Robert Burns Remarkable Cottage Coincidence

Robert Burns Cottage, Alloway

Coincidences aren't a new thing ! This one dates back to the 1930s and features the birthplace of the famous Scottish poet Robert Burns.

Robert Burns 1759-1796

Some 16 years ago a visitor to Burn's Cottage at Alloway detached one of the brass handles of the drawers of the poet's writing desk in the museum.

Another visitor, who saw what had happened, told the caretaker, and eventually the offender was traced to Carlisle and the brass handle recovered.

The other day a visitor to the Cottage recalled the incident and stated that he was the culprit. The regrettable affair, he said, had been on his conscience ever since. He lived abroad, and on his first visit to Scotland since the incident he came to tender apologies and at the same time handed over the sum of £10 towards the funds of the Cottage.

The same day a chauffeur who was driving a party of tourists from England said to the caretaker at the cottage, "You were not here 16 years ago!"

The caretaker said he was not. The chauffeur then asked if he had heard about the handle of a desk having been appropriated and recovered. The caretaker said he had.

"Well," said the chauffeur, "I was the man who drove the offending party."

It is a remarkable coincidence that these two men would turn up at the Cottage after 16 years on the same day.

Source: The Glasgow Herald - July 18, 1930.

I am also on Google Plus

Other Random Posts:
The Bird Who Gives Us Hope No Matter How Dark The Day
The Mysterious Suicide And Coincidence Of The Silk Clad Actress
Black Bart And The Stage Coach Robberies Which Started As A Joke

The Grass Isn't Always Greener On The Other Side

The grass is always greener on the other side - well so the saying goes. I was reminded of this when I came across a cutting from the Montreal Gazette, dated July 1948. It's a poem by someone called E. Anne Pomeroy - I don't know who she is - there's nothing I could find on Google, but here's her poem.

PERSPECTIVE

A farmer was plowing a meadow

In typical indolent style;

Lamenting his choice of occupation

Over each weary mile.

Looking up he spotted an aeroplane

Silver etched against the blue:

Said he, "Though born to tradition,

And a farmer to be, 'tis true,

How I wish I were that lucky fellow

Up there a-riding the blue."

The pilot looked down on the meadow,

With its various shades of green,

And spotted the indolent farmer

Driving the plow and team:

Said he, "What a lucky fellow,

Not a care in the world I see;

No rushing across the Atlantic,

And back to a hanger like me:

I'll bet for many a dollar

He wouldn't change places with me."

~ E. Anne Pomeroy

Other Recent Posts:
The Hoover Dam Coincidences
Miles Of Smiles And Good Things For 2016
Are These Comforting Messages From Dead Loved Ones?

The Bells Of Poetry Coincidence

The Bell at Rye Church

This is a vintage coincidence story about the author Rose Hartwick Thorpe, one of her books being Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight.

In the early 1900s, when Judge Tourgee was editor of the Our Continent magazine, a number of Rose Hartwick Thorpe's poems had appeared in the publication. In fact all she had submitted had been accepted.

She wrote a poem called Wrecked and sent it off in the normal way to Our Continent. In about the time it would take to reach the editorial rooms and return it made its re-appearance back at her home, which was then in Chicago.

Enclosed was a letter from Judge Tourgee saying that one of the strangest coincidences that had ever come to his notice had occurred when the poem reached his office. 

On receipt he wrote on the poem that it was already accepted for the next issue of the magazine. Then he realised that this was a different poem to the one he had for publication.

The poem he had already accepted had the same title, Wrecked, and the same subject matter and versification. The poem he had accepted, however, was by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

The similarity in the authors' names made the coincidence all the more remarkable.

Judge Tourgee returned the manuscript at once, so that it might be sent elsewhere before the Our Continent edition came out, in which Mrs. Lathrop's poem was to appear.

Rose Hartwick Thorpe dispatched her poem immediately to another publication. It was accepted and she received a larger payment than she would have gained from Our Continent.

Other Random Posts:
UFOs Connecting The Living And The Dead
23 Funny Children's Letters To God
The Four Coincidences Which Linked Two Men

Where Is God?

I was talking to a couple of Jehovah Witnesses and I asked them where God was. The older of the couple looked upwards and made a gesture with his hands, again upwards. He did this without thinking, and then tried to give me another answer.

Wondering where God is, first puzzled me when in my teens. At the time I thought I had the answer and wrote a poem about it - a poor poem I might add, but despite my embarrassment here it is.

The Search

I've looked everywhere to see your face,
To feel the glow of your grace.
I've searched all the countries far and wide,
Delved everywhere looking from each side.
I've mingled with the Church congregation
Of this and every other nation.

But still my soul it felt alone,
Until I found by chance your home.
I looked within and there I saw
The open entrance to your door.

For I am you and your are me.
Not only the blind cannot see.

Okay, I said it wasn't very good! But I think, by chance, I had hit the right note, even if a bit out of tune. What made me think about all of this was because of the Jehovah Witnesses reaction to my question, and also because shortly after the visit I opened a book by chance - as I often do - and came across the following,

"... the brain can only answer barren words, whereas the spirit answers with ravishing experience of internal illumination ... mystical concentration will receive increasing confirmation of the truth of man's divinity by his own experience. Books and Bibles will begin to lose their authority as he begins to find his own.

God is His own best interpreter. Find the god in your own heart and you will understand by direct intuition what all the great teachers, real mystics, true philosophers and inspired men have been trying to tell you by the tortuous method using words.

There is ... one way to discover who we really are. That way is to pass from the outer to the inner, from being busy with a multitude of external activities to being busy with a single internal activity of the mind.

St.Augustine soliloquises thus: 'I, Lord, went wandering like a strayed sheep, seeking Thee with anxious reasoning without, whilst thou wast within me ... I went round the streets and squares of the city of this world seeking thee; and I found thee not, because in vain I sought without for him, who was within my self.'"

~ The Secret Path by Dr Paul Brunton

Other Random Recent Posts:
Mystery Of The Disappearing And Reappearing Wedding Ring
Walking The Cornish Coast Looking For Tin Mines
White Feather: A Sign Of Protection From Her Deceased Husband

Tread Softly Or Damage The Robe Of Many Colours

For a long time now I have believed that our actions, words and thoughts react on other people. They can start off a chain of good or bad.

If we get angry with someone or a situation, for example, this will be passed on to others in a chain reaction. We may not have meant to do this, but unintentionally we can set off a reaction of good or bad. that passes from person to person, situation to situation.

I guess, therefore, we have to be careful as to what we say or do to others and tread softly.

What made me think of this today was because I came across a poem in a very old book. I don't know who wrote it, the credit in the book is simply given as 'Chela'. In Hindi this is a version of the word celaa which means disciple or pupil.

Tread Softly

Tread softly, softly, softly,
You are on holy ground
And the earth wherein you walk
Is bathed in light;
For the fabric of creation
Is most wonderfully weaved
In a seamless robe of splendour and delight.

'Tis made of love to unify
The warring sons of men
So tear it not by judgements harshly given;
For any angry, careless word
Will break a loving thread
And rents are formed by thoughtless criticism.

Then nought but countless hours of pain
And discords hardly borne
Will to the soul its waywardness reveal,
And many a tear will flow before
The eyes can see to sew
With new found threads of love, the rent to heal.

There is but one great sin for men
- The sin against his brother,
Against the holy love which binds
Each life-form to the other.
The rending of the fabric
The tearing thoughtlessly
Of the robe of many colours
Which is love's unity.

~ Chela

Other Posts:

Do We Know The True Three Secrets Of Fatima?
The Giants Of Tenerife Left Over From Atlantis
The Curse Of Tutankhamen's Trumpets: Did They Start World War II?

The Bird Who Gives Us Hope No Matter How Dark The Day

I've published lots of posts on white feathers and white doves. The following poem was pointed out to me because of this. It's about how hope comes to us, like a bird, no matter how dark the day.

I hadn't heard of the poem previously or the poet. I've since found out that Emily Dickinson was an American poet, 1830 - 1886, who was born in Amherst, Massachusetts.

'Hope' is the thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

~ Emily Dickinson

Other Poetry Posts:
Death Is Nothing At All
The Young Soul Of The Cranky Old Man
We All Need Love And Kindness Not Bullying And Hate

Paracelsus And The Guardians Of The Human Race

It's sometimes said that walking amongst us are Guardians of the Human Race. These individuals are serving, seeking, searching and experiencing - but with self made rules and standards. Robert Browning wrote of Paracelsus:

"Such men are even now upon the earth,
Serene amid the half-formed creatures round.
For men begin to pass their nature's bound,
And find new hopes and cares which fast supplant
Their proper joys and grief; they grow too great
For narrow creeds of right and wrong."

As for Paracelsus himself Wikipedia describes him thus:

"Paracelsus (born Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim, 11 November or 17 December 1493 – 24 September 1541) was a German-Swiss Renaissance physician, botanist, alchemist, astrologer, and general occultist. He founded the discipline of toxicology. He is also known as a revolutionary for insisting upon using observations of nature, rather than looking to ancient texts, in open and radical defiance of medical practice of his day. He is also credited for giving zinc its name, calling it zincum, and for the terms "gas", "chemistry" and "alcohol". Modern psychology also credits him for being the first to note that some diseases are rooted in psychological illness."

As an aside, it's interesting the knowledge that JK Rowling had of magic and alchemists. Paracelsus appears as a bust placed in the halls of Hogwarts and is also included as a card in the Harry Potter Packets of Chocolate Frog candy.

Here are 10 Quotes from Paracelsus:

Life is like music, it must be composed by ear, feeling and instinct, not by rule. Nevertheless one had better know the rules, for they sometimes guide in doubtful cases, though not often.

Thoughts are free and subject to no rule. On them rests the freedom of man, and they tower above the light of nature ... create a new heaven, a new firmament, a new source of energy from which new arts flow.

He who knows nothing, loves nothing. He who can do nothing understands nothing. He who understands nothing is worthless. But he who understands also loves, notices, sees … The more knowledge is inherent in a thing, the greater the love.… Anyone who imagines that all fruits ripen at the same time as the strawberries knows nothing about grapes.

Be not another, if you can be yourself.

The dreams which reveal the supernatural are promises and messages that God sends us directly: they are nothing but His angels, His ministering spirits , who usually appear to us when we are in a great predicament.

A mortal lives not through that breath that flows in and that flows out. The source of his life is another and this causes the breath to flow.

All things are poisons, for there is nothing without poisonous qualities. It is only the dose which makes a thing poison.

Man is a microcosm, or a little world, because he is an extract from all the stars and planets of the whole firmament, from the earth and the elements; and so he is their quintessence.

Thoughts create a new heaven, a new firmament, a new source of energy, from which new arts flow.

Once a disease has entered the body, all parts which are healthy must fight it: not one alone, but all. Because a disease might mean their common death. Nature knows this; and Nature attacks the disease with whatever help she can muster. 

I guess the lesson from Paracelsus is that we should dare to think for ourselves and not follow the well trodden path to sameness and mediocrity.

Other Random Posts:
The Handed Down 30 Pearls Of Wisdom
Words Of Immortality And The Big Bang
An Ode To Coincidence Via The Lord of The Rings

We All Need Love And Kindness Not Bullying And Hate

Izzy Dix with her mother Gabbi

14 year old Izzy Dix wrote this poem after attending a local music festival and returning home in floods of tears.

I Give Up
by Izzy Dix

I arrive,
Happy and fresh,
Ready and excited
To celebrate the goodness.
I am eager and keen to have a good time.
As I smile from the bubbles of anticipation whizzing around in my stomach,
I begin to see the crowd ...
I see more people,
Many are happy and joyful.
They're there like me,
To celebrate ...
I smile at them and say hello to the many faces I see.
They look shocked and surprised to see me ...
I question their judgemental glares as I wonder,
"What have I done wrong?"
I see their drinks swilling in their fingers as their backs begin to face me.
I try to edge my way back into the circle of giggles and talking,
They push me away.
I stand still,
My eyes glazed and absent.
Suddenly they call me over,
I think, "Yes! They've noticed me!"
But then it begins,
They start to ask questions,
As to why I am there.
They begin to tell me that nobody wants me there.
They tell me to leave and that I am not wanted,
Not there, not anywhere ...
My heart,
My head,
My body,
Numb ...
I feel pricks of stinging begin to pinch my eyes as cheeks begin to burn.
"Don't let them see you.
Don't show them that you're weakened,
Weakened by their remarks."
"Stay strong," I think ...
But it's too late,
My palms, clammy,
My cheeks, streaming,
My neck, sweating.
I walk quickly away from the chanting and laughing.
My vision, spinning,
My heart, beginning to break.
I look down and walk.
My eyes drowning in a sea of emotion.
Another piece of me, chiselled away by their cruel remarks and perceptions ...
I give up.

On the night of Tuesday 17th September 2013, 14 year old Devon schoolgirl Izzy Dix tragically took her own life. Her death has been linked to bullying, both at school and online.

Izzy's mother Gabbi released the poem in the hope that her daughter's words might make other potential bullies think twice about their behaviour and perhaps prevent a further tragedy.

It hurts that anyone should die in such circumstances - it seems that Izzy suffered months of cruel taunts from school pupils and internet trolls.

Mrs Dix said, "I want young people all around the world to think about the potential impact of their behaviour before they act. We all need to be motivated by love and kindness, not nastiness and hate."

Amen.

The Young Soul Of The Cranky Old Man

Here's something I saw on a comment from Elizabeth. I gather it has been doing the Internet rounds:

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.

Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, They found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.

Cranky Old Man

What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . when you're looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food .. . ... . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . .'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . ... lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?. .Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .. ...Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ... . . . . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . And the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.
It's jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.
Not a cranky old man.
Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. .... . ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one day, be there, too!

PLEASE SHARE THIS POEM!

The best and most beautiful things of this world can't be seen or touched. They must be felt by the heart!

~ Elizabeth

I've nothing to add, the poem says it all.

Other 67 Not Out Posts:
Are We Pre-Programmed For Limitation And Death
The Dress For The Aged Coincidence
A Secret Freemasons View Of Old Age And Death

Hiawatha Meets Up With A Cornish Summer In February

I had been looking at an ancient book, well over 100 years old, of the poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and in particular the Song of Hiawatha.

This Hiawatha poem is very long and stretches from page 221 to 291 and reminds me of my mother. It was one of her favourite poems- so a few memories stirred. The book was originally hers.

That same evening Karin and I went to the cinema to see the newish movie Summer in February. It was her choice but I went along willingly as the film is set in Cornwall, where I live.

Against the backdrop of the Cornish coast, it tells the true story of a love triangle between the artist Alfred James Munnings, Florence Carter-Wood, and Gilbert Evans who was the land agent in charge of the Lamorna Valley estate where the Lamorna members of the Newlyn School lived and painted. It's probably best described as Munnings' bohemian period period.

And here's the synchro or coincidence. One of the early scenes in the movie is set at one of the Newlyn parties and AJ, as he is known, is discussing poetry. To prove the point he is making he starts to recite quite a chunk of Hiawatha by Longfellow.

Who would have thought that a film set in Cornwall would have any links to Hiawatha.

The Morning Road by AJ Munnings of Florence Carter-Wood

The final verse of Hiawatha

Thus departed Hiawatha,

Hiawatha the Beloved,

In the glory of the sunset,

In the purple mists of evening,

To the regions of the home-wind,

Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin,

To the Islands of the Blessed,

To the Kingdom of Ponemah,

To the Land of the Hereafter!

From my book: Henry W Longfellow together with his signature

Other 67 Not Out Posts:
A Chaffinch And Poems Exhumed From The Grave
An Ode To Coincidence Via The Lord of The Rings
The Wedding Poem Coincidence

The Fleeting Reality Of The Wayfarer

You, wayfarer in the universe

who go through life like a meteor,

make sure your fall into the void is not in vain

do not go straight from nothing to nothing

but give a meaning to your fleeting presence

in this fleeting reality

cultivating the most sublime of achievements

and the highest goal of Consciousness

which makes Matter great:

love through non-attachment.

A Buddha is inside you:

make him grow until you become

another of his incarnations.

In the eternal flow from nothing to nothing

make sure that between one nothing and the other

Consciousness and Love

take their place in the evolution

of this universe.

I'm not sure who wrote the above and I can't trace it on the Internet. I don't even know the title of the piece. I just felt I should include it in a post today, for some reason.

Other Quotes Posts:
An Ode To Coincidence Via The Lord of The Rings
Top Ten Zen Buddhist Quotes Of Taisen Deshimaru
Life Is But A Dewdrop On The Lotus Leaf: 20 Quotes On Life

An Ode To Coincidence Via The Lord of The Rings

It's strange how things come about. I was wondering what to write about today when I came across a small coincidence about JRR Tolkien. I'm not sure how, or indeed why, but this led me to Corrie ten Boom - someone I didn't know much about previously.

But first the small Tolkien coincidence. This is the start of his epigraph to The Lord of The Rings:

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne

JRR Tolkien died in 1973 - and if you read the numbers of the verse in reverse order you get 1-9-7-3.

That's it, but as I said, this led me to Corrie ten Boom because I noticed that she had written a poem - said to be her favourite - called Ode to Coincidence.

I'll quote the poem in a moment but first brief details about Corrie. Her first name was Cornelia but she got called Corrie and was born in Amsterdam on April 15, 1892.

Her claim to fame is that, along with her father and other family members, she helped many Jews escape the Nazi Holocaust during World War II.

I read in a short biography of her and that: "During 1943 and into 1944, there were usually 6-7 people illegally living in her home." She and her family were later imprisoned for this.

Corrie later wrote a book about her experiences and ordeal called The Hiding Place. .

When made a prisoner by the Nazis a clerical error allowed her to be released from the concentration camp one week before all women prisoners her age were executed. Being very religious she said of this, "God does not have problems. Only plans."

This is her poem:

Ode to Coincidence
My life is but a weaving, between my God and me
I do not choose the colours, He worketh steadily.
Off times he weaves sorrow, and I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent and shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful in the skilful weaver's hand
As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.

There are many quotes attributed to Connie that make a lot of sense. Here are a few.

"Worrying is carrying tomorrow's load with today's strength - carrying two days at once. It is moving into tomorrow ahead of time. Worrying doesn't empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength."

"How often it is a small, almost unconscious event that makes a turning point."

"Don't bother to give God instructions; just report for duty."

"Happiness isn't something that depends on our surroundings - it's something we make inside ourselves."

"Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future."

"Forgiveness is the key that unlocks the door of resentment and the handcuffs of hatred. It is a power that breaks the chains of bitterness and the shackles of selfishness."

"The measure of a life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation."

"Worry is like a rocking chair-it keeps you moving but doesn't get you anywhere."

... and many more besides.

And finally: Corrie ten Boom was born on the 15th of April and by 'coincidence' also died on the 15th of April - 1892 and 1983.

Other Posts With A Touch Of Poetry:
A Chaffinch And Poems Exhumed From The Grave
The Wedding Poem Coincidence
Death Is Nothing At All

Death Is Freedom And All Is Well

I have written a similar post to this previously about how Death Is Nothing At All, but a very similar thing happened today.

I wrote recently about how I needed to declutter my office. I was working my way though a case full of bits and pieces and came across a travel card in a plastic wallet which belonged to my mother who died in 2005. The strange thing is, I was thinking about her while I was sorting out.

I pulled the travel card from the see through wallet and behind this was a folded piece of paper. On this was written the very same poem I found once before in another of mum's wallets. On the paper someone had called the poem Death when it is actually called Death Is Nothing At All - you can see the full poem here.

It wasn't in my mother's handwriting so someone must have given this to her - it ends with All Is Well - a sign perhaps that all is well with her. I'd like to think so.

As for the travel pass itself this is called a Freedom Pass. Is that what death is? Freedom - and then all is well.

Makes you wonder.

Similar 67 Not Out Posts:
A Chaffinch And Poems Exhumed From The Grave
The Over Powering Love Of Near Death Experiences
10 White Feather Story Posts As Examples Of Messages From The Dead

Do We Have Time To Stand And Stare

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars,

like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

~ William H Davies

The photos I snapped the last time I was in Crete. The top two are in a mountain village off the tourist trail and the other is of the cemetery overlooking the sea.

Anna Laetitia Barbauld And Life

Anna Laetitia Barbauld

Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; Tis hard to part when friends are dear, Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear. Then steal away, give little warning. Choose thine own time, Say not "Good-night," but in some brighter clime, Bid me "Good-morning."
Anna Laetitia Barbauld (20 June 1743 – 9 March 1825)

The Young British Soldier And The Futility Of The Afghan War

There's very little new to this world, so much so that we should be able to learn from history - but we rarely do. I came across the poem The Young British Soldier by Rudyard Kipling. As it's quite long I've just included the two final verses. It shows the futility of fighting in Afghanistan - but we haven't listened have we? Maybe some of us have but governments rarely take notice of what 'the people' think.

The two final verses of The Young British Soldier:

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

~ Rudyard Kipling

See also 67 Not Out Posts:
Is Afghanistan History Repeating Itself?
Afghanistan The Ultimate Sacrifice

The Secret Path

I've been re-reading some of the old books on my shelves. This passage from The Secret Path by Dr Paul Brunton brought home something to me:

"Man walks along the dusty roads of life like that seeker of old time who spent years wandering through foreign lands in quest of rare treasure of which he had heard, whilst all the time he himself was being sought for as the heir to a great fortune. Wrapped in the folds of our own nature hides a rare jewel, though we know it not. None has yet set a price upon it, nor will any ever dare to do so, for its value is beyond all things of known worth."

Brunton is referring to our true self, for we are spiritual beings. We get sidetracked by the physical body and the material senses. To quote The Secret Path again:

"Heaven lies about us, not only during the innocent days of infancy, but every moment of existence, yet we know it not. A few are so close to the truth that they are unconsciously waiting for the miraculous moment of recognition."

As Walt Whitman wrote in his poem To You:

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life ...
The mockeries are not you, Underneath them and within them I see you lurk ...Whoever you are! claim your own.
Other Random 67 Not Out Posts:
Is There Life After Death?
We are the souls and spirits to help fashion and dwell in future realms
There Is No Teacher But Your Own Soul

Synchronicity Starts With Samuel Taylor Coleridge

It was the first full day of our break in Somerset and the morning was dark, dismal and raining. Never ones to let the weather get the better of us we headed to the nearby small coastal town of Watchet. As we walked in the drizzle by the harbour we came across a statue of the Ancient Mariner. This was in respect of the poem of the same by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

I said to Karin that my mum liked reading Coleridge, especially the poems The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan. I thought no more about this but when I got back to our car I realised that a trashy paperback I was reading was also by someone named Coleridge: Nicholas Coleridge.

The afternoon brightened up and we walked along the shore line past many beaches full of pebbles. That's where I took the above photo.

In the evening, when we got back to our accommodation, I was looking at some leaflets the owner had left for us. And one of these was regarding the 'Coleridge Way'. This is about 'Following In The Footsteps of the Romantic Poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772 -1834'. So that was why there was a statue of the Ancient Mariner in Watchet.

It seems that Coleridge lived in this area at a place called Nether Stowey and the Coleridge Way goes right past where we were staying at Roadwater. We were literally on the Coleridge Way. I didn't know any of this until I read the leaflet while sitting in the corner seat below.

Next to the chair was a small corner table, which can't be seen in the photo. On this table, left by the owner, was a book called Bambi and Me. As I mentioned in my post Memories Of Bambi this animal has sentimental links for me to my mum.

So, putting the synchronicity all together: we see a statue of the Ancient Mariner at Watchet in recognition of one of my mother's favourite poets Samuel Coleridge. I just happen to be reading a book by Coleridge. On returning back to where we were staying I find out there's a 'Coleridge Way' passing yards from where I was sitting - and next to me was a book about Bambi, which links me again back to my mother.

Chance happenings? I don't think so. There's more to it than that, but I'll leave readers to draw their own conclusions.

And changing the subject completely, while in Watchet we came across this tiny lock up jail used prior to the 1800s.

The court was held at the nearby Bell Inn and anyone causing a public nuisance, or considered likely to abscond while waiting trial, was held temporarily in this tiny lock-up jail. Be careful in Watchet as this court still technically exists - and you wouldn't want end up locked in this jail with no facilities! The building adjoined to it is now a small museum.

Other Somerset Posts:
The Clapper Bridge Where The Devil Sunbathes
The Holy Well That Saved a Saints Head
Dunster And A Reminder Of Carefree Days
The Lucky Lessons Learnt In Somerset

Photos: © Mike Perry