Photo: Louise Roberts

The World Awakens to the Shambala Spring…

“This calm, serene, orb, sailing majestically among the myriad stars of the firmament.” The Clangers

When we look at the world around us, we can see our own blindness — the midwinter madness of what seems like a dark hour. But like the turning of the seasons, change comes. And the world waits. Patiently.

We do not summon the Spring. It appears when ready. We arise as it arrives, beckoning in an accelerated surge of growth, stirring the sleeping Earth into an ecstatic explosion of new life. The soft sweet breath of the breeze, clouds rolling back to unfurl a billowy blue sky, beautiful buds bursting from bare brown branches. The recharging heat of the sun’s rays. We could power whole planets with this. We already do.

The sap is rising. We feel it. A harmony of hearts in tune. Eyes bright and sparkling as the sunlight on the lake. Smiles wide and warm as the vista over the rolling bumpy blanket of hills to the far horizon. There rests a lone Tor. Orientating us. A milestone. We still have far to travel.

A melodic music-scape of birdsong rings through the trees. Celebratory chirrups. Practiced tunes. An avian jam of enthusiastic improvisation. Laughter tinkles delightfully on the wind in a reciprocal serenade with the birds. A soothing seduction between folk and feathered. And a persistent tap-tap-tapping, like metallic wood-peckers echoes up from the forge. There amulets are fashioned from the same metals in our blood.

The seasons of humanity are an evolving cycle. The fractal Mandelbrot Set of humankind. One annual terrestrial revolution, our own personal three score and ten, 100,000 turns of modern Homo sapiens, 3.8 billion since the first molecular flutter of genesis, 4.5 billion since our home span out from scattered stardust.

We journey through a thickly canopied forest, in the liminal space between earth and sky. Last season’s leaf litter crunches underfoot, beneath which lie the rich cultural humus and nourishing soil of history. Deeper still sits the unyielding reassurance of the fundamental bedrock below.

Complementary connections complete this system through which we dance. Spirits recognise soul-mates unspoken, drawn magnetically like migratory birds along lines of Ley that link us to each other — to our kin — and to our kith, our land.

When we rest in nature and allow ourselves to sit and be stilled, she eases us out from ourselves like a true impresario. We become expansive, reminded of our place in the interconnected co-operative crew. Collectively creating the greatest show on Earth. Her Beltane enthusiasm is ours; boisterous, bedazzling, bountiful.

Our destiny is not to extricate ourselves from these ancient bonds. A surgical excision that cuts the tender tendrils binding us together…only to stand clinically sanitised and alone. Apart from nature, no longer a part of it. Urban. Urbane. But Lost. Such atomised isolation and disconnection wishes a withering fate upon itself. Concrete choked. Digitally imprisoned.

But our hearts burst open at the kiss of anothers’ sunshine, melting before our very eyes like the thin crisp ice on a frosted puddle. Creative ideas buzz from our collective hive-mind. Neurons as busy as the most business-like of bees. Sweetly honeyed solutions to savour.

And bubbling up, bathing us all in a lacuna of deep connection, is love. We must slough the scaly skins of so called civilisation from our reptilian brains. These separate us from one another and our home. And lose the masks we wear to distract the world’s gaze from our real and wonderful selves.

Because we are the Shambala warriors of the light. A twelve hundred year old Tibetan prophecy predicts the warriors return when all life on Earth is in danger. Our weapons are compassion and insight. We come to fight our mind-made problems. Our every act, pure of motivation, affects the entire web of interdependence, ushering in a more enlightened and egoless society.

We burn like bright candles, refusing to sit in the gloom and curse the darkness. For we know the road to be travelled. We come to illuminate the way.

“Beyond our ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’ doesn’t make sense any more.” Rumi

See you all in the field of dreams…

Ed Gillespie is the author of ‘Only Planet’


Ed Gillespie is a writer, poet, environmentalist, serial entrepreneur and futurist.

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