Tag: C.W. Leadbeater

Five Perhaps Apparently Silly But Ultra-Serious Reflections on Nurturing Creative Thought (Starting with Beethoven’s Ninth)

Second Mondays of every other month I devote to my writing workshop students and anyone else interested in creative writing. Welcome!
> For the archive of workshop posts click here.

Please note: The end of March 2022 marks the 16th anniversary of this blog, after which point, until further notice, I will be posting approximately two Mondays a month. The posts on Texas Books, the writing workshop, my own work, and a Q & A with another writer, will continue, each posting every other month and, as ever, when there is a fifth Monday in a given month, that’s for the newsletter.

To me thoughts are things. They have shapes, colors, and movement, and they can morph, and even emit sounds and flavors in unique and sometimes quite fascinating ways. This is perhaps strange to say, but it is not original on my part. Annie Besant and C.W. Leadbeater wrote about this in a little illustrated book, now over a century old, entitled Thought-forms. When I saw the illustrations of various thoughts as Besant and Leadbeater had perceived them on the astral plane, I recognized them instantly. Perhaps you will, too. 

A helpful thought.
(Screenshot from the archive.org edition of Besant and Leadbeater’s Thought-forms.)
Radiating affection.
(Screenshot from the archive.org edition of Besant and Leadbeater’s Thought-forms)
Music by Mendelssohn
(Screenshot from the archive.org edition of Besant and Leadbeater’s Thought-forms)

For me, as a literary artist (I write poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction), creativity is all about thoughts, corralling, arranging, refining them. And when thoughts appear in my mind that I would describe as shapeless, colorless, silent, still— or moving only in tight, repetitive fashion— the writing has about as much life as a robotic owl in quicksand. On the other hand, when my thoughts have a more fluid, dance-like quality, and shapes and colors that arrange themselves into some form of beauty, the writing is so much easier and fun. (Beauty, by the way, is not necessarily all sweetness, light, rainbows & Kumbaya; there can be intense beauty— and artistic power— in what the poet Federico García Lorca termed duende.)

How to nurture more beautiful and interesting thoughts in service of creative writing? A few reflections:

Firstly, music helps, for thoughts tend to entrain to and emerge from music. In my personal experience, there is no music more nurturing for creativity than Ludwig van Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in D Minor.

Do yourself a favor, grab an hour and twenty minutes, and just listen:

Secondly, when it comes to what I read, I find it helpful, on occasion, to give my ego a metaphorical cookie break. My ego sees Yours Truly as the sort of highly cultured and discerning person who reads Willa Cather novels. Well, after having read My Ántonia, O Pioneers! The Professor’s House, Death Comes for the Archbishop, and most recently, Shadows on the Rock, I pronounce Willa Cather one of the greatest literary artists who ever lived! Reading Cather’s novels has been a wondrous and luxurious experience, and invaluable inspiration for me as a writer. For my ego, a pat on the head and a chocolate cookie!

But hey now, how about that kooky Californian, P. K. Dick? Nobody I hang out with reads Dick. Sci-fi from the 60s?! my ego would have sneered, had it not been off nibbling its cookie. Just as soon as I finished Cather’s exquisite novel of old Quebec, Shadows on the Rock, I grabbed a copy of Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? and, zowie! quadruple-charged my batteries.

One of the greatest of all American novels.
Best consumed with a large box of hot tamale candies.

(And now I see Mr. Dick sprawled barefoot on the cabbage-roses sofa in Miss Cather’s New York living room, scribbling something mega-duende about a robotic owl in quicksand. “Edith,” she trills, “did you let this person in?”)

Thirdly, I find it useful to rethink the concept of “vacation.” Do I want a status-enhancing signaling opportunity with trophy-photos? Or do I actually want a change of scene / rest / adventure that recharges my creativity? These are not necessarily, nor even probably, same thing. In my experience, the vacations that best nurture my creativity tend to illicit confusion, even disdain, in other people. (Which is so interesting!)

Fourthly, I take long, meditative daily walks, leaving the smartphone at home. When I don’t take walks, I find that thoughts slow and take on a greyish tinge.

Fifthly, laughter, not the fake social stuff, but any genuine confetti burst of it, dislodges creative bottlenecks. There are many different types of humor, but people who lack a sense of one altogether or, infinitely worse, who straight-jacket the God-given one they do have, can be dangerous to themselves and others, including children, helpless elders, and pets.

This is easy to evaluate: check their Twitter. If they lack a Twitter, I assign them a flashing turquoise brownie point on the jumbotron in my mind, and in such case, this meme makes for an excellent litmus test:

More anon.

I welcome your courteous comments which, should you feel so moved, you can email to me here.

Donald M. Rattner’s My Creative Space

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Q & A with Biographer David O. Stewart
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Jiddu Krishnamurti and “The Lives of Alcyone”

Jiddu Krishnamurti

Still revising the introduction for my translation of Francisco I Madero’s Spiritist Manual of 1911… and the introduction is turning into a book itself… meanwhile, here’s a brief excerpt from a new bit about the Theosophists— it’s the part where I go through Madero’s personal library. (For those of you new to the blog, Francisco I. Madero was the leader of the Mexican 1910 Revolution and President of Mexico 1911-1913. His Spiritist Manual has never before been translated.)

. . . . One book apparently did not belong to Madero: Las últimas treinta vidas de Alcione, Federico Climet Terrer’s 1912 Barcelona translation of Annie Besant and C.W. Leadbeater’s Lives of Alcyone, inscribed to Sara Pérez Vd. de Madero, Habana, Oct 18 1918. (Sara Pérez, Widow of Madero).

Now, as we see in Madero’s own library, Spiritist and Theosophical ideas so overlapped and intertwined, it behooves us to venture a little ways down another rabbit hole for the answer to the question, Who, pray tell, was Alcyone?

Alcyone (and Other Lives) in the 20th Century

Greek answer:A star-nymph, daughter of Atlas and lover of Poseidon.
Literal answer: Jiddu Krishnamurti, a sickly Brahmin boy.
The Theosophists’ answer:  As revealed by the Mahatmas, the vehicle for the Lord Maitreya, the Christ, the World Teacher.

It was C.W. Leadbeater who had discovered the adolescent Krishnamurti playing on a beach in 1909, identifying him as said vehicle by clairvoyant means. Alas, no story of the Theosophical Society gets told without the taint of Leadbeater’s, shall we say, intimate involvement with other young boys. Prior to this, in 1906, after vociferous complaints from parents, Leadbeater was obliged to resign. By 1909, however, his old friend and fellow Initiate before the Mahatmas, and expert on the Bhagavad-Gita, Annie Besant, had taken the reigns of the Theosophical Society and readmitted Leadbeater. In the Theosophical Society’s headquarters in Adyar, together Besant and Leadbeater arranged Krishnamurti’s care and education, and almost immediately, Leadbeater, by psychic means known only to himself, began researching the “Akashic” or astral records, on the lives of “Alcyone,” that is, the previous incarnations of Krishnamurti, in which Annie Besant appeared under the code-name “Heracles,” Leadbeater as “Sirius,” and various other Theosophists under various other names in mind-numbing permutations reaching back to 22,662 B.C. Mary Lutyens, daughter of the Theosphical Society’s benefactress Lady Emily Lutyens, and both childhood friend and biographer of Krishnamurti, in her memoir, To Be Young, recalled of the Lives of Alcyone, “a great deal of heart-burning and snobbery.”

“Are you in the Lives?” Became the question most constantly asked by one Theosophist of another, and, if so, “How closely related have you been to Alcyone?”

At night, by means of their astral bodies, Leadbeater took Krishnamurti to study with “Master Kuthumi,” that “Great White Brother” first introduced to this world by Madame Blavatsky, and in the morning, in his octagonal office, Leadbeater obliged Krishnamurti, whose English and writing skills were what one would expect of a little boy whose first language was Telegu, to record what he could remember of those lessons. Flash forward two decades to 1929, and the world traveling, English-educated World Teacher, venerated Head of Leadbeater and Besant’s creation, the 43,000 member-strong Order of the Star in the East, took the stage at Erde Castle in Holland before 3,000 members and, with a solemn salaam, dissolved that order. Krishnamurti did not deny being whatever they conceived him to be; he said:

“I maintain that Truth is a pathless land, and you cannot approach it by any path whatsoever, by any religion, by any sect… I do not care if you believe I am the World Teacher or not… I do not want you to follow me… You have been accustomed to being told how far you have advanced, what is your spiritual status. How childish! Who but yourself can tell you if you are incorruptible?… You can form other organizations and expect someone else. With that I am not concerned, nor with creating new cages, new decorations for those cages. My only concern is to set men absolutely, unconditionally, free.”

That, as one might guess, signaled the decline (though not the disappearance) of the Theosophical Society, as well as Annie Besant’s health. But fantastically, Krishnamurti’s career, unmoored from official disciples, continued to flourish. Like Teresa Urrea and the Niño Fidencio, Krishnamurti had a serene and childlike quality and an ability to draw and mesmerize crowds, but unlike them, Krishnmurti exuded an urbane polish, and he wrote some 30 books that articulated a philosophy of freedom and that appealed to such diverse figures as physicist David Bohm, writer Aldous Huxley, Indira Gandhi, and the Dalai Lama.

On YouTube, I found an old film of the white-haired Krishnamurti holding forth in a tent in Ojai, California, and what struck me was not anything he said—he sounded halting and vapid to my ears— but the faces of the hundreds of people sitting on the lawn before him, eyes shining, jaws slack. I could not help but think of Niño Fidencio— and the strange power I had seen in Francisco Madero in the films and photographs of his political rallies.

I welcome your courteous comments which, should you feel so moved, you can email to me here.

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