My Mystic Bell and the Angel's Wings

This morning I opted to wear one of my favourite pieces of jewellery – my mystic bell pendant - an Indonesian mystic bell in a hinged sterling silver filigree cage. Mystic bells like mine are designed after the ancient Crotal bell form – which is considered the oldest form of bell if current archaeological records are anything to go by.  Caged crotal bells like mine have been made in Indonesia for more than two hundred years.  Apparently the King of Bali wore caged bells with diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires to adorn his uniform.  Mystic Crotal bells have always had a spiritual significance to the people of the region.  Indonesians believe these bells are connected directly to the Buddhist and Hindu spiritual realm. The direct connection of bells to the spiritual realm is as old as Time itself.  

I love this piece not only because it is different but because I love the soothing gentle jingle of the bell.  I was looking at it on the train while contemplating some other issues in life this morning and it struck me how prevalent bells in some shape or form are in our lives.  They are everywhere!  I was alerted to it by an annoyed cyclist who rang his bicycle bell at me furiously this morning to get me to move out of his way.

Think about it – bells announce that someone is at the front door, alarm clocks wake us with a ringing sound, mobile phones ring to tell us that there is a call waiting, you ring the bell for service in a hotel and even my microwave has a chime!  Bells are rung at funerals and weddings and to start off a new round of fighting in a boxing ring. 

Bells signify the beginning and ending of something.  Bells summon people to events or inform students that the lesson is about to start and that they have to hurry to class.  Bells are rung to summon worshippers to prayer or to warn us not to cross railroad tracks.  They also soothe – like the tinkling of chimes in the wind.  In traditional Feng Shui bells are associated with prosperity and protection.  Even belly dancers use small bell-like finger cymbals called zills to enhance the music and dance.

Then there is Christmas and the annoying “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…” which seems to be the carol of choice in shopping malls.  Even Santa’s reindeer have bells attached to let children know he’s coming.

Our Sleigh in Ramsau

A few years ago, Handsome and I went to Austria in December and spent Christmas day in a ski resort in Ramsau.  We went on a horse drawn sleigh ride around the Dachstein and one of my fondest memories of that day is the jingling of the bells on the reins and the sleigh as we raced along the snowy landscape in the crisp mountain air – sipping schnapps as we went along.  It was the most beautiful Christmas day I have ever experienced.  I recall that there was a rather eccentric Jewish man who resembled Santa Claus with his flowing white beard. The more schnapps he drank, the more jolly he got and the louder he sang Christmas carols in a rich baritone voice. The sound of my mystical bell sounds so much like the bells on that sleigh.  I would give anything to be able to go back to that day.

Perhaps our attraction to the bells stems in part from the sense of unity we experience while listening to the ringing of a bell. The tones of a bell vibrate through the clothes, skin, blood and molecules of its listeners simultaneously. It is a collective experience that subconsciously draws us together.

Think of the Liberty Bell which announced the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence in the United States.  It helped unify the Colonists on a vibrational level down to their very molecules, and according to some sound/healing researchers, down to the level of creation. Creation stories from around the world include passages metaphorically describing sound or vibration as a creative force. When we create sound here on Earth, we are honouring that first creation. 

If you have ever been to Westminster Abbey, Notre Dame, Chartres or any of the major cathedrals in Europe when the bells are ringing, you will understand what I mean. You feel it ringing in your bones.  It is majestic, mystic and indescribably beautiful.   I reckon bells are symbolic of the harmony existing in society. It acts as a medium between heaven and earth, bells and especially their clappers, represent communication and suspension between humans and God.

My little mystic bell may be small and have a soft jingle but it is felt and heard.  It is not only an idiophone but also an ideophone – the sound of it is enough to take me back to the snow capped peaks of Ramsau, gluhwein, fresh mountain air and a wonderful sense of contentment I felt for the first time in many years.  My little bell is special – to me anyway.  Besides, as the adage goes – “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.”

I pray my angel hears my bell and spreads his wings...

God has a sense of humour

I vividly remember my first visit to Paris and the first time I stood at the Place de l’Etoile (which has been renamed Place Charles de Gaulle) - the crazy intersection surrounding the Arc de Triomphe.  There are no less than 12 straight avenues which intersect at this point – hence the historical name which translates as Square of the Star.  The apparent absence of distinct white lines to regulate the flow of traffic, with ten cars abreast seems like madness to me.   Crossing seems like definite suicide – hence the subway for pedestrians.  Today the Arc de Triomphe and the Place de l’Etoile seems to be a fitting metaphor for another very complicated crossroad in my life.

Sometimes life seems a lot like the Place de l’Etoile to me.  There is so much hustle and bustle and flow of activity around me and the disturbing thought occurs to me that unless I know where I am  going – I am sure to get lost if I take the wrong avenue.  Trust me, I know – I’ve been lost in Paris and ended up in the Pigalle district! 

And life is never simple is it? I really think God has a strange sense of humour at times.  Why not just place me at an intersection with just four intersecting avenues where the options are limited and therefore simpler:  A, B, C or D?  But no – life is more fun when it is has a buffet of complications  – a pastiche of no less than 12 intersecting and intricate issues and avenues (A to J?) which is enough confuse the hell out of a simple-minded woman like me.

I wish it were possible to disambiguate life and people as we are able to do in computational linguistics in which word sense disambiguation aims at identifying which sense of a word is used in a sentence when the word has multiple meanings.  Wouldn’t it be useful if we could use the same process to figure out what people are actually saying when their words and actions are infused with a variety of dissonant meanings?  Wouldn’t it be bloody marvellous if we could devise an algorithm to figure people out?  But I guess it would come with its own caveat – people can speak in metonymic terms which screws up the whole discourse all over again. 

 

In fact, people are far too much like their words – infinitely variable and very context sensitive.  Just like words, people do not easily divide up into distinct or discrete sub-meanings.  I find myself empathising with the bleary eyed lexicographer in the dungeons of a library, who frequently discovers in corpora loose and overlapping word meanings; discovers their standard or conventional meanings extended, modulated and exploited in a bewildering variety of ways.  The same applies to people… I have come to the conclusion that some people are simply impossible to pin down and figure out.  Even when you think you know them better than anyone on the planet – trust me, you haven’t scratched the surface to the Pandora’s Box within. 

Which begs the question – can you ever truly know someone – who they are, deep down - there where the Disprin dissolves? 

I am beginning to think that it is not entirely possible.  We are all palimpsests – ancient scrolls of parchment which have been written upon twice, the first writing having been erased to make place for the second.  The first writing is our usually tormented and twisted childhoods, past experiences, memories, defeats, victories, history.  The second – seems to be like the etch-and-scratch magic slates we used to play with as children – with what seems to be written on the surface so easily removed by sleight of hand.  And the text keeps changing, the discourse is discordant, fluid and at times meaningless.  And unfortunately, in many instances the first layer of writing is etched too deeply to be erased entirely.  It still rises to the surface in the most annoying and inconvenient ways and no matter how hard you try to erase it, it permeates the second layer and any other one after that.

I have found myself with the same sense of bewilderment and exasperated confusion as the lexicographer in the dungeons of the library.  Unpredictability, instability and chaos seems to be the order of the day these days.  Nothing seems to fit the way it should and as soon as I think I have the corpora down pat, I find another layer of meaning to this tear inducing mascara haemorrhaging onion of life!  Lately, my favourite three letters of the alphabet are W.. T…F. With good reason.  Even the calendar agrees after Tuesdays…

Lately, I tend to feel like the confused tourist at the foot of the Arc de Triomphe all too often.  I look around me at the bewildering ever metamorphosing life I have and sometimes I wonder  which of the twelve traffic lanes I should jump into first. The challenge these days is merely crossing the street – without getting hit by a bus or worse.  Perhaps I should try to Forrest Gump my way to the other side.

It seems like such a fitting image for me today – at the centre of the chaos is the Arc de Triomphe which stands as a spectacular monument in honour of those who fought and died for France in the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.  The names of the French victories and French generals are inscribed on the inner and outer surfaces of this spectacular monument.  

Aren’t we all a similar monument to our own victories and casualties as we struggle through life?  I am a monument to what I have survived and conquered but like the Arc de Triomphe, the names of the casualties are inscribed on the inner walls and the apparent emphasis on Victory belies the sadness of loss and death entombed within.  Underneath its spectacular vault, lies the forlorn Tomb of the Unknown Soldier with the flame that is kept burning day and night.  I too have a Tomb for my Unknown Soldier and he too is unaware of the devastation he has left in his wake.  Like the fallen hero beneath the Arc de Triomphe, he is blissfully unaware of the loving care that is taken to tend to the lantern – to keep the flame burning.

I recall watching the crazy maelstrom of traffic at this bizarre intersection for a while and I have come to realise that there are two options here:  step defiantly and confidently into the lane of oncoming traffic (in the face of disaster defiance is often the only recourse) or find the subway – it is there – you only need to read the signs to find it.  Then again, my French has always been just enough to get me into trouble.  Perhaps that explains it.  So, for now, I’m scouring the landscape for signposts which will lead me to the magical subway to get me from my point A the elusive point D or was it E, or F or…. Dammit!