COLOUR . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Carol Ann Deans
I love colour and I found this study set fascinating but at the moment I am puzzled by the need for esoteric colour. Why esoteric? Why secret? Unless one is clairvoyant, which alas I am not, how does it help? On two occasions while giving healing in public I have been asked where did I learn colour healing? When I said I had only been taught that all colours are contained within white and had not actually been taught colour healing they were taken aback. Apparently one said, as I worked through the chakras, my colours changed and then layer after clearly defined layer of different colours came down and surrounded the healer. I was very pleased to be told this as it felt like confirmation that something had indeed happened, but a little disappointed that I was unable to enjoy the colour spectacle. Perhaps it would distract me and I would be wowing and oo and ahing and not stepping aside from the healing process.
So back to my question. Why are esoteric colours different and is there any point in knowing that if we are not clairvoyant. It seems different from taking occult philosophy on faith. Words can mislead, philosophies can mislead unless there is a trail to follow, a conclusion that fits or proof that we intellectually see or feel, so deeply we know it to be true. To a certain extent we can try it out. But, how can we do that with colour. We can meditate and contemplate and get a sense of colour but would that be esoteric or exoteric colour. Is the reason for having esoteric colour so that we seek to know and the seeking itself is what is important. But perhaps I should start at the beginning and take it slowly.
Looking at what Steiner says about green, I sit outside and contemplate the green leaves and a sense that the life force has no colour, only the emanations washes over me. I get it! The lighter, newer green leaves feel more vital than the settled darker green.
As I read on I start to appreciate that the feeling of colour is so important and perhaps we all unconsciously do that. However I am confused anew when I read on Page 9 “Esoterically they scarcely resemble their names and the names themselves are intended to blind and mislead”. Also, “the student will wisely reserve his opinion” More blinds, more secrecy? Is colour so important it must be made so difficult to penetrate? Is trying to “see” esoteric colours like trying to “see” the soul beyond the personality?
Waking from sleep, one siesta, after having read pages 15 and 16, I felt my mind part. It slid to one side like a patio door. Fresh air blew in and ushered me warmly into the dark starlit night of comprehension. I sensed “All that Surpasses Understanding”. I did not know consciously what this meant, but I was enthralled. The statement ”the sun was blue” filled me with joy and somehow nothing else made sense!
MEDITATION:
I called for Paul Verinisi. “Show me the colours” I ask. I saw the light filled colours I had been shown once before, except that this time, there were more colours. The background looked like beaten silver and all the colours shimmer on it and through it making a beautiful display of light and colour. The colours are not easy to separate and it feels as if my aura expands and shimmers in response. I fall deeply asleep, awash with colour.
VIOLET.
I don’t understand the words of caution regarding the use of violet and I had been invoking its help very strongly to help heal myself. I have been told that my aura contains multiple shades and tones of lilac/violet so it felt like the right thing to do. But, my health, my strength and my stamina become more and more fragile. I feel as if I have been sliced and carved with a sharp blade. I become overwhelmed and full of weeping despair. I meditate. “Who can help me?” An old friend appears. Spirit of White Eagle stands before me and, as always, standing tall with arms folded. He even smiles compassionately – he was never a smiler! His presence calms me and when he retreats I ask “What colours then should I use” and the indigo of the night sky, which I love, wraps me up in its heartbeat and holds me in its nourishing and protective warmth.
Violet feels shiny and sharp and astringent. Someone once told me it was the colour of spiritual antiseptic. So, perhaps it has been cleansing me not nourishing me. I don’t think I need more cleansing. I have been scoured enough.
INDIGO.
Indigo washes over me, enfolds me. “Rest a while” it says. “All you need, all you need” it repeats, I feel I want to move away from lilac/violet/amethyst. I want to be encompassed by Indigo. Here lies serenity, peace, acceptance. The confidence to let go and free fall. There is a little purple and cobalt in this colour I see.
Another sleepless night. I am in love with the night sky, enamoured of indigo. The peace helps me breathe more slowly. My solar plexus is calmed and nourished. I contemplate the vastness. Everything is contained therein. No need to search more. Is it just that I feel the need for deep peace and spiritual nourishment? I want to rest in Indigo not be flaming and cleansing in violet and sharp and slicing silver.
I consider other colours, Deep rose and oh! Lovely orchid, cool and soft, royal and serene. The colour of humility.
FAVOURITE COLOURS.
I have always liked a background of cool white or cream dramatised with splashes of colour, both in my dress and my home. That way it is easier to change the dramatic effect. In my clothes I am extremely sensitive and the colours I crave can change from day to day.. My overall favourite colour has been coral followed by turquoise but, since the problems with my back I cannot abide these colours! I find I am wearing, and am only comfortable in grey/silver/white and I have no idea why. I can only assume it is keeping me “Calm and together”. I ask myself, “what does grey represent?” and I answer “determination, steely determination”. Makes sense.
My bedroom has shades of rose through to ruby wine and I still enjoy these colours, especially in the late afternoon when the sun shines directly in and everything is tinted a soft pink. Very comforting.
Back in Glasgow last winter the colour experience is rather different. All is grey. Heavy leaden sky and lashing rain mutes the green and any remaining colour grey. The roads, the clothes, the people wearing dull colourless clothes, hard to individualise.. Come late November we are blanketed in thick dazzling snow. Beautiful to the eyes for whom this is a rare sight. The twinkle of the frost promises hidden rainbow colours and when the sky is clear and blue the trees are silhouettes of intricate design. No colour but with a stark beauty not seen when clothed in green, A grey squirrel. A red fox. A blue tit nibbling on the snow laden branches. The rosy cheeks of happy children.
Everywhere is pristine white. The sky, a beautiful clear blue and the sun causing a shimmering haze. As I sit quietly and gaze the palest most delicate shade of pink, with a hint of violet mutes the sharpness of the white. The shapes of the trees are fascinating but I see no more colour. I am aware, however, of the forming of the habit of seeking to see beyond colour.
At home, in my daily life there is colour. There is green outside my window and the sky above, sometimes deep blue, sometimes a glaring grey, I can look for the colours of the flowers in my garden which are mostly pink and lilac but for some reason, at this time, I am not being deeply touched by colour. I still feel absorbed in white.
Upon the astral plane I see gold when I meditate and Indigo. Gold when I do distant healing and Indigo when I want to disappear inside myself. Perhaps too introspective!
In Glasgow in the grey people are huddled and closed. In Lanzarote, at the beach the sand is golden, the sea blue and the people walk with open hearts and smile. However, often people here long for green, long for a forest walk and would love to walk in green countryside in the rain. These are physically significant but have an effect on the psyche. The long dark nights of Scandinavia cause citizens to drink too much and have the highest rate of suicides. The citizens of hot climates have more aggression.
Colours in a healing/therapy room are really important. The first step in the calming process – after the clothes of the therapist. I have noticed the little sigh that people give when they walk into a pleasing room, and their eyes wander to the colour that particularly draws them. While I was seeing clients the choosing of my clothes was completely out of my control and if I rebelled against my instinct I was so uncomfortable I had to relent and choose something in the demanded colour. When the client arrived, the reason for the colour would become apparent.
I think that colour is part of one’s journey. A physical journey is also a spiritual journey and I see that it is bound up with a journey through colour. There was a time when all I wore was black – now I cannot wear it, especially near my face. My first spiritual stirrings had me throwing away all black clothes and wearing purples and lilacs and gradually my subconscious had me veering towards colours that literally made my mouth water. I suppose I could say I became hungry and thirsty for colour.
As I finish off writing this I note I am starting to look for clothes with colour and have been picking out peachy colours. I have a solution! Retail therapy. Go shopping – someone has to do it!
POETRY . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Andrew Nellist
Libra
On each slow turn of the laboured climb
The lands of living lie surveyed,
The scenes of loss and striving, sites
Of victory, defeat, and re-enactment.
Here are palaces of princes built with pride,
There poor abodes with borrowed wood
Give shelter from the storm and wearing wind.
The ravaging boar visits with savage intent
This abused and battered people.
Upon the way our hero met Pholos,
A centaur, entrusted with a cask of wine
Belonging to the centaurs, given by the gods.
With this view as backdrop to their revel,
The hero paused to partake of the vintage
Forbidden to be drunk except by the group,
And another friend joined them.
Of course, when the other centaurs came
To investigate the cause of the excitement,
A fight broke out, with furious fists,
Bellowing roars and hammering hooves.
Killing his companions, and escaping the commotion,
He climbed after the boar into the gripping snow.
Amidst the ice and stone he set a snare
And trapped the beast, taming its savagery.
Down the mountain, holding rear legs up,
He pushed the boar like a wheelbarrow,
Releasing as he went the fate and fear
Of all who lived on hill or in valley.
On the mountainside, slain corpses
Held a different point of view
Upon the scenes of celebration.
——— Andrew Nellist
Scorpio
Approaching the mire the smell reached
Up through the nostrils, throbbing in the head.
Flies stung the eyeballs and stuck
Under eyelids when rubbed to remove them.
Here the deceiving ground tries to trap,
To hold and pull down, more swamp of mud.
Here the Hydra had its home, nine heads
Moving in the murk of its cave, desires
And predilections of a thousand incarnations
Congealed in selfishness, squirming
And slipping to elude the grasp: lust
In one head, luxury in one, in another gold.
Three other faces in this den glared forth,
Fixed white-eyed with fear, frowed
And furrowed with hate, high and haughty.
Three in a dark corner portrayed
Pride, cold separation and cruelty.
The monster sought to strangle Hercules in
Snakelike turns encoiled like Laocoon,
However he avoided this and hewed off
One of its awful heads, which two more
Instantly replaced. Only by heaving
The whole hideous thing into the air
Could he defeat it, starved of sense
And slime that gave it strength.
Suspended in the air and cleansing light,
Upheld by the hero humble on his knees,
It wilted in the sun like an uprooted weed.
Death of the Hydra strengthens the hero,
Imbued more fully with life of the soul.
Overhead, an eagle soared on outspread wings,
Surveying the drying land, feathers
Like fingers transmitting the fire of heaven.
——— Andrew Nellist
Sagittarius
Through long search and sore treading
Hercules came to the marsh of Stymphalus
Where riotous birds roosted, fiercely
Taloned and cruelly beaked, frighteningly
Feathered, eager to attack intruders.
Thick and sharp as vicious words,
They hawked like the thoughts of an angry mind,
So quick that they foiled his club and quiver,
And other plans and efforts to disperse them,
Until he cleared the lot with clashing cymbals,
Leaving the marsh to quieten and recover.
In the lightening air above their den
An eagle spread its healing wings,
Watching below a white horse galloping,
Guided by the archer to his goal;
Riding in the silence of the setting sun
With many trials and accomplishments behind him,
Heading for the mountains and their freedom,
While a white swan glided high overhead.
Such are the symbols and poetic signs
Which signpost our endeavour,
Our work in emotion and mind
Within the world today, as in the past.
When we reach high to touch the finger of God,
And hold that link between spirit and matter,
Mind becomes battlefield, arrows fly.
Then, in the thick of conflict, clouds break
And a shaft of light shines into the struggle.
So it is in a world of theory and belief,
Adherence and illusion, aiming at the heart
Of understanding, allowing more light
To clear the air, to heal the life of man.
——— Andrew Nellist
POETRY . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Kurt Abraham
GOD IS LOVE
GOD IS LOVE read the large gold letters
behind the lectern in the church basement.
Made perfect sense to the boy in Sunday school.
Axiomatic, he might have said
had he known the word, although he wasn’t
perfectly clear how it all played out.
For struggling human beings it seemed
a hopeful affirmation, he might have thought,
though often forgotten and seldom applied
was his obvious observation. Nevertheless,
Sunday school came close. People were
especially kind and he felt good. Even with
forgetfulness, there was a rhythm to the Hope.
GOD IS LOVE—he wondered, just exactly how
does that work? He prayed to the Moon
one night, so large and mighty in the sky,
silly as he knew that was. He sure wasn’t
going to tell his parents—Sun and Moon
worshipers they were not. God is Love,
no doubt, made a lot more sense. It was
a definite feel-good and it was wishful,
and there was the extra food you ate, giving thanks,
while others were starving. “Love your enemies”—
that was a real hard pill to swallow. He didn’t see
anybody doing that. Except maybe one person
at the church, the one people paid so that he
would pray for them. Even though the economics
of it all didn’t quite make sense, people were
healed, there was no doubt about that.
But not always. God works in mysterious ways,
which explained most of the unresolved cases.
Yet everyone had at least one miracle.
Everyone who survived this long had at least one.
When the little boy grew up, he could count
at least a dozen, probably more. GOD IS LOVE—
There’s absolutely no doubt about that.
——Kurt Abraham
The SS7R NEWSLETTER is published three times a year. Editor: Kurt Abraham
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