itself comes to peace, and a > golden light spreads over the Old Oak, across the leafy mulch, over the > little grey squirrel in pain, and through the hearts of a host of squirrels > nearby. In the time it takes for two lovers to kiss, and to share their > love into the creation of another universe, compassion enters the glade of > Ashdown forest, and Christmas comes early. > Then the rain splashes down once more and the light is gone, on its way to > his goal, the wind angrily reclaims its rightful place on the air, and > whipping up a storm about the Old Oak. > > But if you were a wood-elf, you’d be in your bower, and spy something very > strange and wonderful. As the golden soul flies towards a warm bed of two > lovers, three grey squirrels are kicking with their back legs at the fallen > branch, riding its circularity, like beavers on a log, floating on a river, > and the heavy wood is rolling away from Mr Curious, freeing his bruised but > otherwise unharmed little back left leg, and he is able to scramble free. > > In those few moments, four squirrels are aware of their true compassion, > awake now, in heart and tiny head, they are nuzzling around each other and > making tiny noises that would sound to a storyteller like laughter and > chatter. > > Then their noses twitch in the wind, ears turn in heads keen and alert for > nearby forest noises heard on the breeze, and they gather up acorns in > their mouth-pouches, and scamper their separate ways, in search of their > cosy leaf and fern beds, warm and safe in the approaching winter’s night. > > The End > > > _______________________________________________ > OSList mailing list > To post send emails to [email protected] > To unsubscribe send an email to [email protected] > To subscribe or manage your subscription click below: > http://lists.openspacetech.org/listinfo.cgi/oslist-openspacetech.org > >
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