Daily Theosophy

Though busy, the meetings with ‘Mr. M.’ (he apparently did not want to be called by his real name) were constantly in the back of her mind. Once she almost thought she heard him say something – but she could not understand what, and moreover he was not there, so it was her fantasy. She noticed that she slept very sound these days, and woke up without worries.

(77)

(Mr. M’s Music Room)

For the weekend she had, besides other activities, rented a comic cartoon about animals supposed to portray characters of people – nice for children, but other people liked such movies as well. As usual the animals didn’t represent the best characters of people: a lot of shouting and violence and murder. But, every animal, especially the cat who was continuously killed, always stood up, flat like a piece of paper stretched themselves and went on as normal, thinking of some naughty act against the others. Beauty didn’t really like such movies, but they were the most popular among the children, so sometimes she selected one. She was not interested in all the shouting and emotions and violence, but she saw the movie with the others, and her mind floated away to a more philosophical level. How could all these creatures survive even if they were constantly beaten and shot and killed? In a movie everything is possible. But could there be some reality in it? If somebody could die, could he also be reborn? And then continue where he or she had left of last time, including finishing old plans left unfinished before death, and being revenged upon by former acquaintances? However it was, the children had great fun – it was all for free they were given candies also.

After the weekend she met Mr. M. again, and posed him the question whether people’s souls would become spooks after death. But he answered that that would come tomorrow, but today they had something else to discuss. In the first place he proposed that they would go to his home instead of sitting in the noisy station restaurant, and meet his wife and daughter (if which he had never told yet). He promised her to let her hear some music. She completely trusted him now, and no thought of hesitation came to her mind. His face looked as if he was about 40, but the leanness of his movements and his way of talking suggested rather that he was twenty. She found however that the daughter was around twenty also, so he should at least be twice that age. His wife might have been 45. Beauty had asked him how old he actually was, but he had answered “about 150,” from which she concluded that he meant to make clear that he didn’t like to talk about his age. So she didn’t ask again. After a chat with “Mme M.” and getting a coffee of the daughter, he proposed that they would go to the music room. They went there, and found nothing there except a few easy chairs, and some metallic discs stuck on the ceiling and walls. No sound boxes, no music players. Only the deepest possible silence. Then the music began – apparently coming from all sides. She was inside the music rather than listening to it. First she thought that he must be a wealthy man, despite his rather simple house and furniture – having an inbuilt super quality surround-sound system behind the walls, above the ceiling as well as under the floor. She recognized violins, wind instruments, organs sounds and sounds of instruments she had never heard before, because they belonged to other cultures than the one in which she had always lived. Some were very sonorous, or very subtle or like soft and stainless sopranino flutes, almost beyond the hearing power of her ears. At the same time, though she recognized many of the instruments, they were more perfect than she had ever heard a man or a woman play. Also, the music did not seem to come through the air touching her eardrums, as normal sounds do, but the sound of it seemed to touch her consciousness directly, like the sounds in a dream. Therefore it is more correct to say that she became part of the music than to say than she was listening to the music. The sounds, of a fineness you can hardly imagine, were in her rather than around her. She didn’t know whether she was following the music, or that the music was following her, that means, the subconscious layers of her mind. She totally forgot where she was, she even forgot her body. She had completely lost awareness of time. If you would have asked her what time it was, she would have answered that time doesn’t exist. But luckily there was nobody to ask such stupid questions. She was the music – as if she had always been that music for thousands of years maybe beginningless time. But from our point of view it had started only five minutes ago. It was the music of her own soul. There was not the smallest doubt whether her soul existed, because she was that soul that was that music. She had passed the threshold to death – so she was dead now, and did not even remember her body or her life on earth, which only a few minutes ago had been ‘normal.’

She also felt that she was guided by the soul – rather the ‘pillar of light’ of Mr. M. They made quite a travel through and into different soundscapes. When they went on, not all of the sounds were beautiful. Some soundscapes were ugly, or polluted, or seemed to be made of plastic, either rigid or changing form. Some were full of gloom and sorrow, some were like the most desolate grey deserts from horizon to horizon, occasionally with holes in the stony soil from which terrible hollow sounds of despair arose. There were even places where wild orchestras seemed to fight wars against each other. And then again there were soundscapes of a beauty or with sounds of hope which are far beyond anything that can be understood when you are awake and on Earth. But all of this music was her own soul, and at the same time the souls of myriads of other man and women, girls and boys, living on Earth or dead on Earth. All sounds were linked to something even greater and deeper than her own soul: they were connected with the very cause of music and soul.

All that Beauty heard had however one quality in common: it was always outgoing, always reaching out, by sounds of compassion, always carrying a wish and even some will power to make light what is dark, to make cheerful what is sad, to help to uplift human souls, her music wanted to touch hearts and never thought of reward – only outreaching, outreaching.

(78)

(Beauty never dies)

She woke up still finding herself sitting in the same chair in the mysterious music room.