Visions strolled with the mists of truth. Slow languid steps of an afternoon were left far behind as visions glided effortlessly into the mindscapes of the Mouse. He envisioned a Green Garbed Philosopher, surrounded by creatures great and small. All paying homage and bowing down in reverence to this peaceful giant. The Philosopher spoke a mysterious dialect that very few could decipher. The Mouse overheard the daises and brook, whispering of a secret pilgrimage that had been taking place since primeval times. An ancient journey that all must take. It happened like clockwork; like the switching on of a migrational gene. Ingrained within the very core of existence, dormant; patiently waiting, innately knowing when to release itself. It was a mass movement of a thousand species across all lands. They all had one thing in common- the search for knowledge, perhaps even enlightenment. Many speak of this spiritual migration, but none can provide solid answers as to the nature of it. In shadowy corners of the Forest, there are rock drawings, carefully etched, intentionally detailed, depicting this unusual event. Common elements observed in these cryptograms were gargantuan green objects, glowing with an eerie intensity. The Fae – folk believe them to be the Green Garbed Philosophers – the Trees – primal forces holding time in their lap as a pocket of energy, unchanged and undivided.

Often, instinct swims the sea of consciousness, trying to reach the island of ‘ sense ’ , which is inhabited by ‘ action ’ , but how often it is left unchallenged. We choose to drown rather than swim, only because it is easier.

The Mouse overheard these whispery secrets and was mystified.

But alas ! The Mouse remained trapped in the chamber of ambition. Dreaming of steel and bricks and cityscapes! The Mouse, blinded by ambition, neglected the tiny voice within.

He chose to drown rather than swim, hence the island of ‘ sense ’ was left undiscovered.

Rising up slowly but surely, like a prehistoric phantom waking from slumber, a thick fog swallowed the deepest parts of the Forest – shrouding the secrets, the whispers and the rock drawings with a luminescent darkness.

The Mouse, burning with ambition, continued his journey to the City.

Excerpt from a ‘A Different Kind of Garden ’ by Ansul Noor

Available on amazon.com

I turn and look back, what do I see?
The book of life lying on the table of truth.
The cover is dusty with abandoned hope,
and the pages crumble from lack of trust.

The binding glue has lost its strength.
And fragmented pages fall upon the floor of dreams:
Dreams that in half-flight were shot from above,
now all that is left is the wish to ‘be’.

Words and sentences hide behind lost chapters.
And the writing slants then droops with age.
The midnight blue of the ink,
is now the palest shade of rain;

how beautifully the stories fade.

Excerpt from ‘Sacred Hauntings’
Poem ‘The Book’
By Ansul

1 am.

The witching hour had passed. But for us ER doctors, the hours have no name. It was a chilly October night and a Twilight-Zone calmness gripped the steely corridors of the General ER of the hospital where I worked. The fog of silence languidly crept through every examination room lending an almost dream- like air of solitude to the usually jam packed and chaotic world of trauma and emergencies.

For an ER doctor, lack of chaos can be distracting and I battled to keep my wits about me and stay busy in my head since the quiet had started to creep inside my soul as well.

Before 1 am.

I set about applying the finishing touches to a few admission notes; a man in his 50’s with liver cirrhosis, a child with febrile convulsions, and finally, a lady who had presented with an acute abdomen and anemia. With little gap between patient intakes, I scurried from one room to the other, preparing all the initial lab/diagnostic work-up and subsequent paperwork after I had decided to admit them to the ward.

Approaching 1 am.

After stabilizing my patients and sending them to their respective wards, I steadied myself and headed to the vending machine to get myself a hot cup of cocoa. It was a habit of mine — to remain on my toes until I knew that my patients were safe and secure in their beds, ready for the morning rounds. Mentally, I followed them up on their journey to recovery, and often found myself wandering into the wards the next day, checking up on how they were doing. I had been told by my superiors that this was not required of me, but I just had to know. I couldn’t break the ‘habit’ and I’m happy I didn’t.

Few minutes to 1 am.

Calmness. An eerie stillness. My fingers played with the cocoa stained cup, as I wished for answers at the bottom of it—it was tassology but without the tea leaves, just those intense spilt seconds of contemplation where everything freezes but your thought process. The ER can be an enlightening place. It teaches us about the fragility of life. It teaches us to tame our innermost fears and apprehensions so we can channel them into constructive critical thinking and hopefully save lives. It teaches us to have compassion in a mechanical setting, yet remain strong enough to handle the chaos with composure. But often, the robot of routine can seduce your mind and you can fall victim to indifference. How to retain compassion without falling apart or becoming a robot is a daily battle for the ER staff.

It’s easy being a robot, shutting it all out, moving from one case to the next and never looking back.

Therefore, we must strive to find balance.

Post 1 am

Still in a thought daze, I was jolted when my pager went off. A young lady had presented with shortness of breath and tachycardia.

Room 103 at the far end of the oddly quiet ER.

She waited for me.

I greeted her and sat down beside her. I extracted relevant medical/past history, examined her and ordered some initial bloodwork.

She mentioned that she had trouble sleeping these past few weeks and that she had lost her appetite. Other than that there were no remarkable history/findings except that she appeared anxious and afraid. I sensed it as she talked. Her eyes were blood shot from lack of sleep perhaps?

Or was it was from constant weeping?

She was well dressed and spoke eloquently, yet her voice seemed to be filled with a deep sadness that could be heard if you listened carefully.

My initial diagnosis: Depression coupled with GAD.

I held her hands and we talked about life. She told me that since her parents had passed away, she was in charge of the family business. The stress of daily life was too much bear, but most of all she was terribly lonely. She was a single local woman who was trying to survive in a male dominated society. She struggled daily to overcome sad thoughts and everyone around her had started to label her and chastise her.

No one understood this ‘invisible’ ailment. All she received were awkward stares and her so called friends seemed to disappear.

It is then I saw two glistening tears stain her cheeks.

“Doctora, I wish I had met you before.”

“You are the only one who really wanted to know how I felt, I feel much better now.”

What she required was the medicine of compassion.

I explained the benefits of psychotherapy and that she must follow-up with a psychiatrist. I referred her to a good friend of mine who would be able to help her through the struggles of life.

To which she responded:

“Will that doctor have the gift of kindness?”
“I only need that.”

The Next Day

As with most ER tales — I never saw that lady again. But she left an impression on my mind for years to come. Often, the only action required of a doctor is a kind word, a genuine interest in the ‘invisible pains’ of another. If you forget your humanness, you forget your oath, and soon you will forget your ‘self’.

Might have I behaved in a similar fashion if I were swamped with patients?

Only my conscience can be the judge of that.

Nothing in this profession is beyond the call of duty. Every encounter is special and requires a unique protocol tailor designed to the situation.

Depression and mental illness is greatly misunderstood even today. Core principals of treatment should include patience, care and empathy, and of course medication as needed. It can be challenging to devote time and effort to such issues in an ER or busy OPD setting, but all you have to do is administer generous doses of genuineness to cure that moment of anguish and loneliness.

Mental illness is a hard thing and there is no greater medicine than knowing that there is someone out there who cares.

I’m sure we have all had such moments-in-practice that may have influenced the way we conduct ourselves with our patients and that allowed us to explore the metaphysical meaning of being a ‘true healer’.

A medical degree does not make you a healer— The journey does.

Discharge Summary

Genuine words can change or save a life. It’s a much needed soulful resuscitation, for both, the sufferer and the healer.

By Ansul Noor

‘Beyond Duty’

Far-reaching and far-seeing is our soul. The only truth that exists. The invisible core.

We swim the oceans of confusion, skepticism and worldly distraction. We are addicted to pleasuring our ego. We are deafened by constant states of meaningless noise. In this noise we forget to see, to reach, and to touch. Yet the soul does this for us with such clarity, even though our rational minds may deny its existence. It makes us dance, write, sing, and paint involuntarily. We call these talents gifts or attribute them to active cortical grey matter. But what about those individuals who lack so called intelligence, have an organic brain disease or an underdeveloped brain and do not display normal patterns of behavior, yet are profoundly talented artists, writers, visionaries, musicians or acutely sensitive empaths? There is something inside of us that is far more intelligent that our mere organic existence. A throbbing pulsating energy that is not alien to us, but closer to us than the jugular. We are proudly ignorant and we claim to be an enlightened race?

These arms are far-reaching and far-seeing. We cannot begin to understand their visions unless we begin to let go of two dimensional thinking. Let us think in 5D or even in 7D….what is stopping us but the fear of the unknown. Let us envision parallel dimensions and multi-dimensional realms where anything is possible, where we can overcome any obstacle, where we live our dream self and integrate it into our daily material lives. Let us try and let our soul walk beside us, rather than remain that tiny inconspicuous inner voice.

Let it all be silent. Hear nothing but your heart beat and follow the patterns. Flow with these songs, dances and rhythms till you are completely baffled. Paint like a blind man paints his dreams. The soul communicates to us strangely but honestly. Be not fearful, be not agitated when it speaks but simply follow the ancient rhythms until you are completely baffled.

Only then will you become completely aware.

Ansul Noor
Letters to my Soul
1998
Author of Soul-Fire, A Different Kind of Garden, Sacred Hauntings and The Invisible Rose (coming soon)

Long long ago in the times of the shifting sands and whispering desert winds, there lived a majestic king with his four wives in a dazzling ancient city of a bygone era.

He loved his first wife more than his life and lavished her with jewels from the highest mountains, satins and silks from far off lands and other exotic treasures beyond imagination. There was no gem or precious Attar that she did not own. She was also given the most luxurious and ornate castle to live in. She spent her life in decadence and splendor.

He loved his second wife more than anything and could never be without her. He took her with him on all his travels to other lands. She accompanied him everywhere and both were inseparable. She was given a splendid castle adorned with the most breathtaking garden that existed.

He respected and admired his third wife very much, and did not make any decision without consulting her first. She accompanied him to all important meetings, announcements and proclamations. The king did not budge unless he had her approval. She resided in a stately mansion with a fine stable.

Now the fourth wife, well, the king did not love her one bit. He had forgotten she existed. She became his shadow; a nameless, faceless, voiceless speck of existence. She gradually became forlorn, frail, lost her health and sat in the corner of a bleak and cold room that had no windows. Her clothes were tattered, her feet fissured, her limbs skeletal, her face like a pale sheet, the color of a waning moon. She lived in that bleak unforgiving cell all her life. A dark damp room where pockets of musty air hung listlessly.

But she loved the king most of all and she loved him selflessly.

Years swept by and king was now an old sickly man. He knew his time of death approached like a wolf waiting eagerly upon a wounded prey. But he was scared of being alone and unloved. So he declared that when he dies, his body must be buried with one of his wives, so that he won’t be alone and unloved.

He asked his first and most beloved wife if she wanted to be buried with him.

She vehemently denied and said that she can never give up this grand lifestyle and be expected to lie under a pile of dirt! She further added that she will immediately remarry after his departure from this world.

The king was heartbroken beyond words.

He asked his second lovely wife the same. She shook her head disapprovingly and told him that this was impossible as she still has many more lands to see and discover and it would be such a waste of time to lie under that very same spot with him for eternity. She scolded him for suggesting such a vile and selfish thing!

The king sighed and quietly left.

He now approached the third most respected wife and asked her the same. She was sympathetic and for a while, reflected thoughtfully upon his question. After a brief pause she told him that she will agree to be with him and give him company after his death, but only till the edge of the grave, not within it. In a demure and gentle manner, she told him that his idea was highly impractical, one that would result in the premature end of a useful life- namely hers. Also, there must be someone to look after the internal and external affairs of the kingdom once he is gone. But she agreed to do her best, make all the necessary burial arrangements and be by his grave side until the dark earth envelops him.

The poor king said nothing, but looked gaunt and rather hopeless.

He slowly retreated to his castle- and was now a completely broken man.

A tiny, faint voice from far away drifted up and through the marbled hallways and was heard by the king.

“I agree to be buried with you my beloved husband, I cannot imagine this life without you, and it will be my greatest joy to lie eternally beside you.”

The king hurried towards the voice and to his horror saw a skeletal and wasted woman standing in one of the cells in the cold dungeons below.

She was his fourth wife, the queen he never bothered to know or love.

He looked at her and wept a river of tears. How foolish he was. All his life he neglected this sacred and loving woman. How cruel he was to let this kind, generous woman starve away in a cold dark cell. If only once he had looked her way. If only once he had given her a tender touch.

If only…

She was the only one who loved him purely. He wept until inner oceans overflowed, but alas, it was too late.

The king died the next day and his fourth wife was buried next to him.

But she was happy as she lay beside him forever more…

First Wife:Your Body
Second Wife: Your Heart
Third Wife: Your Mind
Fourth Wife: Your Soul

An Adaptation of a Parable

Once upon a time there was an Ant.
And towards the horizon it did stroll.
It never felt the path but simply walked,
blissfully oblivious of the casting shadow.

The Ant did walk,
and the shadow waited.
Now both in silent murmurs talked…..all the while Horizon watched.

Ant cried: “Eeeeee”
Shadow welcomed: “Oooooo”
Ant gasped: “Eeeeeeee”
Shadow smiled: “Oooooooo”
Ant smirked: “Eeeeeeeeeeeee”
Shadow warned : “Ooooooooooooo”

The forest stilled. The mountains slept. The clouds softly peered. The rivers leapt.

Horizon rose and spoke to Ant: “Why must you walk the path in daze, when truths are found right under your nose?”

And now the Ant did wonder why….and saw the shadow that it cast….

Alas, it saw the truer path….

‘Ant Tales’

Reprint from Sedona Times Newspaper , October 29th 2009, originally written in October 1999

There is really no intellect involved in structuring this statement. The illuminating reason for this discussion stems from the total belief in impermanence. It forms a solid foundation for building inner tranquility.

When we are young and our thoughts are just a seed, we remain in a state of care-free oblivion. We don’t even feel the need to germinate. But, as time walks forward, the saplings reach upward. The more they reach upward, the deeper the roots gain grip of the deep earth beneath.

Therefore, awareness grows bidirectionally- and this is how the buds of realization begin.

The plant of self-realization follows an individually random growth pattern. It may take months, years or a lifetime to blossom into the petals of wisdom. Many variables are involved in this self-evolutionary process. Some variables can be controlled such as our ability as human beings to learn, adapt, rationalize, make conscious decisions, evaluate and analyze. These remarkable innate forces enable our species to maintain internal homeostasis under enormous emotional, physical and spiritual challenges.

Slowly, over time, we develop the ability to bend destiny and fate. Yes, it can be done, and don’t let the critics tell you otherwise.

We all make mistakes, we are not perfect and we are certainly not completely ever sane. But with time, we learn to categorize and classify our mistakes. We learn to transform negative experiences into positive feelings and elevate our ‘self’ by setting new standards of belief, by letting in change. We take practical steps by evaluating the situation at hand and letting our inner voice become our strongest guide. It’s a constant evolution- no one ever said it would be easy. Instead of letting our emotions run haywire, we are now able to mold our actions and show them a productive and constructive path.

We are the custodians of our emotions, our reactions and decisions. Only we can ‘tame’ ourselves. One untamed human being devoid of a conscience can wreak havoc on millions.

We must strive to evolve.

Wisdom brings change.

Acceptance of the inevitable is one such change. Dealing with loss, sorrow, illness, pain, poverty and daily life events in a positive manner is another whisper of wisdom.

When dealing with life-threatening or life altering situations, we are now able to deal with it- something which we were unable to do before.

We now view life as a natural progression of events with impermanent consequences. Death is the only permanent fact, or is it?

I have noticed these subtle changes. The slow metamorphosis. I don’t fight it anymore, or deny impermanence. I accept it. Perhaps now I am the plant, reaching upward, up into the sky where my true home lies. I am growing outwardly and inwardly. Without self-realization we will perish in the fires of confusion, ignorance and enter into the viscous cycle of regression.

We must never allow ourselves to regress. Whatever the obstacle, the handicap, or the level of difficulty, we must never allow ourselves to fall into the static trap of self-pity. Life is precious because it is fragile.

If we allow ourselves to remain in a loop of unchangeability, we will definitely shrivel and wither away. The roots will dry out, the stems will weaken, the blooming will never occur.

As soon as you start feeling the inner universe vibrating; tune in, listen, release yourself from all worldly preoccupations and let the leaves soak in the buds of wisdom. Don’t fight the change, rather welcome it. At first it might seem that you are entering a new realm, an unknown dimension, it might seem apocalyptic;but in actuality it is the opposite. It is peace trying to sustain your conscience and your unconscious world. Embrace the change humbly for true wisdom is remarkably humble. We cannot be wise unless we are tolerant to change.

Suddenly, I feel that this life has shrunken and fits neatly into the palm of my hand. The inner eye is now open. The flower blooms and the petals disperse themselves into the air like wisps of incandescent joy.

Birth, death, death-birth, after-life, all beautifully impermanent.

Why spend our days living in a spiritual drought when we can spend it watering the plant of self-awareness.

Why let this plant die and wither away only because we are bound by ego, consumed by negativity, or chained to conventional thinking?

Nothing is permanent- this is what makes life, this moment, this magnanimous second so precious.

Oh…..I can see it……the plant is now about to bloom.

Author of Soul-Fire A Mystical Journey through Poetry

How easily we communicate our thoughts through writing or art. We just pick up a pen or a brush and we are on our way.

What about the days when the human race could not write or paint?

***

Clouds billowed above me and the skies were tinted a purplish blue as winds picked up from the North – it seemed like a brittle wintery wind from New Mexico was sweeping over the Northern Arizona landscape. The mountains and rivers beckoned and enticed me. The air wore the scent of an approaching storm. The landscape blossomed and gleamed. Despite the warnings, I headed out to seek magic, because one never knows what marvels lay in wait for those who seek.

I put on my hiking shoes and loaded my knapsack with goodies and water. I was ready to brave the unknown. It was a good one hour drive from my place to the Petroglyph Heritage site in Sedona, Arizona. I had heard of this mysterious place from friends who were members of the local archaeological society.

Sedona is a rugged ancient city that is circled by giant Red Rocks (sandstone and limestone) that are rich in iron deposits. You can always expect the unexpected in this sleepy little Western city that is tucked away in the far corner of Northern Arizona. Hundreds of secret canyons, unexplored trails, desert forests and caves form the heart of this strange and mystical city which is also a haven for New Agers, Peace Seekers and Mystics. It’s interesting how the Cedar and Mesquite trees gravitate towards the Vortex hot spots of the Red Rocks; the trunks are twisted and gnarled as if struck by some unseen force. Locals say that the powerful Vortexes are the reason why the tree trunks are twisted in such a bizarre fashion. There is much speculation about the so called Vortexes of Sedona. It is indeed one of the most beautiful places in the world mainly because of its untouched, unique and diverse landscape. They say that a Vortex can be felt and never seen. Many theories and legends surround the mystery of the Vortexes. The most accepted theory is that a Vortex is a circling of spiritual energy that radiates from the core of the earth itself. There is a masculine and feminine component to the energy that reflects the masculine and feminine sides of human existence. The energy is said to have different effects on different people. Every experience is unique, which is what lends this place an enchanting Camelot-like feel. There is vibrational stillness to this place. When you stand in a hot spot you will know it. There is ultimate tranquillity. The shape-changing vistas might startle you at first. The Red Rocks seem to change many times a day. They never look the same. They are alive. They all have faces. It is an incredibly humbling experience. As a friend of mine once said, “Here, I and the Raven become one.”

Here in the pristine solitude of Nature you will be reborn.

And so I arrived at the V-Bar-V, Petroglyph site in Sedona.

I was speechless. Tall ancient trees, dark clouds looming above and winding paths leading to nowhere. I started the hike by emptying my mind of all thoughts thus allowing the spirit guides to show me the way.

I was now walking with the spirit guides of the Hopi and Sinagua tribes that inhabited this area thousands of years ago. I felt unusually energized and joyful – like I was going home. Strange. There was a sense of wild abandon as you hiked this ancient trail. I felt rejuvenated. As me and a few other fellow hikers climbed towards a steadily narrowing path the trees canopied above us and a gentle stream gave us company.

After about an hour of moderate level hiking we arrived at a dead end – abruptly.

There in full view were layers of red rock, angularly cut, hidden deep within the canopy of trees. For a few moments we just stood there – mesmerized. The rich golden-red-ochre colors against the canvas of green was like we were all standing in a living breathing painting. The surreal landscape was painted by an invisible hand. But, the real journey had just begun.

At first I thought it was an extension of Red Rock country, until you peered closely. In a few moments the initial surprise was tamed by curiosity. Slowly but surely I saw it. An ancient canvas of rock. Shapes, figures and symbols started dancing around me and after a while I was encircled by a symphony of symbols. I was here. This was it. This was the site where the ancients painted their dreams onto the natural canvas. I took out my camera and started clicking away, trying my best to capture every bit of this natural wonder. After the first few clicks, I realized that I should stop and pay homage to these ancient artists who had taken great pains to record their lives for us to see. It is then that the symbols started to talk. Every inch of this rock canvas had a story to tell and every story was nothing like the other. They were almost one thousand petroglyphs divided onto thirteen rock panels (almost like chapters of a book).

It became clear that the ancient tribes that dwelled here were ‘dry farmers’ and ‘gatherers’. Geometric symbols were a dominant part of the pictographs and petroglyphs. One could almost envision an ancient irrigation system of some sort that connected a river source to the rest of the farmland. Ploughs, fork like objects were another prominent feature, indicating the existence of farming practices.

I then noticed a whorl-like symbol that either could be indicative of a Vortex or as many experts say, it is the representation of the Winter Solstice, an important event in the lives of these peoples who depended on the crops for sustenance.

Another interesting feature of these petroglyphs was the abundance of animal symbols. In every rock chapter I noticed figures of coyotes, deer, antelope, rabbits, lizards, snakes, mountain lions and other wildlife scattered in or around the geometric motifs. Yellow-ochre, sky-blue and deep brown pigments had been used to accentuate certain features, whilst other drawings were simply chiselled into the rock using specific implements.

Rock drawings can be found in various sites all over the globe – perhaps your region has one?

This was their life story that they painstakingly wrote for us to see. This was the book of their life and these symbols were their letters through which they could mark important events and record history as they knew it. This was a story ‘before’ writing and every word was a powerful reminder that the human race is a creative one that itches to tell their tale.

Every story is worthy of respect and every story is worthy of being told. One does not have to be an expert, or a bestselling author or a celebrated painter, all one needs is a burning passion and the deep desire to tell a story.

Pictographs and petroglyphs are considered primitive forms of art, but to me they hold profound messages from a race of people who lived purely, bravely and truly. They respected Mother Earth, ate from the bounty provided, were not greedy and listened to their inner voices. They were the original storytellers who pined to tell their tales even if it be in the form of rock drawings. They saw magic in everyday life. To me, this ‘rock’ book was a bestseller.

I learned so much in just those few hours. The ancient ones unknowingly inspired me forever.

What story will this generation of humans leave behind?