The Eagle and the Rose Page 22

  And the parent who talks of charity, but gives none, will develop a charityless child.

  And the parent who talks of communication, but talks so much he fails to listen, will have a child who screams and shouts and yells and will not communicate.

  And those small children are not cruel, but yet experiencing, developing, and growing.

  And the cruel act and the cruel deed will come only by example.

  For each child is beautiful, born pure.

  And each child is born with gentleness and sensitivity.

  And each parent will have the opportunity to develop that sensitivity and that GENTLENESS.

  But your fine words and your fine explanations will not be an influence upon the child, for the child's eyes will see all.

  For children are knowing creatures.

  And will learn by example only.

  Question:Grey Eagle, if we pray for God's forgiveness, will He give it to us?

  Answer:God will heed your request. He will look into your heart, and if this request is born of truth, and of love, and comes from the heart, then God will take you to Him.

  But this truly is not a matter for God. For we will know, because we are wiser than you, that the important question here is, “Will you forgive yourself?”

  For unless you can forgive yourself with humility, with kindness, with GENTLENESS, and with understanding for your own limitations … unless you can look into your heart and truly forgive yourself, then no matter who else says to you, “I absolve you of your sins,” you will not be at peace.

  For true peace comes from within.

  Question: Grey Eagle, in a material world is it wrong to desire material things?

  Answer: I will not talk to you here of right or wrong.

  The use of these words does not apply.

  I will only tell you that if you put material comfort above all things, then you will damage your growth.

  And it is for you to choose whether you wish to do this or not to do this.

  But nowhere is it written that a man cannot lie down and place his head on a comfortable pillow.

  And nowhere is it written that a man may not place a fur wrap around him to keep himself warm.

  Remember only, know only, that material wealth is no more a key to heaven than poverty.

  Know only that when it is your time to leave the earth plane, and to begin your life anew, the wealth that you bring with you will be the wealth of learning that you have gained which is within your heart.

  If a man may choose to have a silk cushion or a hard rock to lie his head upon, then why should he not choose the silk cushion?

  And God will not judge him harshly.

  And if a man may choose to swim in a blue lagoon, or to walk in a hot dusty desert, then would he not be foolish if he did not choose to swim in the blue lagoon?

  There is no need for man to punish himself, to deprive himself of his comforts, except only if this deprives another and hurts another. And so, if your material comfort is important to you, then why should it not be so?

  But remember this. And I will say this to you, and from my heart.

  The most beautiful thing is the love of the heart.

  The most beautiful thing is the ease of the heart and the comfort of the heart.

  And if you deprive yourself of this one small thing, then do not be surprised if your silk cushion becomes tearstained.

  And do not be surprised if the blue lagoon becomes muddied with the unseen blood which you have shed.

  First, give to the heart, and all else will follow in its own time.

  Question: Grey Eagle, how can we deal with our own hurt feelings while striving to understand another who seems to have wronged us?

  Answer: In your world there are many who will refuse to accept responsibility for their own actions … and, first, you must be prepared to accept that responsibility.

  Blame … fault … these are words that you will use.

  A finger pointed at another in accusation.

  A finger, often harshly, pointed at your own self in accusation.

  Where is your GENTLENESS?

  Where is the softness that the soul demands?

  Where is the love … true loving, which comes from deep within?

  A love of life … the love of your own soul?

  Where is the stillness within you?

  Do you believe that it is truly gone?

  Do you question that it was ever there?

  Oh, be still, my children … oh, be still … be quiet … and listen.

  Your own soul, and the heartbeat of your soul, whisper to you …. Be still, and do not fear this GENTLENESS … for without it, you will always blame … you will always judge.

  Discover this GENTLENESS, which is your own true heart.

  Look to yourself, in any given circumstance, before you should look to another.

  Accept the responsibility of your soul and your own spiritual growth, for you and no other … have the power to be still.

  Question: Grey Eagle, how best can we deal with life's crises?

  Answer: So many of you here on the earth plane walk through your lives in darkness. You turn to the light briefly, in times of need, then turn away.

  When you turn from the light, you turn away from God … and, inevitably, you turn inward, and you become closed … and you hold your pain to you … and then the seed of the soul cannot grow, for it needs light to grow.

  Turn your face to the light, for in that light you will find warmth … you will find healing … and you will find love.

  Accept that all things given are a gift to you and part of your learning process.

  Take your courage in your hands and step into the light.

  Turn your face to the sun and allow God's light to shine down upon you.

  For you are children of God, and as children, if you reach out your hand, God will take it, and He will hold it firm, and He will steer you to a greater understanding of your own self … and He will give you His strength.

  He will not stem the flow of tears, nor will He wash away your pain … but He will take you to His breast and comfort you.

  Come, sit by my fire.

  Hold out your hands to the flame and be comforted by the warmth of it.

  But understand that there are many who keep this fire going.

  My fire needs kindling.

  My fire needs those of you who will labor … who will go out and collect kindling to place on the fire.

  The fire is there for all, and there are many who will come and sit by the fire. They will warm themselves … they will feel comforted … and then they will turn away to continue their lives.

  There are those of you who will come and sit by my fire, and you will marvel at the height of the flames and be grateful for the warmth that the fire gives out.

  And when you are truly comforted, you will turn away and continue with your lives.

  And then there are those of you who will come and sit by my fire, and you will see how tall the flames grow … and you gain comfort from the warmth of the flames. And when you have been comforted enough, there are those of you who will then recognize that if the fire is to continue burning, in order that the many should be comforted, then there is work to be done and kindling to be found.

  Come, all of you, and sit by my fire.

  We demand nothing from you.

  We ask that you give nothing … except only if you want to do so.

  Come, sit by my fire and listen to the wise words.

  Listen to the crackle of the sticks as the heat of the flame burns through them.

  Watch the sparks fly … each spark is a light … each spark is truth … each spark is a knowing.

  Come, sit by my fire, and I will warm you….

  I look to my guide, Grey Eagle, and with gratitude in my heart that he should share his wisdom with me, I say to him:

  “I am but a student … a willing student.”

  David

  When answeri
ng the question “Why are we mortals so cruel to each other sometimes?” Grey Eagle says:

  “And each of us must talk of sensitivityand tolerance ,must talk of understanding and communication.”

  These last chapters show not only how cruel we mortals can be, but how cruel life itself can be. Yet what seems cruel can teach us of our sensitivity. What appears harsh can show us how easily we lack tolerance. What seems unfair can lead us to a greater understanding, and what confuses and muddles us will show the need for communication.

  When David lived here on the earth plane, he was unable to communicate, but his experience of life here, his mortal life, taught him many things. This young man, I was to discover, was born brain-damaged and lived most of his life on this side bound to a wheelchair. Unable to walk or talk, or do anything for himself, David was totally dependent on his parents and his sister.

  As he grew older it became more and more difficult for his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, to manage, but they refused to put their son into a home. It was important to them that they take care of David themselves, no matter how hard it was.

  There are many people in the Harrisons’ position who find themselves with a terrible decision to make. Do they struggle to keep their child at home, or do they put their child into care? Some parents find it impossible to cope with the problems that their disabled offspring bring and are forced through circumstance to send their children away. Others, like June Harrison and her husband, keep their children at home.

  Neither way is easy, and the decisions can be heartbreaking. But for the Harrisons, keeping their son at home with them was a decision they never regretted.

  As I talked to David at my first meeting with his mother, I realized, probably for the first time, that a child born mentally and physically handicapped is not incapable of seeing the world and the people in it in an ordinary way. The child's body and brain might be damaged, but the mind, as David showed me, remains intact.

  My first close encounter with the handicapped was years ago, when I was fifteen, and, strangely, at the local mental hospital in Leicester where my grandmother had been a patient—The Towers.

  The drama group to which I belonged at school was asked to entertain some of the more able patients. We were to give a performance of Hiawatha, and I had the lead part. I did not know then, nor did I discover until about two years ago, in 1992, that the Song of Hiawatha speaks of “Grey Eagle.”

  Mystic songs like these, they chanted,

  “I myself, myself, behold me.”

  It is the great Grey Eagle talking

  All the unseen spirits help me.

  Of course, as you might expect, all the group made silly comments about visiting the “loony bin,” and we all had a bit of a giggle about the whole thing. We must have seemed an insensitive bunch of silly schoolgirls.

  It was only as the coach taking us approached the gates to the hospital grounds that my nerve began to crack a little. And my mother's words, spoken often in my childhood, came flooding into my head to haunt me once again:

  “You'll end up like your grandma, in The Towers.”

  I gazed out of the window and up the long driveway toward the large, cold, and imposing-looking building ahead, and I shivered.

  But as the coach pulled up to the front door and all the girls and the two drama teachers jumped up, such was the hustle and bustle of preparing for the show that I was drawn along with the rest of the crowd, with no time to think.

  The play went well, very well, in fact. The audience applauded, and we were then invited to stay for tea. Having had the usual lecture that always preceded any school outing, about being representatives of the school and so on, we were all, naturally, on our best behavior.

  We were shown into a large hall with trestle tables partway down one side on which there were sandwiches, cakes, and biscuits. All around the rest of the room were people, patients, our audience, seated on hard-backed wooden chairs.

  As we stood, my little group of friends and I, in a huddle by the door, wondering what to do, a nurse came up to us and explained cheerfully that we were expected to chat with and try to make friends with our audience.

  This was more difficult at first than it might seem, as some of the patients were quite withdrawn. One or two even burst into tears (I now know that these people must have been suffering from depression). But we soon got into the swing of things, and chatting to these strangers became easier.

  Then I noticed a lone figure sitting all by herself right in the middle of the room. This lady was possibly in her mid- to late forties, although it was difficult to tell her exact age. She had obviously placed her chair as far as possible from everyone else, and she sat still and silent and strange, very definitely strange.

  My friends by this time had also noticed her, but such was the feeling of oddness that emanated from her that not one of us wanted to approach her.

  “Well, one of us ought to go,” I remember saying, “so I'll do it.”

  As I walked toward this still and silent figure, the thing that struck me most was a feeling of the most incredible loneliness, not just for her, but for me as well. And as I drew closer her pain and despair seemed to creep over me, covering me like a blanket of fog.

  Her hair was black, jet black with streaks of gray, and cut straight round as if someone had used a pudding basin. Dark, despairing eyes stared out of a face devoid of any emotion and bored straight through me. The dress she wore was navy blue with tiny white flowers, and in her hand she held a lighted cigarette.

  So still did she sit that although the cigarette had burned down almost to her fingers, none of the ash had dropped off at all. The length of ash was as long as the cigarette had originally been. I stared at it in amazement. I had never seen anything like it before.

  Deeply moved by this lonely creature, but also terrified, I coughed nervously and tried to say hello. At first I could hardly speak, but, determined, I forced myself to make the required effort. For what seemed like an eternity I struggled to make some sort of conversation, but it was as if I were addressing a stone wall.

  Nothing flickered, not an eyelash or a muscle. Not even the cigarette ash.

  Then I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder, and a nurse said quietly, “It's no good, dear, she's not at home today.”

  As I walked back up the room to my school friends, I could feel the prickling at the backs of my eyes, the awful lump in my throat, and, worse still, the weight of hopelessness and helplessness upon my shoulders.

  I don't remember the rest of my time in that hospital, but I do know that I was glad to get out of there. But the memory of that pathetic little lady will stay with me always.

  The fear I felt with this lady is the same kind of fear I also felt when I was asked to visit the daughter of a client of mine. This child had had massive brain damage at birth and was in a special care unit at St. Catherine's Hospital in Doncaster in the north of England. Her mother warned me before I went that several kids in this unit, housing some of the worst handicap cases, were not a pretty sight.

  When Samantha found out where I was going, she wanted to come along, and I tried to persuade her that it was not a good idea. I didn't know what we were likely to come up against, and being a protective mother, I didn't want my daughter to see the “ugly” side of life.

  How wrong could I be!

  Samantha, eleven years old at the time, was fine. It was I who had the problem coping.

  Superficially, I did the rounds, saying all the right things, nodding and smiling in all the right places. But inside me was turmoil, panic; all I wanted to do was run, just run away from these deformed creatures. They weren't children, were they? It was even questionable whether some of them were human. Their bodies were so distorted.

  Then, as I sat in the day room, waiting for my friend to finish her visit and wishing myself a thousand miles away, one of these creatures shuffled up to me on his bottom. He couldn't use his legs because they were so badly mangled. His arms and han
ds were twisted, as was his face, and to complete this picture of ugliness, his hair, thick and unruly, stuck out from his head in bright ginger spikes.

  I pretended not to notice him, but to my horror his twisted fingers caught hold of my skirt and tugged. At the same time, out of his mouth came a moaning sound.

  My heart began to thud loudly, banging in my chest. What was I to do? I tried to ignore him, but he was persistent and just kept on tugging. Then a nurse, passing by, said casually: “It's all right, love, he just wants you to button up his pajama jacket.”

  I froze. Oh no, not me. I couldn't, didn't want to— touch him.

  But why?

  A few moments later the same nurse came by again. “If you do his jacket up, love, he'll stop pestering you,” she said.

  Well, now I had no option but to cooperate. Tentatively I looked down on this ugly little creature and, gritting my teeth, reached forward and did up his buttons.

  There now. That wasn't so bad, was it? I thought as I leaned back on my chair. The thumping in my chest had subsided, and the panic I had felt had eased—but then, oh no! The tugging began again.

  I sat forward, looking straight at him this time, thinking that perhaps I ought to move, as it seemed the only way to get rid of him.

  It was as I was about to put my thoughts into action that the boy gave another hard tug at my skirt; then, making a noise something akin to a loud chuckle, he hooked his thumb into one of the spaces between the buttons on his jacket and yanked hard. The jacket flew open, and a wicked grin spread across his twisted face as he tugged once more at the hem of my skirt. And I fell in love.

  For the first time since I had been in that awful hospital, I laughed. It had become blatantly obvious that this funny little thing had been playing games with me. Wanting my attention, needing recognition. And because of his persistence, he had won.

  The instant I laughed, his crooked fingers gripped his jacket and flapped it up and down, and he bounced up and down on his bottom in pure delight.

  I reached forward again, but this time with gentleness and tenderness. And as I did up his buttons, I spoke to him softly and looked, for the first time, at the little boy. I looked into his eyes, which were bright and alert and full of mischief, and my heart went out to him.