The Light and the Eye of the Cobra – River of the Sun 2015…

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The water was soft on his skin. He was used to bathing in the river at sunset, but there was something special about today. He looked across at the glittering image of the sun as its reflection folded on the water, bouncing the golden light across the gentle waves at him. A boat had just sailed by and he felt the lapping waves caressing his thighs. It tickled and he giggled to the river.

His reverie was disturbed by the sound of his Grandmother’s voice.”Wash, Amkhren, stop your daydreaming!”

He smiled his cheeky smile back at Snefer, sole guardian to him since the death of his parents many years ago, in the fire that had destroyed their home while they slept. The name, which he had given her, made her smile, though he was too young, yet, to know the kindness behind such tolerance. The name derived from a present from his father, which he still kept. His father had travelled in his own youth – selling his beautifully hand-woven carpets, which he would pile onto his faithful donkey, before leaving for days or even weeks. He always came back with tales of his adventures, and Amkhren’s delight had been to sit, balanced precariously on his knee; and listen . . .

One day, his father had returned with a carved wooden object – a present to his son. He took it from his bedroll and presented it, smiling as he did so. He had carved it out of a block of wood. It was like one of the drawings his father had shown him of the fabulous white pillars that legend said graced the upper parts of the river, just before it spread and flowed into the sea. The wooden carving had a square base, whose four corners rose in two stages, to meet at a single vertical point. The angle of the climbing sides became shallower half way up and this gave the whole things a comic element. His father had said that the place it was located was called Sneferu, and it was known as the bent pillar. The day after that, Amkhren had pointed at his grandmother and said, “Grandma is bent, too! Can we call her Sneferu, like the carving?”. His father had looked at his own mother and smiled in that mischievous way that his young son had inherited. Then he had said, “Well, we don’t want to anger the Gods, so let’s shorten it to Snefer!”

She had sighed, inside, on that day. But now the memory of that time brought back such happiness that old Snefer didn’t mind at all. She looked at the boy, who had finally taken off his loin-cloth and was washing himself. Her heart burned with feeling for him – the sole survivor of a family that had known how to love and to laugh, together. The sight of him always drove away the aches and pains that had begun to afflict her ageing frame . . . and the sad memories.

The sound of footsteps behind her made her whirl in alarm. After that, she could only drop to her knees in the sand.

“High Priestess, forgive me!” She bowed her head to the mud. Before her was one of the most beautiful and stately women she had ever encountered – Neferaset, the woman who led the worship at the Temple of Isis on the island of Philae, across the river a mile or so away. Alongside her brother, Anzety, they were the most powerful of the bright people.

“Do not be frightened, old woman,” said the glowing one, bending down to take the hands in the dust and pull Snefer up to her normal, if bent, standing position. “We are not in the temple, and, if I choose to leave the sanctuary of the island and walk along the river, I am going to meet strangers . . .”

Snefer kept her head bowed. But spoke, “My grandson is bathing in the river. Forgive his rude nakedness.”

Neferaset looked beyond the bowed woman and saw her relative. He was talking to another boy who stood ahead of him in the deeper water.

“And who is that with him?” she asked.

“There is no-one with him, High Priestess . . .”

Neferaset frowned, then moved the sight into place to gain more distance; and blinked her eyes, focusing on the two boys in the shallows. One was plainly visible, his naked form dancing in the water. But he was definitely speaking to another boy – one who stood motionless before him and had a bright but much less distinct outline . . .

Amkhren was delighted with his new friend. As golden as the ripples on the river, he had appeared before him in the beautiful sunset, smiling. He had asked Amkhren’s name, but refused to give his own. Now, the other watched, while Amkhren bathed, as though the act of seeing someone so vividly alive fascinated him. Amkhren was about to press for his name, again, when he heard his grandma calling from the bank.

“Amkhren, put on your garment and come here at once!”

Amkhren, saddened, but obedient, spun back to say goodbye to his friend; but the other boy was gone. He peered deep into the waves in case his friend had swum off, but there was no trace of the other. A second, and sterner call from Snefer dragged him from his searching. Panting, he retrieved his rags and tied them across his wet waistline. Only then did he look up to locate the old woman. She was standing, with her head bowed, next to another woman. This was a day of surprises! He looked harder, narrowing his eyes to carry his vision deeper into the tableau. Then, he stopped walking and his mouth fell open. There on the raised bank, his grandma was talking, though her head was bowed, with the High Priestess of Isis – a woman he had once stolen a look at from the sanctuary of a hastily built log raft, which had floundered shortly thereafter.

The day had been baking hot and Amkhren had walked along the river bank, far from where Snefer had said it was safe for him to travel. He had gradually been extending his exploring, because he knew that the Island of Philae lay somewhere beyond the next twist of the river’s course. On that day, he had caught sight of a temple procession on the sacred isle and had thrown caution to the wind, and trusted his life to a few logs hastily lashed together with the stalks of reeds in the way that his father had shown him, so long ago.

Before the raft had fallen apart, he had caught sight of the winged one, as he thought of her. She had shone in the sun in her finery and splendour. All around her there was total silence, total reverence. Beside her, another of equal stature walked, but this one was a man, tall and purposeful, yet with a hint of gentleness to his bearing.

The reed bindings had given way, the logs parted and, plunging into the river with a cry, he was forced to cling to the largest as it rolled. Gone were the wild thoughts that someday he would find a way to return to Philae to serve them. Choking on the inhaled river water, he clung desperately to the remains of his capsized raft and forced his legs to kick, pushing the log slowly towards the far bank.

Now the Goddess stood before him. Disguised, yes, but it was her . . .

Amkhren took a few more steps and fell to his knees, prostrating himself in the dust.

“I feel I know you, boy?” said the shining one.

“Oh, you couldn’t know us, High Priestess – we are just beggars in your world,” blurted out his grandma, her head still bowed.

Amkhren’s mind raced. Should he tell her of his moment on the raft? Surely it would be to invite death . . . and yet, he didn’t want to miss the only chance that his life might contain to reach for that impossible goal.

“The river has many secrets, High Priestess,” he managed, somewhat proud of his utterance.

“And dreams, perhaps?” the tone of her voice was soft. There was deadliness there, too, but her knives were sheathed.

She knelt down in the dust of the bank and, with gentle hands that yet contained more power than he had ever felt, pulled his head up to stare back at her almond eyes.

“And what does this young man dream of?” she asked, running a painted finger up the side of his jaw…

Animal Magic #2…


Wren and Bear

One summer day Bear and Wolf were walking in the forest and heard a bird singing sweetly.

‘Brother Wolf,’ said Bear, ‘what kind of bird is that which sings so delightfully?’
‘Why, ‘tis the king of the birds, before whom all must do reverence,’ said Wolf.
‘If that be so,’ said Bear, ‘then I should like to see his royal palace, come you must lead me to it.’
So Wolf led Bear to Wren’s nest which contained six young birds.
‘This miserable place is no Royal Palace,’ said Bear on seeing the nest, ‘and you are not king’s children but wretched young vagabonds.’
‘No, no, that we are not,’ said the young wrens and set up such a cacophony of noise that Bear and Wolf ran from the nest holding their paws over their ears.

When Wren returned to the nest with food for the chicks they complained bitterly to him about the insult they had been subjected to by Bear and refused to eat anything until their slight had been re-addressed.

Wren flew straight to Bear’s cave and called to him from the entrance, ‘Old Grumbler why have you insulted my children?’

‘No insult to call a nest which is not a royal palace a filthy nest and its occupants vagabonds,’ called back Bear.

‘That, Old Grumbler shall cost you dear for we will decide this matter by pitch battle,’ said Wren and flew off.

War having been declared against Bear all the four-footed beasts were summoned: Ox, Ass, Goat, Stag, and every animal on the face of the earth.

Wren, on the other hand, summoned every flying thing: not only the birds, great and small, but also Gnat, Hornet, Bee and Fly.

On the eve of the battle Wren sent out spies to see who had been appointed commander in chief of the enemy. Gnat was the most cunning of all the winged folk and he therefore, buzzed away into the forest to where the enemy was camped.

There stood Bear and called Fox to him, ‘you are the craftiest of the animals, so you must be general and lead us on.’

‘That’s good,’ said Fox but, ‘What sign shall we appoint?’

None of the animals answered.

Then Fox said, ‘I have a fine, long bushy tail, which looks like a red feather at a distance; if I hold this tail straight up, all is going well and you must march after me; but if I suffer it to hang down, you must run away as fast as you can.’

As soon as Gnat heard all this she flew home and told Wren everything to a hair.
The day of the battle arrived and Bear with all the four-footed beasts came running along to the field, shaking the very earth with their roaring and bellowing.

Wren also came with his army, whirring and buzzing and humming a sound which was enough to terrify anyone out of their senses.

Then Wren sent Hornet forward to settle on Fox’s tail and sting it three times.

Fox felt the first sting and drew up his hind leg in pain but still managed to carry his tail high in the air as before.

With the second sting though Fox’s tail drooped a little and with the third he could no longer bear the pain and was forced to drop his tail between his legs.

When the other beasts saw this they thought all was lost and began to run, each one to his own hole, den, burrow or cave and so the winged creatures won the battle without any difficulty at all and Old Grumbler Bear was forced to humbly beg pardon from Wren’s children for the insult he had offered them.


 Weekend of 22-24 April, 2016.

Great Hucklow, Derbyshire Dales. England.

Click the image for further details of this weekend workshop with the Silent Eye

and a special appearance by Mister Fox.

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The River of Life – by Jan Malique. River of the Sun 2015

Jan Malique, our Vessel of Hathor for the River of the Sun, has kindly given permission for us to share her thoughts on the ritual weekend. Jan is a Comapnion of the Silent Eye and this was her first time at one of our workshops. Thank you, Jan.

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Jan and Stuart

The River of Life

Where to start dear reader? At the beginning perhaps. This was my first Silent Eye open workshop – The River of the Sun, I was enrolled upon the Foundation Triangle course and standing at a crossroad seeking clarification. It was a strange time, spiritual doubts and a desire for introspection propelled me forward towards the doorway the weekend offered. Shall we say I had become a little disappointed with the “magical scene”. A true magician rises above ego, refrains from intellectual snobbery and becomes a living conduit for the Higher forces to come through. Or so I believed. There was something missing, so a step back was necessary to restore faith. Time to don the Pilgrim’s simple robe and start a new quest. The Silent Eye School beckoned over the Horizon. The Mystic within me cried out to be heard. It was to be an important move for me.

The River of the Sun offered me the chance to re-engage with my beloved Khem and its neters, possibly touch the mind of Egypt and perchance glimpse the Soul of this great nation. The weeks leading up to the weekend of the workshop flew by, I was excited and feeling a little overwhelmed to be honest. The workbook blew my mind, an incredible amount of time, effort and research had gone into manifesting it. Interesting. This boded well for the encounter with my fellow Companions, a few who were familiar from past encounters. The great River of Life flowed around me, I was part of it and yet removed.

This workshop was multi-layered, involving complex spiritual, mystical, magical and psychological themes. Both sacred and profane seeking and finding great truths. I believe it achieved its purpose. There was powerful magic manifesting in this temple, as the saying goes “As above, so Below”. Being given the privilege of being a Vessel of Hathor was rather significant for me. The Sunday of the weekend was also the first anniversary of my father’s death. The gods move in mysterious ways…This weekend was also an opportunity to heal the connection between myself , Isis and Osiris. It had never been an easy relationship and perhaps I could now move forward into a better space. I have never believed in blind devotion to either anything or anyone, one’s faith must be tempered by a balanced outlook and a questioning mind.

Within the space of our temple we were faced with the Divine, the Whole, Being itself. A mirror was being held up, one which had to be faced in order to see the True Self. One must never underestimate the effect such sacred dramas have upon the psyche and energetic systems, quite profound experiences at times. It ended all too soon and we journeyed to our lives in the outside world. Which is no bad thing, for it is in this outer world that we perform our real work. We no longer have our beloved temples of old, their time has gone and we the priesthood have been sent out into a far different world to manifest our work.

Jan Malique


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The last drop – River of the Sun 2015

river of the sun SE15 037One of the best things about the weekend workshops has to be seeing old friends. Many live too far to visit, so it is a real delight to be able to meet… even though the time together is way too short. There are old friends and new faces, clocking up many thousands of miles between them to attend the workshop and the hugs and smiles are warm and real.

For those who organise these events, there is another side to that story and one that may not be talked about all that much, but it is none the less real for all that. Friends and strangers alike, would they really come all that way… even from overseas… if what we were doing was not worth the journey? There is a reassurance in that which is like a hug in itself. Months of preparation to create something that lasts from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon… that is all very well, but if no-one came…? But they do. By land, air and sea. The come with smiles on their faces and leave, I think it fair to say, with smiles in their hearts…. And some have already booked their places at Leaf and Flame.

It would be difficult, perhaps, for an observer to know what makes these times so meaningful. From the outside there is nothing to see. For those on the inside, taking part, the imagination takes flight and the essence of the work may create change at a very personal level. The Sunday always feels different; the rituals reach an emotional climax, there is generally a special ritual too as part of the morning’s work… and then there is just friendship and time to talk.

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Robes are packed away, jeans reappear, the High Priest of an ancient temple may be seen lugging bags and boxes to the car… while a King in waiting stands with a mug of tea in the sunshine, laughing with an erstwhile adversary. The stories and rituals are new every year, but the camaraderie and feeling is the same.

Then, too soon, there comes a moment when only two cars remain in the car park… although this year there were three and for some of us the day was not yet over. It is at this point we look at each other and smile… realising that the focus of the last three months has come to fruition and, like a young hawk, fully fledged, has been released into the world to fly free and, with the breath of its wings, stir new currents into being.

There is a euphoria, relief, joy… and a gear shift that seems to roll up its sleeves, ready for the next task. This year, that will be the pre-Solstice gathering, visiting the ancient mounds and stone circles in and around Avebury… and suddenly the 12th of June doesn’t seem very far away…

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For some of us, though, the final partings were still to come. A mile down the road is a spectacular landscape full of mysteries … and as it was so close, four of us were going to visit the place before heading back respectively to Sheffield and the north east of Scotland.

We were welcomed by hawks flying overhead… six or seven of them… buzzards and kestrels… The sun was shining, the earth green and beautiful and there was time. Not enough, nowhere near enough…but some. There was also a pub, the oddest little place you can imagine, with a magical atmosphere that always makes you wonder if it is really there. It seemed a perfect and fitting end to the River of the Sun.

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Cave of the Seers – River of the Sun 2015

Whence did they come?
Through deepest earth, to starlit skies, they came.

Where did they go?
From one world to another, outer to inner, treading the Path of Light.

What did they find, the walkers between the worlds?
Nought but mirrored mirrors, reflecting each other. Gold and silver, into Infinity.

What were they told?
All they had ears to hear.

What did they see?
All they had eyes to see.

What were they given?
Blessings and riddles that are their own answers.

What did they take?
The shadow of a doorway.

What did they make?
A portal to the stars.

Who crossed the threshold?
All who were graced.

Will they return?
Not unchanged…


“We become panoramic…” – River of the Sun

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There is something magical in rising before dawn and setting out to greet the sun. We had changed things this year; the traditional hillside ritual had been replaced by a visit to the Cave of the Seers… but it would not have felt right to forget the hills and stay cosily indoors. The landscape has always offered itself to our needs, seeming, almost magically, to provide what we have asked of it, even when we haven’t been certain what that was going to be. In some way, the Saturday morning walk through the pre-dawn light was both an expression of gratitude and the renewal of a bond.

It is even more than that, though; the connection to the land of this place runs deep. The hillside that has seen strange figures in the luminous dawn is part of an ancient settlement and an even older dance of earth, sky and Man. We spend so much of our time on concrete and asphalt, ruled by the ticking of necessity, that to choose to rise before dawn and walk into silent fields for no other reason than to greet the sun allows us to break a long fast and simply be a part of the flow of life again.

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We feel it through the soles of our feet, through the song we raise, and the air we breathe. The chill of dew, the rolling green starred with the gold and silver of celandine and daisy still waiting for the kiss of the sun to unfurl their petals.

We climbed the stile and walked through the fields to a natural portal… a gap in the curtain of trees that, quite appropriately, separates the lower from the higher, and there we waited. Two stood cloaked and raised an adaptation of the ancient Hymn to the Aten, penned over three thousand years ago. The rest, in an arc like the bowl of a chalice, joined their voices in a song penned just weeks before, especially for the River of the Sun.

Do we worship the sun? No, of course not… but we revere its light as a symbol of a greater Light and that, perhaps, is something the ancient ones whose shadows walk the land would have understood, for just as the rays of the sun give life and growth, so too does that Other Light… and perhaps that is the greater of the two.

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A small flock of sheep, led by one with a darker fleece, slowly climbed the Mound of Creation… a small hillock we had used the year before and which, to us because of that moment, is very special. They stood and watched, facing us all the while. I had to wonder if one of them was the lamb who had greeted us before dawn on that morning two years before, when a silent company had shared a moment’s delight and wonder. The Lamb too, reflects the Light.

The clouds did not break. The sun did not appear in the east as we had hoped… and so, when the sky had brightened, we turned back. It is not about the sunrise itself; that too is a symbol. Ali, for some reason, began to recite poetry… and arm in arm, laughing through the lines of Lewis Carroll, we headed once more for the stile. And the sun broke through the clouds, as if in response to our laughter.

We turned as one, the whole group, and watched the pale opalescence unfurl in the heavens; in silent peace, sharing a moment and our smiles. Something greater than we held centre stage, and in our very smallness we grew.

“We become panoramic…”

We were quieter on the way back to the centre… the line from the song played through my mind, knowing we would be using it as part of an innovative meditation on perception designed by Stuart. It seemed perfect for the feeling of those moments.

We had risen before the dawn and, at the end of the day, it seemed as if we were given the blessing of the sun itself in answer as the sky went up in flames…

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The first drop – River of the Sun

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We were, inevitably, way too early. But that was okay; it meant we had chance to drink in the morning light … and a morning coffee… at the Barrel Inn, perched high above the little village of Great Hucklow where, in a magical shift of imagination and by the power of a ‘willing suspension of disbelief’, we would soon find ourselves in the temples of ancient Egypt.

river of the sun SE15 019For the moment, however, we stood with the wind in our hair, blowing away the cobwebs of the night. Below us a bank of yellow gorse echoed the sunlight, tumbling like a golden stream down the hillside… a river of the sun indeed.

river of the sun SE15 001aThe road that runs along the ridge from the ancient hillfort of Burr Tor is little more than a narrow track. On one side are tamed fields, bounded by age-old walls of Derbyshire stone; on the other the wild moors lead to the distant peaks that stand sentinel over the landscape. Here you have the feeling of being poised between worlds… a fitting place to take a deep breath before plunging into the magical mayhem of the weekend.

river of the sun SE15 010On the one hand you could perhaps call it madcap mysticism… a time of laughter and friendship, where a playful spirit reigns, where traditions hide their eyes in their starched aprons as we use popular music for meditations and we all dive for the pub at the end of the evening. On the other hand it is a true spiritual journey, exploring aspects of the inner self and bringing spirituality out of the shadows to be where it needs to be… right in the centre of everyday life.

river of the sun SE15 058There is a misconception that spirituality needs to be sober and serious. It is both, of course, and more than both, yet that does not preclude laughter or mischief. The spiritual journey should bring joy and is characterised by a lightness of being rather than a heaviness of heart and the weight of sorrow. Here, on such a morning in spring, it is as if the world smiles back and the blossom-laden trees nod in approval.

river of the sun SE15 011We watched the sky as the clouds raced.
“That’ll be Steve,” said Stuart, eyes twinkling as he nodded at the paraglider swooping down towards the village.
“That’s one way of making a grand entrance…” I raised the camera, knowing it would make the third director smile when he actually did arrive.

river of the sun SE15 0401We wandered back down to the village and parked the car, way too early for the lunchtime rendezvous at the pub. It was rather nice to have the village to ourselves for a little while. The mellow stone was softened by great swathes of flowers. Magnolia and cherry trees vied for attention… stately grace and laughing blossoms. Bluebells nodded in the breeze and daffodils turned sunny faces to the sky for a golden kiss.

river of the sun SE15 033We walked through the silence broken only by birdsong, already seeing what the landscape would offer us for next year’s workshop where the Green Man would reign. Climbing the hill we looked down on a village that feels like home after all these years. There is no place we would rather be than right here, right now; nothing we would rather be doing than waiting for our friends and companions to arrive. A glance at the clock told us it would not now be long before they did. “Shall we?” We headed down towards the Queen Anne and the weekend had begun.

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Gyre, Gimble and Ancient Egypt

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

She gyred and gimbled down the steep slope of the hillside; full of music, laughter and the generally infectious good will that is the core of Ali – she of the golden heart, and one of the heroines of the River of the Sun, the Silent Eye’s 2015 main workshop in the lovely hills of Derbyshire.

Quite why Ali picked this poem (Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll) I’ll never know, but, as she bounced, singing playfully, down the steep, green meadow and back towards the Nightingale Centre, it became one of those iconic and wonderful moments, when any trace of pomposity would meet a ruthless evisceration from the moment, from the ‘now’ . . .

Her utterly human humour was a wonderful contrast to the fifteen minutes of chanting a greeting to the dawn that we had just carried out in the fine early morning that ushered in the Saturday of the weekend event. The chant, a pseudo-Egyptian creation that we had crafted and layered over a dimly remembered melody from a French folk song about the ancient cathedrals of ancient Paris, had rung out over the hillside towards a dawn that stubbornly moved itself along the line of its expected appearance and appeared only during our descent – no doubt summoned by Ali’s Jabberwocky and not our Egyptian chant with accompanying text from the Hymn of Akhenaten.

And that is the most perfect cameo I can think of to express the success of the Silent Eye’s third such workshop and our second birthday – duly celebrated at the end of the weekend with a gorgeous cake baked by one of my fellow Directors of the School, Sue Vincent.

The contrast between planned ‘perfection’ and the reality of mischievous manifestation was at the heart of what rescued the River of the Sun from the annals of what would have been groaning oblivion, as those present hurried to bury the memories in gestures of goodwill and personal reassurances.

The River of the Sun took a year to conceive and three months of solid writing to bring to readiness; but then disaster struck in the last week, with four people having to drop out with health-related issues. Even two of those present turned up full of the horrible flu bug that seems intent on incapacitating much of Britain. One of them, David, was new to the whole thing, and had heroically accepted the central role of Rameses the Great for which he had done months of preparation.

The surviving cast, of what should have been twenty-two members, were to fill the roles of either the ‘royal family’ – Rameses II, his senior military command, Obion, and a mysterious and elderly Mage named Menascare; the Temple Vessels of the Gods: Sekhmet, Hathor, Khonsu, Tefnut, Ptah, Thoth and Ma’at; or the fearsome Talatat, the military elite guard of Rameses under its commander, Obion.  The island temple on the Nile was lead by the High Priestess of Mut and her brother the High Priest, who had recently adopted a promising young orphan, Amkhren, and his ‘bent old grandmother’ nicknamed Snefer, who was his sole surviving relative.

But seventeen people do not equate to twenty-plus parts, even when a bit of last-minute whittling of the 150 pages of script had eliminated two of the Talatat, ridding the temple of the practitioners of the dark specialisms of inquisition and vengeance, part of the enneagram’s ‘outer leaves’ of the darker side of humanity.

They must have seen the despair in my eyes as we began the workshop with apologies for the decimation of our expected acting population and our inability to carry out the five rather vivid ritual dramas that formed the backbone of the event.

Dead in the water?  Not on your Nellie . . . not with the magical edge of the esoteric fraternity present. Within seconds of expressing my sadness, regret and (at Sue’s timely prompting) our condolences for those who had been struck down with the vicious bug, two experienced volunteers had stood up to offer to be heroes.  One was Ali, the aforementioned singer of ‘nonsense’ verse; the other was an old friend and senior figure in another esoteric School with whom several of us had shared many years of magical past – Dean.

For the Friday evening and on through Saturday and Sunday morning, the two of them battled the logistics, angular distance and the perils of the twin Wheels of Egyptian time – eternity and recurrence, as they skilfully played out multiple roles to hold together the coherence of the script.

Amkhren, now seven years older and about to be initiated into the priesthood, was duly petrified by the arrival of the river-borne war party of the young Rameses, travelling up the Nile for one last hunting mission and eager to drop in, unannounced, on the temple he suspected of harbouring one of the last pockets of support for the religion of now-erased Akhenaten, the self-styled Son of the Sun.

The scene was set for a confrontation of unequal forces as the gentle Temple Vessels battled with the cruel onslaught of the King-in-Rising and the military prowess of his elite guard – now played by a red-haired dervish (Ali)  who could disappear into one of the time wheels on the perimeter of the enneagram-shaped temple only to reappear, a heartbeat later, as a different warrior with changed voice and persona at the other side of the temple . . . It should have been funny, but it wasn’t – it was brilliant!  In like fashion, Dean, brandishing what must have been the heaviest replica sword we have ever sourced, darted and dashed through the internals of the enneagram of humanity and rounded up the missing and the fallen, re-animating them with spirit and vigour.

With considerable emotion, Amkhren repaid his mentors by charming and impressing the young Rameses; so much so that the King-in-Rising’s final act was to steal him to be be a royal priest in the family palace. The devious Menascare, the mage who turned out to be more sympathetic to the recent past than his new ruler liked, was led away to his death by the triumphant Obion, again with sword and, by now, well exercised arm muscles . . . The temple was not only spared, but given new royal patronage, and Rameses (brilliantly played by David, Sheila’s son) declared himself happy with the unconventional worship of the Divine Feminine.

During the third of the three ‘theory talks’ which always accompany the ritual dramas, I thanked those present for rescuing our workshop. The success had come, not from the play, but from the magnificent souls who had animated it.  We were talking at the time about the Silent Eye’s use of the Djed Pillar and the Scarab. Ali’s character – the bent Snefer, was in the process of being elevated, with royal approval, to the Lady Scarab, in a twist of events, which were, in many ways, the reverse of those events which had brought us to the edge of disaster.

I was told later that, at that moment, the ‘presence’ in the room changed and I went off-script for a period of about ten minutes to talk about our approach to Being in a quite different way than before. I cannot remember all of it – I was truly ‘streaming’ something from another place; but I came back to normal consciousness and realised what had happened. There was no loss of continuity, but the content had gone into a gentle overdrive . . . truly a magical moment, made possible by the goodwill of all those present and my dawning realisation that the intellectually dominated approach to taking all the risks out of an endeavour like this is entirely secondary to the Spirit’s ability to mould and fashion the moment for its purposes.

We had people present who were new to us and also the return of many old friends. The Sunday morning saw the emotional content peak with Sue and Stuart’s Rite of the Seers, during which we were all led off, in threes, by the Vessel of Sekhmet, to come face to face with a living Ankh, marked out in another room in lights on the floor, with a projected picture of the Cosmos on the wall beyond. We returned with scrolls of Egyptian wisdom upon which to meditate in the main temple.

But my moment of the weekend remains that of watching Ali-Snefer-the Lady Scarab, lovely Slithy Tove that she is, bouncing down her green hillside, in the full power of her glorious and heart-warming humanity. The Nightingale Centre nestles at the foot of a Derbyshire edge that hosts a gliding and paraponting school. As Sunday’s glorious sun warmed the day, the air was full of people with wings or para-wings riding down and up on their thermal gradients above us. It struck me that we might need a new word for the way Ali could descend the green slopes below, chanting her ‘nonsense’ poem. I propose Jabberwalking . . . any offers?

Thank you to all.  I believe you enjoyed our annual rite of the spring.  We wish those stricken with the ‘flu a speedy recovery.  Out target for next year is thirty to thirty-five people, so, if you’re interested in the 2016 event, the Foliate Man, which will cast the Arthurian legend of the Green Man and Gawain in the language of the magical enneagram, please contact us by email at or via the website below.

All images and text ©International copyright, The Silent Eye School of Consciousness, 2015.


Contact details and an outline description of the Silent Eye School are on the other pages of this blog and via the website at