FAIRY TALES OPERA CYCLE |
PETER HUEBNER · THE ISLAND OF HAPPINESS |
The Ancient Star Path of Our Ancestors to Cosmic Power |
The Middle Ring of the Mind in the Light of the Moon | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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Knowledge
and Power Over the Processes of Growth |
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On
the next clearing they saw a group of girls and boys sitting on richly
decorated mats in the flower-strewn grass, playing with grains. ”Do
you have a fir?” one of them asked her neighbour. “How many branches does the fir have in its twentyfourth year?”
his neighbour now asked. ”Fourtyfive,” was the answer, ”nine
rings, and five on each of them.” ”And how many twigs?”
the beautiful girl continued to ask. ”On each branch I see ten,
which makes 450.” “Well, prove it.” The young man in green-silvery festive robes threw the seed three yards before him into the grass and blew at it, and immediately a splendid fir, decorated with green needles, grew up. Around its trunk ivy was ranking upward, so that the trunk was clothed completely in delicate green leaves. When they counted the branches and twigs, they found out that the statements made earlier were correct. “Now let us count the needles,” said another participant, and blew into the tree. Immediately it stood in bright flames. Many, many small blue flames burst forth from the redgolden glowing fir. From each of the needles a light shot out, and each little blue flame was followed by a red-white spark, which dragged a redgolden glowing trail behind it. It appeared as if the whole tree stood in a shower of shooting stars
which rushed at it from all sides. In the midst of this fire-work suddenly the trunk and branches glowed up once more, so that they shone bright silvery-golden through the blue-red golden rain of stars. In the middle of the silvery full-moon night it seemed as if the bright sun wanted to rise in the shape of the tree; but then it sank, just as it had risen, with a burst of sparks, in which the sparkling glow poured down from the height of the radiant fir to the ground. The group of those practising was left in the calm, white-shimmering clearing. ”Correct,” said the flame-thrower to the seed-thrower. ”I have heard the sounds of 9,457,875 sparks.” “These students practise the perception of details of the lively
on the level of its smallest common diversity,” Sol explained to
his sister. “Letting
something grow fast is of secondary significance; the main thing in
this exercise is to see the fully grown living being in the fertile
seed already. “Here again you see twelve judges of Agni assembled around the place; they guard the interplay of the divine forces within the elements,” Sol continued his explanations. “And the wise alf, who sits behind those practising on the golden-silvery chair, is the teacher of this exercise.” “He is a relative of the goddess Sif, Ivaldi's daughter, who has
invented the seed, as you know.” |
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© A A R E D I T I O N I N T E R N A T I O N A L 1985 |