Highfire - The Rain Dance
The Mountaintop Flame v2
There stands in a long forgotten valley a mystical mountain which is known to only a few, and to those few by various names.
It is the Mountain of Truth and the Peak of Folly, Sophia Summit and the Horn of Babylon, as well as many more besides, but it is known to me only as the lonely landing of learning.
Here I have made my home in a cave on the highest cliff of the mountaintop, over which the peak yet towers, tall and strong.
I commune with the mountain, hoping to become one with it in spirit, and spend my days in reading, reflection and meditation.
The mountain is surrounded by mist every morn, which not only isolates the peak behind an impenetrable wall that admits of no sunlight, but in addition effectively saturates both my surroundings and myself, condemning me to endless nights fighting off the bite of frost with no hope of starting a fire to warm or dry myself.
Despite the unforgiving conditions, I choose to live up here because this mountain is special — this mountain is alive.
I know that it lives because every now and then — a rare occasion indeed — its spirit becomes visibly manifest in the form of a glowing numinous flame which burns upon the very peak. You see, although the might of the mountain is shackled by the double bind of the mist, which obscures its penetrating gaze in the same breath as it dampens its spirits, once in a blue moon the stars align and the same force which usually keeps the creative spark bound instead enables it to flourish because it acts, for a few moments, as a lens which refracts and focuses the sunlight upon the peak.
In those kairotic moments, when time stands still, the ever-present spark which lives in the soul of the mountain is brought briefly into being as a kindling of fire, and as it breathes in the pure mountain air it flares to life, pushing back the fog with waves of light and heat.
Suddenly the mountain can see, and its soul soars as it is inspired by the dizzying heights of the intellect, the fire burning ever more brightly as a result. By so burning, the clouds are momentarily banished, and there is a profound instance of insight as the mountain is allowed, for a heartbeat, to glimpse the valley in which it stands.
As the light radiating from the fire touches the land all around which was until moments ago completely hidden beyond the veil, the mountain suddenly sees something of its place in the world, and thereby enjoys a fragmentary glimpse of its cosmic self. All the land which is touched by the living light is nourished by it, and begins to become aware of itself.
As the soul of the surrounding soil slowly awakens from its deep slumber, it is quickly animated by the tender care of the attentive spirit of curiosity and, before long, life begins to spring forth left, right and centre. The life form lives in a living land and is thus nourished by a world which seems otherwise ambivalent about its survival; yet the land is bountiful, and despite the difficulties, life begins to thrive.
That which has been created by the radiance of the sacred fire, having in its most distant memories been nurtured by the warmth of the mountaintop flame, instinctively pays tribute to the mountain and, building temples and living around the feet of the mighty, broadens the very giant himself. They are protected in his shadow, and begin to build fortresses, walls upon walls, in an attempt to keep the snakes out of their gardens and the precious things in.
Soon enough however the snakes penetrate the walls, because they already lived within, and the men are forced to flee across the sea, becoming separated from their ancestral home, their original land and the source from which their peace of mind sprang of old.
Despite the distance, however, some among them can still hear the echoes of the fragments of forgotten songs, lost memories of the past.
These few are guided, they are the few who bother to remember their dreams and to heed their message, and they are drawn ever back towards the mountain of truth and the sacred flame from which they sprang, seeking always to recover that which they somehow know has been lost. They seek to find again the wholeness of spirit which they felt before they were separated from the fire — or perhaps it was before even then?
Those rare individuals among the cascading generations who feel the pull of the sacred fire are inevitably touched by it, having been drawn towards it their whole lives, and they remain marked by the transformative nature of this, most profound of revelations. From then on these seers exude a love and gratitude which harkens back to the original ethic, and which is reminiscent of the sacred flame itself. Their kindness and mindfulness are infectious, and other men in droves begin to take notice, attempting to emulate this inspired attitude towards life.
Thus it is that the spiritual ethic is reborn at the beginning of each epoch, as the changing of the times alienates us from the traditions of our ancestors, and we are forced to forge anew a different way of being and relating to the existential puzzle in which we find ourselves ensnared. There is always a child of hope lurking among us who is ready to rise to the occasion and act as the channel through which the new message will be communicated. Whether that message is of man or of god, remains to be seen.
Once received, this message, genuine or not, will become the basis of a tradition and a legacy which will span generations. Those teachings which first drew the eyes of men to the supposed prophet will be repeated and called his wisdom. These traditions hope to promote faith, gratitude and love in the people, though they are quickly corrupted by the men who preside over them, men who too often are mere followers, not leaders.
Despite this, the remembrance itself is often enough to sustain the spirits of the truly faithful, and every couple of generations a child is born with eyes to see that once again the church has fallen asleep in the light, and has forgotten its faith. Thus, while a tradition stands, there are always men and women who are renewing and rejuvenating the message, bringing it to life and imbibing the spirit of it themselves. There are always people of faith.
Over the aeons, the mountain is indeed nourished by their faith, and grows slowly further into the sky as the surrounding territory comes to know itself and the conditions of its existence more and more intimately. It grows, perhaps simply because it is alive, but also because, as the mountain and its people grow deeper in relationship, their spirits are added to its own, their roots extend its roots, and their works raise it up stone by stone towards the sky. It all begins, however, with an inner spark, projected outwards and manifest as fire.
Of course, I am not the only one who knows the secrets of the mountain that I have told you thus far; many men have worshipped the mountain, in their time, and many more men have worshipped such men, in the times that followed. I have always preferred, however, to tend to the flame itself, no matter how many men wish to worship the ashes.
As such, what I am concerned with is the deeper secrets of the mountain, such as the method for creating conditions which are optimal for the flame’s continuing to burn for whole consecutive days, rather than sporadically or intermittently, which is all most of us are able to witness — if we achieve these touches with the transcendent at all, or recognize them as such.
So, I have chosen to live up here on this lonely mountaintop because I feel it is my calling to nurture the spirit of this sacred space, and to enter into communion with it, that I might help it to live forevermore. A lofty goal, to be sure, but after all if it is at all possible, it seems a worthy aim, and I have certainly chosen the proper dwelling if I wish to make my life’s work the pursuit of such lofty goals.
In my many long nights I have learnt much about the flame, and about the signs which precede and indeed precipitate its conjuration within the soul and upon the mountaintop peak. It has shown me a great many secrets.
For a time, I had a teacher who lived with me on the mountain, but one day a terrible storm came and carried him away. I never saw him again.
Still, in the year that I was able to work with him and learn from him, I absorbed a great deal, not least among which was everything that he knew about the ancient art and sacred science of stalking synchronicity.
This, I discovered, was the key to communion with the spirit of the mountain, the signature of the world-soul, and it was this which taught me the meaning of the path I had walked to arrive where I stood on that very day when I witnessed the sacred flame for the first time.
This guided me to texts meant for me to read, and expanded my perspective on the world and on life considerably, allowing me to absorb everything that mystic knew about the mysteries which ensnared my soul.
He was even able to teach me the lesson he had not learnt himself. Thus it was that, when the storm carried mystic away, I was able to go on without him, guided now by the spirit of the world.
Since that day I have learnt much, and studied much, yet nothing have I studied as fervently as the mountaintop flame, that which is the object of this current piece of prose. But I digress; let us return to the fire.
In my time communing with the spirit of the mountain, I have not only glimpsed the sacred flame more times than I can count, but I have seen it burn for a full day more than once, and once I have seen it burn for three days in a row.
So it is that I have had more opportunity to meditate upon the nature of the flame than most, and so I will share with you a few of the secrets I have gleaned, since I can tell that you are a fellow seeker — if you were not, you would not have read this far.
If the spirit of the mountain gets carried away with the joy of the moment, then it will expend its energies too soon and will find itself exhausted, its fire extinguished long before the night has fallen.
If, on the other hand, it holds back for too long, then it will not establish for itself enough of a foothold by drying out the surrounding areas of the peak and spreading where it may.
Thus, when night falls and it becomes colder and more difficult for the fire to breathe, it may succumb to sleep rather than continuing to smoulder throughout the night.
These, however, are elementary observations to the learned eye.
What will not perhaps be so discernible to all who are wise is that there is, in fact, a way of augmenting the sacred spark so that the light it casts lands on and reveals gems hidden in plain sight, rendering them visible to the eye and providing, for the moment and for the moment alone, a path by which one might inspect and, perhaps — if conditions are favourable — retrieve one.
It involves, however, invoking the spirit of the mistress Mary Jane the Rain, by dancing in gladness with the world around us and by enjoying in full the gift of the present moment in all its grace and glory — by appreciating and savouring, that is, the infinite bounty of existence.
This MJ, she’s a free spirit, a being of flower and feeling, and she brings the cleansing rains which wash away the impurities exposed by the fierce light of the fire. Yet I am in the unfortunate habit of trying to cage her, contain her and control her, so that she does my bidding.
I love her dearly, you see, and I know that she and my mountain-king are meant to be together, but I am always trying too hard and coming on too strong when I try to facilitate their union. I do not allow them to flirt, as I should, and therefore I upset the delicate balance which is required for their harmonious co-existence.
Either Mary’s flightiness is too much for my mountain man, and she breaks his spirit, or he burns too fiercely in his attempts to woo her, and he scares her away. The mixture must be just right, the balance exactly on the edge of the blade, else all will be lost once more.
This lady of water and earth can, I have learnt, be summoned by the addition to the sacred fire of a certain amount of the herb which is her namesake, followed by the administration of a strong dose of the medicine known as patience.
An eagerness to see the lady often overcomes a man who begins to flirt with her, and he rushes into excess before he has been fully able to appreciate his first taste. This is catastrophic, because the more intense becomes the rain, the more is the air rich in moisture, and the more productive become the clouds which cloak the mountaintop and saturate its peak. The fire naturally begins to choke, to suffocate, and there is naught one can do to take back the tribute that was burnt.
Yet if one is able to hold their tongue and still their hands, and to wait for what has already been added to take full effect, then the optimal outcome will be possible. That is: the harmonious union of the light of the fire and the mist of the water, a sacrifice on behalf of both which makes possible the birth of their progeny.
When the rains are called forth at the kairotic moment by the timely and tempered addition of the catalytic herb, Mary Jane and the Mountain Man are allowed a brief meeting, and as he lays his fiery eyes upon her he is struck through his core.
In that moment the phoenix in the soul of the mountain bursts from its egg, bringing the mountaintop flame roaring to life, a flowing inferno of creative energy which, for a time, cannot be quenched. He is in love, has found the opposite to which he wishes to be wed, to be bound to forever in commitment, and will do anything to ensure the success of their union.
This, however, all depends upon balance; in balanced interactions, the resulting mist filters but does not obstruct the passage of light, and consequently one may glimpse the interplay between the light of the fire and the mists of the water, which together produce a child, fairer than both, called the rainbow.
The rainbow is an ideal: it is perspective par excellence, containing the entire spectrum of colours in a harmonious whole. The progeny of the pairing between the Fire — the essential expression of the creative spark of the Transcendental Light — and the receptive rain, the Elixir of Life, is desirable precisely because it constitutes a balance struck between two divine opposites that results in the harmonious symphony of the entire spectrum.
Therefore it is a symbol of enlightenment, a transcendental realization which thereby elevates the framework of the individual. But it is not only this, for it is a child, and thus contains within it seeds of growth.
It will, if it is cared for appropriately, have its own independent life which goes beyond the boundaries of each of its parents. For the rainbow is only the beginning; we must act on the golden opportunity which is presented, or the child will not come to be, and will remain half-born, an abortion.
For the rainbow is merely a symbol, it is not the realization itself; rather, it marks the way to such a realization, but such ephemera fade rapidly and then there is only the vague memory of a ‘somewhere over there’.
While the rainbow is visible, one can pursue the resonant connection and discover the pot of gold hiding at the end of the bridge of light, however if one neglects to pursue the path which is picked out by the multicoloured light, it will be difficult to recover in retrospect.
When one fails to follow the rainbow in a timely manner, it can often lead to a short-sighted attempt to find it again through the addition of more of the sacred herb, but as you might imagine, this leads to a thickening cloud cover and a stifled, dormant flame.
Besides, one never sees the same rainbow twice, and trying to force something like love has never worked, since time immemorial.
At the end of the rainbow is a pot of gold, or a gem, or a land of milk and honey; however you conceive of treasure, that is what awaits you there, as the old myths say — if, that is, you can brave the intimidating path, walking across a bridge of light stretching high over open air.
Successfully walking the tightrope and returning from the journey bearing an artefact as proof that you had a waking dream — this seems to be linked up with the sacred flame staying lit atop the mountain’s peak, like a great candle at night, a monument to the royal light of the day, yet but an emanation of the central star.
The fact that going with the flow and following the rainbow is connected in some mysterious way to the sacred flame’s staying lit I know because on my few occasions executing this sequence successfully, the flame atop the mountain has burnt bright all night!
Indeed it is hubris to suppose it has something to do with my actions, and yet… I wonder.
Synchronicity is guiding me to something, and always was.
The only question is, what?
