Hi Guys,

A bit later than usual, but here is the video recording from week 3 incase you want to revisit the story or any of the discussion.

Plus a poem from Tom Hirons, from last week's poetic inspiration piece.

Video Link:

https://youtu.be/30pvhsXA5IM

Zoom Chat:

19:31:02 From Alex : the 7 liberal arts: Grammar, Rhetorik, Music, Arithmetic, Logic, Astronomy, Geometry = Poetry?

19:31:23 From Alex : Hazel= coll in Scottish = Calton Hill in Edinburgh

19:31:32 From ediemcleish@btinternet.com : We talked about epiphany, how they can be fleeting moments of awareness, but deeply influential. How they can be profound, and illuminate our place in the world, of being in service, or part of shared consciousness, or a teacher arriving at just the right time in our lives.

19:32:33 From Annie Macmillan : Chapter on the life cycle of the Oak in Edward Rutherford's The Forest

19:33:48 From Anna Kinross : sorry to keep jumping up and down, one of my children is ill in bed in the room!

19:39:25 From Dawn : Salmon fishing is a popular pursuit in Scotland, and ‘biggest fish’ stories abound. The largest verified record was a fish caught in 1922. On that fateful day, Georgina Ballantine landed a 29 kilogramme (64 pound) fish by the River Tay. So many other records have been set by women that it has led to speculation that the male fish may be attracted to the female pheremones rubbed off on the bait as it is handled!

19:39:51 From Alex : the deermother comes from the reindeer herds, very string female life spirits

20:22:54 From Dougie Mackay : @dawn that’s really fascinating about the salmon and women catching them

20:32:22 From Alex : the tale of princess Kaguya

20:32:39 From Dougie Mackay : Thanks Alex

20:34:25 From Alex : "Tradition is not worshipping the ashes but nourishing the flames" Gustav Mahler

20:44:15 From ediemcleish@btinternet.com : Check out Mari Boone, Saami singer.

20:47:13 From Kris August : The pine needle tea was also interesting on the island - it is high in vitamin C, bright, and refreshing

20:47:32 From Alex : so good against scurvy

20:48:19 From Kris August : Reacted to "so good against scur..." with 👍

20:48:33 From Emily Collins : I was also wondering if the berries and stones represented painting on the stones, as different berries would be used as different paint pigments

20:49:10 From Kris August : I wondered if the Saami do mosaic as a traditional art?

20:50:55 From ediemcleish@btinternet.com : Mari Boine!! (Bally auto correct!)

20:55:11 From Anna Kinross : smoke hole = connection to spirit/ universal truth = crown chakra?

20:55:37 From Kris August : Reacted to "smoke hole = connect..." with 👍

Poem:

Tom HironsThe Worship of Place

There is a temple I know whose roof is made of sky.

On its ceiling are painted clouds and stars

And the rooms and corridors are made of leaves and branches;

Its doors are open to all people, day and night.

Anyone may enter, whether or not they listen

To the wise words spoken within.

I know a synagogue through which a river flows

Against boulders inscribed with scriptures of moss,

Where salmon leap in exaltation and wild doves sing.

The rabbi has a beard of green-grey lichen and

His prayers are carried on the gurgling silver stream.

I know a mosque in which every direction is sacred.

Within that holy place, I see the face of the beloved

Beneath every stone and in the heart of every flower.

Fallen oak leaves are the flurries of the faithful, dancing;

The call to prayer is sung upon the whirling, wild wind.

The priestess of this shrine bars entry to no one;

She greets me in silence and in silence I depart.

Everyone is welcomed in for worship;

The congregation of all creatures give praise

And offerings to the hallowed sanctuary;

The object of their veneration is the world itself.

When I arrive in this boundless cathedral,

With my eyes unclouded by guile or cunning,

I know the presence of such exquisite beauty

And a joy so intense it’s almost unbearable.

I fall over myself trying to find the best way to worship;

I press my back against the trunk of a broad tree

Or a tower of cracked, stacked stones;

I tell my confession to the twisted heather,

And bow down before the yellow-flowered gorse;

I renew my vows in the presence of the damsel fly

And receive the blessing of the magpie and the wren. 

All the while, skylarks carry my prayers to heaven.

At the altar of this great temple,

There is a fountain, invisible to my eyes.

If my worship is whole-hearted, I am washed

Clean of sorrow and all my restless thirst

Is quenched.

Standing in this sublime sanctuary,

I am cracked in two and an old well

Bubbles in my heart once again.

The water is so clear and delicious,

I cannot keep it to myself.

Will you come with me to that fountain now

And fill your cup of longing from this endless, untamed spring?

....

Wishing you all a fine wekend

Dougie