Opposite Contraries (14 page)

I am taking the classes. My sisters gasped when I told them $5! What is $5 if only one can find the practical usage of these things in life? Gradually this thing has worked upon me for many years. Harry Gage’s course, Miss Killens, Mr. Weston and now Garland Anderson. These people are all demonstrating what they teach; everyone’s method is a little different, but at
bottom is the same God idea. We are allowed a choice of methods. Some suit one, some another. Our needs are as different as our temperaments. If God had meant us all to think alike he would not have varied our ingredients so.

I am happy and expectant re classes. Then sudden little rushes of alarm about the money, yet if it meant nothing (money) to me, would it seem so desirable? It’s my sisters, I hate to see them struggling on such short means. Do they feel, “Here she is rushing off to another course. What good have the others done her?” But all souls must stand “alone,” think things out inside themselves. Lizzie and Alice are both so good, helping this one and that, being so unselfish, so generous. It makes one feel like a grub. I cannot run round the way they do. I’m fat and flabby and get so tired I can’t even think. I do not feel as if it was my job. I feel they do too much and get imposed on and then I feel a selfish beast for thinking it. Does God want us always to be meddling round cosseting someone? Sympathy? Yes, but feeding their grunts and selfishness so one never has the time to think or grow or fill out. It’s all a horrible muddle. Hard to know when to run and when to sit. Perhaps I’m a beastly sitter.

My house is up, advertised and listed with agents. I am trying to keep neutral, desiring neither way but knowing that God has ways we know not of and that I shall be provided for.

Garland Anderson says he looks on “law” and Lord as synonymous. They are both perfect and unattainable. You can’t alter perfection to make it more perfect. The workings of great laws — life, growth, electricity, gravity — are unattainable. They are God’s laws. There were a great many questions; his answers are spontaneous, instantaneous. He does not think
them out in his own mind but relies solely on the wisdom of God to answer them through his tongue.

I have difficulty realizing God
within me.
It seems presumptuous. Yet Christ said the kingdom of God is within, and there is the statement “Ye are gods.” I suppose I have always looked outside, up among the clouds, to God. As [an] illustration of the working of the great laws of nature, he told of cameramen photographing hatching eggs. The chicks were ready to hatch, the camera was ready. They wanted to get the exact moment of hatching. There was a cheep, the camera clicked, and instantly the chipping stopped. Nature, the law of God, told the chick, warned it. Every time the camera went click, the chick stopped pecking.

Again, he used the chick in reference to Death. He imagined the eggs all there in the nest and the unhatched chicks communicating with each other, wanting to be hatched. Presently one bursts its shell and is free. The others say, “Ho, the chick has gone, he is dead. He is not here among us any more in his shell.” He is there but in a different state, and the others can’t see him because they have not burst their shells. They are in a different state of consciousness.

My question was — why did Jesus dying voluntarily by his own desire on the cross cry out, “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me”? The answer was — how gloriously it showed Christ’s human side. For a moment it transcended, being almost more than he could bear, could go through; then immediately he drew from his divine source and said nevertheless, “Not my way but Thine be done.”

Garland Anderson said “I have no illumination.” I have seen nothing unnatural or mystic, yet surely he has light within. His outlook is very practical. Practically spiritual, no fancy work.

First of G.A’s class lessons. The $5.00 course for those who were deeply interested. Questioned about why he should charge for “spiritual readings,” he replied, “What one does not pay for they do not value,” and it is absolutely true. Have I not proved this in selling puppies? The pup that had no home at all is left to run the streets, and looked upon as a valueless creature as is the gift pup. When it takes a big effort to collect the money, when you have to deny yourself something, then the thing becomes valued. There was a big class. He was painstaking in his explanations. [. . .]

Your memory is perfect. All events of your life are impressed on the subconscious from cradle to grave. How people will sharply remember unpleasantness down to minute detail and forget the good one after. Memory is perfect. Recollection is what we go wrong in. Remedy for memory: lean on the wisdom of God. [. . .]

Fear is lack of faith. We have more faith in our fear than in God. Forget what you should forget, elemental fear, uproot negative thoughts. Fear is the root of all negative thinking. Fear is always inverted faith under all conditions.

A child resists pain, is fearful when it sees the cut and the blood, because it does not understand the sharp prick of the mending tissues. Doctors cannot heal and mend, they can help and prepare the way by keeping clean etc., but of themselves they cannot do the work of nature. The adult understands that nature is mending his wound and ceases to fear the little cut. Fear is our creating. The Creator is greater than the thing created, therefore we can master our fear. Plant your faith in what you want, do not try to overcome fear. Overcoming depends on our state of mind, not on learning or understanding but on the power of God within us. [. . .] Worry is direct effort of faith to
have trust. We can always tell when we are trusting by our freeness from worry.

Affirmation: I acknowledge that the power and wisdom of God within me can and will express through me in my fulfilment of desires for success, happiness, needs (painting) etc. The way is an open channel because He knows. The pure spirit of God within me causes me to be aware of its presence.

Five o’clock the day after the last of Garland Anderson’s class. All day I have wanted to get to my notes and sit down to face things again, straight and alone. That’s the only way. (Alone.)

I started to tell a person who asked if I enjoyed the classes. I made a small futile effort. All the glorious stream I had been flowing with petered out, ending in a ditch, and I wallowing up it without enough water and sticking in the muddy bottom. Now I don’t mean the glorious stream wasn’t flowing just as ever, the stream of the real beautiful thing as set before by Garland Anderson but whose glorious crystal joyous beauty was Christ himself. Through and beyond his mellow negro voice and words was that tremendous great white thing that wanted to engulf you. You wanted fearfully to give yourself to it, more than you wanted anything else, and yet you hang back a little, sort of afraid to take the leap, to let right go of everything, accept absolutely. I do accept it. Then those dirty little doubts nag, and rather than face them one slacks — evades, gets little silly nothings [that] come in and occupy your mind. You clean your house, do a wash, make a grate. Weed, cook, finish a library book. All good unwicked things in themselves and having to be done. But absolute earwigs compared with the great true things.

In the morning G.A. was at Clem Davies’s church and presented on Healing. It was splendid. The biggest thing that he said
was that making disease a reality made it greater than God and broke the first commandment. Health is perfect. Health never leaves the body. When almost healed, the health comes instantly to us, there all the while. It never left. On hearing some tremendous news that lifted them right out of themselves, people sometimes recovered. In reference to Lazarus, he said, “Jesus loved him”; they told him he was sick but he did not go at once. Then they told him he was dead and blamed him for not coming sooner. “Jesus wept.” Here he (G.A.) felt Christ’s human side showed. Perhaps he had one minute of remorse he had not come sooner. Then instantly his Christ self came and he cried, unhesitatingly, “Lazarus come forth.” G.A. feels the humanity of Jesus far greater than believing that he was all desire. [. . .]

In reference to disease, he quoted the telegram, how if you get a wire saying your mother was dead and it proved afterward to be a mistake, you would suffer just as much ’til you knew it was a mistake, as if it had been true. You can suffer with error, and unlike the Christian Scientists, he admitted suffering was very real, even if it was not a reality.

The afternoon lecture was well attended. The day was very hot. Everything that could open was opened. He began with the widow and the prophet and the cruet of oil. “What hast thou in the house?” was the crux of what he had to say. He placed the woman as us, the prophet as the God power within. When asked what she had in the house, she said, “Nothing.” Then she thought of her drop of oil. She had to bring something. He told her to burn vessels, not a few. She was to have faith and to enlarge her consciousness — all love, according to his rules through the Christ consciousness of abundance within.

The lecture and classes are really too condensed. The one thought crowding on another. One should have a pause to digest each subject. Why must even our religion be crowded out of space? Everything is jammed up in the world now ’til we are all mussed and muddled, rushing here and there, our jobs and thoughts and manners and morals. Nothing has time to ripen and is stomach achy and confused.

L. has just rushed in and rushed out. We jarred each other. We really have nothing to say to each other except commonplaces. She snags up every statement I make and reconstructs it, showing me as mean, wrong minded, selfish. Then I get mad and resent and spit back. So it goes. Why were we familied together, I do wonder, being so antagonistic. I know I am horrid but somehow she coaxes all my worst horridness to the surface. At my suggestion she went to the healing service by G.A. Sunday morning. It was as if she was doing God and G.A. a favour. She did not decide to go until the last moment and I had started already when she phoned, so we went separately. It was far better, each would get more that way. She has not mentioned it since. I do not know how it appealed to her, my unorthodox church. [. . .]

Mr Shades’s summer house in Highland District is a lovely spot. Pine and cedar woods, 175 acres of them in the middle of a lovely little lake. Everything is done up Indian. Much nicer if he had left things raw but his soul rolls round Indian designs, Indian colours, Indian robes. There’s a falseness about a white man using those symbols to ornament himself. The Indian believed in them, they expressed him. The white is not expressing himself, he’s faking.

There is a horrible old man there. He acted the fool. A know-it-all, he announced facts as if he was infallible. His mouth tore down at the corners in a bitter rush. He said his life had been hard. He longed to enlarge upon it but no one gave him the opportunity. The house was filled with mottoes and receipts for good behaviour. The kitchen and workshop were splendid and honest. You pumped water straight from the lake into the dishpan. But the living room was detestably overdone, ornamentation galore. The owner was a fine generous creature with a love of nature and a love of order and a passion for ornamentation.

I’ve been thinking about sermons. Seemed like it was best not to know your parsons too intimately, more specially if you liked and felt uplifted by their preaching. The men themselves always seemed so disappointing in their living, and I thought if a man does not practice what he preaches I have no use for his preaching — but — St. Paul says something like this: “List, after preaching to you, I myself should be a castaway.”

Perhaps a parson preaches more from his ideals rather than out of his life, and the listeners may be able to grasp his idea even better than he can do himself, even if he is unable to live up to his preach. He has earned our gratitude and respect by giving us his inspiration to work upon. A man said the other day, “I like Clem Davies as a preacher, not as a man.” People quote something he did years back. Well, perhaps he would not do that same thing today. Perhaps it may even not be the same man’s work to preach and to live his preach. Perhaps he is only required to give the idea, not to develop it. Perhaps he cannot and is not required by God to do so.

My sisters’ lives are so high and unselfish and worthy, doing things for people all the time. I wish families were planted like nursery gardens with every kind of flower in a row by its one kind. But families are sown broadcast. Every variety in one plot, higgledy-piggledy.

Today the grounds of the Mental Home were very fresh and gay with all manner of flowers. Half a dozen men were mowing the grass and clipping edges. They ran mowers most erratically. One was a great nigger who grinned slowly and worked slowly. A lean young man who leant very far forward on his mower handle and [did] mad absurd little runs and jumps at the grass, a melancholy individual who stood aside from his machine and saluted when I passed, and when I smiled in acknowledgement of his salute, turned his back and scowled. I was exasperated.

Mr. McLeod asked if I would like to take Harold into the grounds and ordered him brought down. He hopped forward the moment the key grated in the door and fell over me with outstretched hands, aimless bleached paws that folded over and under mine. His four front teeth are gone and his grin fairly fell out. He was so happy at the idea of the freedom of a walk round the grounds with only me for keeper. We did the flowerbed and greenhouse. He named all the flowers topsy-turvy: fuchsia were bleeding heart, hollyhocks were foxgloves, petunias were nasturtiums. We smelled the roses and heliotrope, then fed the big bear and pheasants and laughed over the funny pigeons. Harold thought they looked like old men with beards, and I thought they looked like old ladies with feather boas. And
there were fish in the pool, and spineless totem poles and little model homes. Then we went to the workshops. There were four large light rooms, bright and airy. As we approached, he said, “Listen, that’s Spruce, the Masset Indian.” The place was open. At a desk that was evidently his own sat Spruce playing on a violin. It was not a good violin or a good tune, but it was very touching. He has lost one eye, and that was the one towards us. He did not notice us until Harold touched him and spoke. Then he laid down the violin and shook my hand violently and beamed. On his desk were many half-finished totems which he displayed with pride. Then there was his flute, and he must show me the fine leather case he made for it. He took it out, jointed it and putting it to his lips, played “Home Sweet Home.” I wanted to cry down in my heart, but on the top I laughed and clapped my hands in applause, which pleased Spruce. I could see Spruce back in his home in Masset, Q.C.I., the sun and the salt air and the fresh way-offness of unspoiltness and his Indian home and freedom among his own people. We talked a little of Masset and other villages, and the other occupant got up and was introduced. He was a white squatter, also from Q.C. Harold loved introducing me to all his friends. I shook hands. Most of them had silly faces. It was their eyes that told. One man said, “Is this the lady you are always talking about, Harold?” And then to me, “My, he thinks you’re fine. I’m glad to meet you,” and we pump-handled hands. In the tailor shop there were some six or eight patching and mending. Two good-looking boys were at sewing machines but their eyes told you the same thing as the others there. They were in the house for the “criminally insane,” looking so perfectly
foolishly harmless. “So pleased to meet you, come again,” they said, and I suppose any new face and particularly a woman’s is a change for them, poor dears.