Quest Magazine

By Lynda Harris

Originally printed in the January-February 2004 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Harris, Lynda. "British Pre-Raphaelites and the Question of Reincarnation." Quest  92.1 (JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2004):20-26.

Nineteenth-century British painters are not known for their belief in reincarnation, although, as Head and Cranston demonstrate, the idea was accepted by a surprising number of nineteenth-century British writers. The extent to which painters held the same views is more difficult to decipher, as their means of expressing these ideas are much more subtle. Nevertheless, it can be done, as Kathleen Raine has shown in her analysis of the works of William Blake. (For an earlier period see also L. Harris, The Secret Heresy of Hieronymus Bosch.).

During the second half of the nineteenth century, the idea of reincarnation was still controversial, presumably due to the influence of the traditional doctrines of Christianity. Most of the Spiritualists still argued against it, and even after 1887, when H. P. Blavatsky and the Theosophical Society arrived in England, the subject remained a hot topic of debate. As Godwin demonstrates in The Theosophical Enlightenment, "feelings against the reincarnation theory ran amazingly high." Some believers discussed their views in public, but others, including certain esoteric writers and painters, avoided attacks by keeping their opinions to themselves.

Some of the later nineteenth-century authors who were more open about their belief in reincarnation include Bulwer-Lytton, Tennyson, Browning, Ruskin, Swinburne, and Pater. These writers were known, often personally, to the esoteric painters of that period. This group of British artists can be classified as either late Pre-Raphaelites or as Symbolists, and the man who is often seen as their leader and inspiration is the painter and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828—1882).

Rossetti's great enthusiasm and magnetism had a direct or indirect influence on the ideals, values, and views of his circle. Like the writers mentioned above, he was comparatively open about his beliefs. He participated in Spiritualist seances and expressed his ideas about reincarnation (or metempsychosis, as it was often called) clearly in some of his writings. Other artists in his orbit said less about their views in public, and it is difficult to know just what their opinions on reincarnation were. Nevertheless, some of their letters, notes, and recorded conversations reveal that they were at least thinking about the subject, and a few of their paintings appear to illustrate it. This article looks at four members of the circle whose works are particularly interesting in this respect: Rossetti, Edward Burne-Jones (1833—1898), John Roddam Spencer Stanhope (1829—1908), and Evelyn De Morgan (1855—1919).

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Rossetti was a complex person: highly romantic and talented but disorganized and undisciplined. His religious background was mixed. His father was an Italian political refugee, nominally Catholic but actually an antipapist who became more and more fascinated by his own theories about secret societies and Dante's religious occultism. He settled in London in 1824, and in 1826 he married a devout Anglican of mixed Italian and English parentage. She took her children to church, but her son Dante Gabriel seems to have been more influenced by his father's esotericism and romantic Catholic background. Dante Gabriel was later to refer to himself as an "Art Catholic"—not a traditional believer but interested in portraying religious themes, which often had an esoteric aspect.  

Dante Gabriel Rossetti's natural ability at drawing showed itself early. According to one record, the milkman was surprised to see him sketching his rocking horse at the age of four. His formal academic schooling went on for only five years, after which, at the age of thirteen, he began taking lessons in art. This phase of his education lasted for seven years, but although he was enrolled at two different art schools, his work was irregular and not very disciplined. He had technical difficulties with oil painting for many years afterward, and as a result, most of his works up to 1860 were watercolors. During this period his themes were medieval: scenes from Dante and Arthurian legend. He worked sporadically, but the beauty and originality of his watercolors attracted the admiration of Ruskin, the best-known art critic of the period..

According to Rossetti's brother William Michael, "any writing about devils, spectres, or the supernatural generally, whether in poetry or in prose, had always a fascination for him." This interest in the occult and the supernatural began early, along with an attraction to the idea of reincarnation. With his romanticism and idealism, Rossetti longed to find "the woman who was his soul," whom he would have known and loved again and again, over a series of incarnations. When he was twenty, he started work on a story on this theme. Its title, St. Agnes of Intercession, sounds Catholic, but as his brother William Michael wrote, it is "essentially of metempsychosis." Rossetti never completed this tale, but his lifelong interest in it is revealed by the fact that he tried to finish writing it only a short while before his death..

St. Agnes of Intercession is the story of a nineteenth-century painter, who, like Rossetti, develops his talent early. At the age of nineteen, he falls in love with a beautiful young woman called Mary Arden. Within a year, the couple become engaged, and the artist paints her portrait. A critic who sees it in an exhibition points out that it bears a great resemblance to the face of a fifteenth-century painting of St. Agnes by a Florentine painter called Bucciuolo Angiolieri.

When he hears this, the young nineteenth-century painter is unable to resist an overwhelming impulse to visit Italy and see the St. Agnes for himself. When he finally locates it in a gallery in Perugia, he is struck by the exact match, "feature by feature," between the face of St. Agnes and that of Mary, his present-day love. He then learns that the fifteenth-century sitter had died tragically during a portrait-painting session and that afterward, the artist had added the attributes of St. Agnes to commemorate her purity.

 Finally, in the same Italian gallery, the artist finds the self-portrait of Bucciuolo Angiolieri, the fifteenth-century painter. To his amazement, he sees that the artist's face is exactly the same as his own. He then realizes that he and Mary Arden are new incarnations of the same two people who had lived and loved four centuries earlier.  

In 1850, two years after writing this story, Rossetti met Elizabeth Siddal, tall and slim with long, copper-gold hair and a white and rose complexion. He was overwhelmed by her appearance, particularly her beautiful hair, and was convinced that he had at last met "the woman who was his soul." A fellow artist had discovered Lizzie working in a milliner's shop, and she soon became the favorite model of the Pre-Raphaelite painters..

Rossetti and Lizzie began a relationship shortly after they met, and he was no doubt thinking of her when he wrote his poem "Sudden Light." This idealized picture of love recalled from another life was written in 1854, when he and Lizzie were staying in the seaside town of Hastings:

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell;
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall, — I knew it all of yore.

Rossetti's relationship with Lizzie lasted for twelve years, but despite highly romantic periods of passion and love, it was often unhappy. Though he taught her to draw and paint watercolors in his own style and believed in her talent, the two really had few interests in common. They tended to fight, and Lizzie was also frequently ill, often at the brink of death. Anger and frustration over his refusal to marry her probably had something to do with this. Rossetti finally did agree to marriage in 1860, but in 1862, not long after the tragedy of a stillborn child, she took an overdose of the opiate laudanum and died..

In 1860, when Lizzie was seriously ill soon before their wedding, Rossetti (using the title Bonifazio's Mistress) drew her as the dying fifteenth century model in his unfinished tale St. Agnes of Intercession. [ILLUSTRATION 1, CAPTION: Dante Gabriel Rossetti: Scene from the St. Agnes of Intercession story (1860), Oxford, Ashmolean Museum]. He must have been expecting Lizzie's imminent death, and he clearly associated her with the beautiful girl in his story of love and reincarnation..

Edward Burne-Jones and John Spencer Stanhope

In 1855, during a period when Lizzie was living elsewhere, Rossetti became the mentor and, in a sense,the saviour of the younger painter Edward Burne-Jones. This was the time when Burne-Jones, the highly sensitive and well-educated son of a gilder and frame maker from Birmingham, was about to give up studying for the clergy at Oxford. Burne-Jones had recently lost his faith in the Protestant religion and was feeling lost and depressed. He was already considering the possibility of becoming an artist, and Rossetti entered his life at a key moment. He helped Burne-Jones to develop his talent and had a strong effect on the younger painter's views on art, beauty, and lifestyle. Without his help, Burne-Jones's career might have taken a very different direction.  

But to what extent did Rossetti also influence the religious and esoteric views of Burne-Jones? It is difficult to tell. We do know that Burne-Jones never regained his conventional religious faith, for, as late as the 1890s, his studio assistant Thomas Rooke reported that he said, "Belong to the Church of England? Put your head in a bag!" He found Catholicism attractive, but he never converted to it. His remark to Rooke "I love Christmas Carol Christianity, I couldn't do without Medieval Christianity" indicates that, like Rossetti, he had become something of an "Art Catholic.".

Was Burne-Jones also affected by Rossetti's ideas on reincarnation? The younger artist is known to have been very sensitive to criticism, and if he had been interested in a subject as controversial as this one was, he would not have been likely to write or speak about it in public. Nevertheless, we can be sure that he would have been exposed to discussions on reincarnation as well as Spiritualism. These two interests were important in the lives of a large number of his friends, including not only Rossetti, but also many of the writers in their circle..

A hint of Burne-Jones's point of view during these discussions is given in a description of one of his dreams, sent in a letter to his friend Mary Gladstone Drew in October 1880. This particular dream is especially interesting from our point of view because it reveals that he considered reincarnation to be at least a possibility. He described the dream as follows:  

I thought I was walking in a street of some dull town like a cathedral town, and went up some steps to the door of a house and suddenly remembered that I had lived a long life in the house, and saw in a moment all the dreadful misery and reeled back down the steps and then forgot everything, and then ascended them again and again remembered everything, and again recognised that it was all true and that really I had endured it all. And so woke—and wondered how often one has lived before and forgotten it all..

In 1873, about seven years before he had this dream, Burne-Jones began work on a painting that he finally finished in 1882. This picture, known as The Mill, was begun in 1873 when Burne-Jones was in Florence, staying in the villa of his friend and fellow painter John Spencer Stanhope. The Mill, which depicts figures in front of a millstream on a summer evening, is usually interpreted as a nostalgic and poetic image with no particular subject. But is it merely coincidence that this painting inspired two others that clearly do deal with the subject of reincarnation? One of these is by Stanhope, and the other is by Stanhope's niece, Evelyn de Morgan..

Stanhope's work, painted in 1879—80, has the title The Waters of Lethe by the Plains of Elysium..

 Though Stanhope's personal views on reincarnation are difficult to trace, the title, referring to the Greco-Roman paradise and the river in which souls bathe before reincarnating, makes his subject matter clear. Was he adapting Burne-Jones's composition for his own use? Or, alternatively, did he know that Burne-Jones had also been thinking in terms of reincarnation and the river Lethe when he painted The Mill, even though he expressed it less explicitly?.

Whatever the answer may be, Stanhope's painting is more complicated as well as more explicit than The Mill. It is based roughly on Book VI of Virgil's Aeneid. As a member of the upper class, Stanhope would have read the works of this Roman poet at school. In his painting he depicts a line of troubled souls moving toward the river Lethe, whose reflective waters will bring forgetfulness of their previous lives on Earth. The souls bathe in the river and emerge cleansed, prior to their next physical incarnation. In the background, happier souls enjoy themselves in the paradise of Elysium. According to Virgil, these souls will also be reborn, but at a later date. This may be hinted at by the fact that some perform a round dance. Circular dances are ancient symbols of reincarnation and were particularly common in the Greek world.  

Burne-Jones, whose education had also concentrated on the classics, would also have been well acquainted with Virgil's Aeneid. His painting The Mill can be interpreted as a simplified version of the same theme. In the background four nude bathers, looking very much like some in Stanhope's later version, are reflected in the still waters of a river or millpond. The mill wheel depicted on the right, though not included in Stanhope's work, is a traditional symbol of the wheel of birth and death. It could indicate that the bathers, having been cleansed of their memories in the waters of Lethe, are waiting to be reborn on earth..

In the foreground of Burne-Jones's painting, three young women perform a graceful circular dance. The head of the musician on their right is outlined in a halo of light from the sky, which shines through an arch. This may well hint at some sort of holiness—not literally Christian, but a pagan version. It could indicate that, as in Stanhope's painting, these women are souls in Elysium. Their circular dance could also be a subtle suggestion that they too will eventually be reincarnated in the physical world..

Evelyn De Morgan  

Evelyn Pickering De Morgan was Spencer Stanhope's niece and the wife of Burne-Jones's friendWilliam De Morgan. About twenty years younger than Burne-Jones, she was one of the first women trained at the Slade School of Art in London. She also lived for long periods in Florence, often in her uncle's villa. Her style was influenced by Burne-Jones and Stanhope as well as by fifteenth-century Florentine painting..

Evelyn De Morgan's mature works are particularly esoteric, and many of them reflect her undoubted interest in Spiritualism. Also, although her personal views on reincarnation are not backed up by her letters or recorded conversations, there is one publication that reveals her interest in the subject: a book entitled The Result of an Experiment, which was published anonymously by Evelyn and William in 1909. The couple had been practicing automatic writing in private from about 1887, and the book records some of the messages they received, which purport to be from spirits of various levels of development. Many of Evelyn De Morgan's paintings show a clear influence of their content..

Spiritual evolution and the various states of souls in the afterworld are the main subjects discussed in messages, but in a few of them the spirits also join in the reincarnation debate. They make comments such as "there is no reincarnation; the book you read is false, and the spirits who taught the doctrine were lying" and "India is a great land and her sages are full of wisdom but the doctrine of reincarnation is false.The man you have listened to is highly developed and his learning is great, but he lacks humility." These quotations (especially the second one) indicate that the De Morgans had some contact with the Theosophical Society, even though there is no other record of this..

Whatever the source of the automatic scripts may have been, their criticisms of Evelyn De Morgan's investigation of reincarnation reveal her interest in the subject. And this interest is reflected in several of her paintings, including one executed in 1905 called The Cadence of Autumn.  Like Burne-Jones and Stanhope, she had a good grounding in the classics, and this work looks very much like a third version of the Lethe and reincarnation theme..

The Cadence of Autumn, however, contains a more eclectic set of symbols. Following the tradition of medieval Last Judgments, the left half of this painting represents the side of salvation and the right half depicts the side of hell. But here, as in the Gnostic and Neoplatonic traditions, damnation is thought of as rebirth on earth. This is symbolized in the right background by a mill with a turning wheel and a river in front of it. In the right foreground, two women, surrounded by a whirling circle of autumn leaves, walk toward the edge of the picture. The leaves are another image of the eternal round of birth and death. The women's bent and troubled positions are reminiscent of Spencer Stanhope's figures, which suffer on their way to the river Lethe..

The trees on the right side of The Cadence of Autumn, with their barren, leafless branches, contrast with the abundant leaves and fruits of the trees on the left. This is another medieval symbol of salvation versus damnation, emphasized by the figures in the left foreground of the picture. Here, two women stand with raised arms, holding a net with fruit in it. Various other autumn fruits and gourds are piled around their feet, and a youth on their left carries a basket of grapes. These images of an abundant harvest tell us that the figures on the left have led a fruitful life. They will reap their rewards in the afterworld. Their salvation could be permanent, but a hint of eventual reincarnation after a period in paradise may be revealed by the pose of the two women with the net. Perhaps—though the viewer cannot be sure—it is reminiscent of a circle dance.

Conclusion

Reincarnation is not an easy subject to paint literally, but as we have seen, it can be depicted through symbols. The lively debates of the late nineteenth century are likely to have been referred to in more drawings, paintings, letters, and diaries than we are aware of. Many have no doubt been destroyed, but others are still waiting to be examined. Those appearing here are probably the tip of a much larger iceberg.

By Betty Bland

Originally printed in the January—February 2004 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation; Bland, Betty. "Patterns of Light and Dark." Quest  92.1 (JANUARY—FEBRUARY 2004);2—3

This is a particularly good time to view patterns of light and dark. At this time of year nature's palette becomes very limited, and shadows stand out in stark relief against a pale backdrop. Similarly in black and white photography, the lack of diversity of color brings a sharper focus to the patterns and textures that are there all along, but camouflaged by a variety of bright diversions. Since winter is traditionally known as a time for introspection and reflection, it seems appropriate to consider the patterns—those in the world around us and those within our mindsThe shapes created by trees as they stretch their bony fingers across the winter sky have always fascinated me. In fact this is true in every season—the feathery tips of spring, the rich density and herringbones of summer, and the ever—sparser shapes as leaves whirl away in the fall. In each of these instances, the additional essential element of the pattern is the light beyond—the backdrop of either a gray, or blue, or sparkling sky against which these shapes can display their character. In order to see the full beauty of the pattern, one's focus can neither be on the nearer branch, nor on the light behind, but on the two in their interactions with each other.

This same idea can be applied to the understanding of our life experiences. Whatever is happening now, whatever memories we carry, or whatever paradigms we hold through which we view our world, each can only begin to have meaningful form or pattern when viewed against the backdrop of spiritual insight. When seen in this light, patterns emerge which yield meaning and healing; the luminosity of understanding and compassion become an intrinsic part of the pattern.

In his translation and exposition of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras (The Science of Yoga), Taimni refers to the essential yogic technique of quieting the vrittis of our minds. He explains this Sanskrit term as referring to the functions or modifications of the mind. Although this technical term in yoga may seem far afield from our current discussion, it is not. Our individual minds habitually function along pathways that form a prison house around our consciousness. The Yoga Sutras tell us that those prison bars are structured by the way we think and act in response to life's predicaments. We are formed by the patterns we create and maintain through our attitudes, decisions, and actions. We may think the world is doing "it" to us, but in fact we are doing "it" to ourselves. We are forming the prison that conforms us.

Several of the Christian traditions use the term "formation" to describe their indoctrination classes for new members, in recognition of the need to re—form attitudes and outlook on life. The classes teach neophytes how to view life "in terms of God's laws so that they can learn to live a new life in Christ." The same principle applies here. One needs to be able to apply the light of spiritual understanding in order to be able to see the overall pattern, and seeing the greater pattern, attune one's life to be in closer harmony with it. Each action thus adjusted provides further clarity for more effective understanding and more harmonious living. And so the virtuous circle continues, until we begin to see that universal light shining through our thoughts and motives, adding beauty to even the most difficult and shadowy parts of our existence.

It takes both. Without the light that spiritual consciousness radiates, our lives become dark recesses of despair, but without the adversities and trials of this physical world to provide the counterpoint, spirit cannot experience the joys of victory and growing self—knowledge. Yet viewed together they form beautiful patterns that give rich meaning to the tapestry of life.

Next time you are outside, look up into the heavens, knowing that whatever patterns you see are visible only because of the light source beyond. Take a few extra moments to appreciate the intricacies that our senses allow us to experience. And then think of your life, and know that all aspects of it can be transformed daily through allowing an awareness of the universal light of consciousness. This light, which permeates all of creation, is so imbued with wholeness of being, fullness of consciousness, and joyfulness of existence (Sat, Chit, and Anandaare the Sanskrit terms) that its presence transforms the patterns of our lives.

The light is always there. We just have to change our focus so that we can be open to the larger perspective of spirit. May the awareness of this light create beautiful patterns of hope and meaning in our lives through the dark of winter ahead and throughout the coming year.

Originally printed in the January - February 2003 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Singleton, Barbara Cunliffe. "Dark and Light in Yazd Central Iran." Quest  91.1 (JANUARY - FEBRUARY 2003):10-15.

By Barbara Cunliffe Singleton

JAFFAR, THE GUIDE, waves his arm at the wind tower, scowls his black eyes at the groundskeeper, andinsists, "We'll go up in the tower!" Below his scowl, his nose arches until it angles steeply and stops with good form. His mouth firms above his cleft chin.

The groundskeeper says, "I told you the tower's impossible." Dry brush strokes of hair cross over his sunburned bald spot. He grips the handle of a garden rake. "The engineer says we can't go up anymore."

Around Jaffar's face the sun glistens his thick black hair, and his voice builds, "Don't be lazy! Go tothe guardbox and get the key!"

The groundsman barely raises his eyebrows and placates, "I swear on the Koran. It's forbidden to go upstairs." He shuffles off into the park.

All this is said in Farsi, but Jaffar obliges and translates for me. He teaches sculpture in a university in Tehran, but since sculpture is forbidden in the Islamic republic, he has to call it "volume-making."

Jaffar, still angry, starts toward the building. "Look! Even without a key we can go as far as the roof." We climb the steps and stand on the flat surface. His anger gone, his voice becomes soothing, intriguing. "This is ancient Iran's natural form of air conditioning. See, the wind blows through those four slats in the tower. They drive the air down to that pool in the room below us. With three sides of the room closed, the wind cools over the pool and blows through the rest of the house." His hands swoosh with feeling, to show air moving through the house. "The city of Yazd is known for these old towers, which collect the prevailing wind—when and if it prevails." Even when I took a walk this morning in the newer residential section, I saw wind towers, sixty feet high, attached to several houses.

We take the steps down from the roof and walk through the garden. The morning air is freighted withthe green smells of plants and earth. A man in a uniform bicycles by, his face like a heavy drop, fullat the bottom, and peers at me with eyes set close together. He turns to ask in Farsi, "Where are youfrom?" By now I know a few Farsi phrases and answer, "Amrika."

"U.S., very good," he responds with a smile and bikes on.

"Is he a soldier?" I ask Jaffar.

"No, a member of the Disciplinary Force. It used to be called the 'Komite.' "

"You can't mean it," I say. "Attitudes are changing, when he of all people says, 'U.S., very good.'"

We step through the park gate to the street. "He and the rest of the local force are quartered over there." Jaffar points to plain adobe buildings with trees growing around them. In front, more guys in green uniforms play soccer on the street. We wait until the ball is kicked out of bounds and then hurry across the improvised field.

"Isn't soccer too western a sport to be allowed in Iran?"

Jaffar's voice draws me in. "It's an exception. We beat the U.S. in the World Cup match. Remember? Muhammad approved of archery, hunting, swimming, horseback-riding, and chess, provided the people don't gamble."

"What about the women? What sports for them?"

Jaffar laughs. "Baby-sitting is the most popular sport for women, though Rafsanjani's daughter helped organize the first Islamic Games for Women in 1993. Tell you what, let's drive out to the Zoroastrian Towers of Silence, before it's a furnace out here. Yazd is surrounded by desert."

We find the car and drive south on Kashani Street, speeding beside Peykan cars. In fact, we'rein a Peykan car. It's made in Iran under the Hillman label. It feels comfortable and light.

After two kilometers, we turn off onto a dirt road and climb into the stony hills, dry with noweed or blade of green. At the top rise the Towers of Silence, shaped like two round adobe reservoirs. Zoroastrians, like their cousins, the Parsees in Bombay, after three days of rituals in the home, would file up into these hills to offer the body to a Tower official, who would prepare it for the vultures.

We get out of the Peykan, slam the doors, and stand near the high-walled Tower. Before us lies a vast view of the flat city of Yazd under sheer blue sky. Bare mountains in the desert beyond the city slice the horizon into haphazard dark shapes. No birds circle in the sky.

"Where are the birds?" I ask Jaffar.

"The birds? Long gone. It's not like the Tower of Silence in Bombay, where Parsees still give the bodies to the birds. Reza Shah [reigned 1925 -1941] stopped all that. He called the custom "barbaric.' When he came to Yazd, where he was having a railroad built, he told the Zoroastrians, 'You either bury the dead as Muslims do, or go join the Parsees in Bombay.' Some left. Those who stayed built a cemetery. You can see it just over there."

Three boys in smudgy clothes wander up and watch Jaffar's mouth, curious about the strange sounds of his English.

Below us, a graveyard of several acres filled with shade trees has been walled off. Jaffar continues, "Zoroastrians think burying a body pollutes the earth. A body represented a defeat of their God of Light, Ahura Mazda, and a victory of the God of Darkness, Ahriman. Therefore, Zoroastrians here bury the bodies in concrete-lined tombs, so they don't pollute the earth."

Jaffar flings his hand toward earthen buildings roofed with cup-shaped domes. "Over there arethe rooms for ceremonies, where relatives used to stay until the rituals in this Tower were complete. According to a folk legend, if a bird took the right eye first, the person went to heaven—if the left, he went to hell."

Jaffar takes out his city map and several children gather around. I think of E. G. Browne's experience outside of Yazd in 1888, when he, too, was looking at a map. Some of the children he talked with that year had never seen maps. Browne showed them the lines for mountain peaks and their names, the dots for villages, and a larger square with lines to represent the streets of Yazd. One child told him, "It's too bad you didn't bring a microscope. We could see what's going on in the streets of Yazd."

As we drive back into the city, I have the feeling that I like Yazd, its dry air, its low buildings built of the color of the earth, its leisured pace. We pass many parks filled with trees and flowers. Houses with tanks of water on the roof face the sunny south, their bricks arranged in protruding designs to form shadow patterns.

Before lunch the waiter brings to the table a plastic covering backed by a fuzz of cotton. Its folds hold the intense smell of scrubbed vinyl until, with a snap, the man flings the plastic over the table. On top he spreads a cloth of heavy cotton, block-printed with leaf and flower designs in tones of wine, peach, and honeydew melon. Jaffar and I talk over coffee, over pilaf, over kebabs, overdone. We take second helpings. The salad's scent is fresh, like the essence of a greengrocery.

We leave the table and go to the Ateshkade, the fire temple in Yazd. Jaffar springs out of thedriver's seat and opens the door for me. I climb out and walk ahead of him toward the steps.There above the porch of the fire temple, the blue tiled wings of the Guiding Spirit are spread wide. Its divine head and beard are turned in profile. I look at this small temple. It could be mistaken for a library with steps leading up to four columns and a shady porch. I realize with a sense of poignancy that this is almost all that remains of what was once the religion of the rulers of the vast Persian Empire. Zoroastrianism was the religion of great kings such as Cyrus and Darius, who worshipped at fire temples and gave credit to the spirit of Ahura Mazda, God ofLight, when they won victories. The religion, full of complex theology, is, in essence, not so hard to understand: good thoughts, good speech, good actions. If the king failed to rule with justice for his people, he lost the divine right to rule at all. Now fewer than 30,000 Iranian followers of Ahura Mazda survive, and most live in Yazd. They believe that, with their good conduct, they renew Creation.

The Zoroastrians' daily struggle against darkness is the more dramatic because of Muslim prejudice and contempt. Their period of highest esteem in this century was during the period of Reza Shah and his son Mohammad Shah (1925 -1979). It was these Pahlavi rulers who guided the nation once again to an increased respect for the accomplishments of the Persian Empire under the Zoroastrian kings.

Indeed, that Zoroastrians have continued the practice of their religion for so many centuries after the Islamic invasion of 637 A.D., is a tribute to their faith and fortitude. During the early years, of course, Muslims forced whole villages to become Muslim or die. In 1719, thousands of Zoroastrians in villages east of Yazd and Kerman were slaughtered in the Afghan invasion. In the twentieth century, not even offers by Muslims for better jobs, higher pay, and places for students in the university could persuade faithful Zoroastrians to convert to Islam. Many feel a pride in being the true Persians.

I look around to find Jaffar. He's talking with a photographer below the steps. When Jaffar catches my glance, he hurries over. "That man's a friend of my father's. I haven't seen him in a hundred years. I always call him 'Uncle.'" Jaffar sits down on the upper step, fixing on me eyes so black they absorb the pupils. "Anyway, I have something to tell you about Zoroastrians. They're known for their honesty, and as you may know they've suffered a lot of persecution. A Zoroastrian from Bombay named Hataria did most to change the bad treatment of Zoroastrians in Iran. He first came to our country in 1854 and worked with authorities to remove the heavy yearly tax forced on all non-Muslims. When a Zoroastrian paid the tax, he had to appear before the Emir and present the fee in hisopen hand. Then the Emir struck his neck, and a court official drove him away. It took Hataria twenty-five years to bring about changes. Many Zoroastrians had lost their property because they couldn't pay the tax. He also worked to change laws that prevented Zoroastrians from building new houses or repairing old ones. The Zoroastrians were required to wear turbans, old clothes, and a certain style of shoes, and they needed to dismount from their donkey or horse if a Muslim was in sight."

I listen, somewhat puzzled about him. I feel surprised that a Muslim would have taken the trouble to learn so much about an officially despised religion.

Jaffar continues, "Hataria helped to open schools for Zoroastrians in Yazd and boarding schools for boys in Tehran with a modern secular program. In 1930, the Zoroastrian girls' school in Tehran was so good that Muslims wanted to enroll their daughters. Really! Muslims in Tehran began to show a greater respect for Zoroastrians.

"Laughing and having fun at weddings and during the seven yearly feasts helps Zoroastrians to enduredark times. Yet since the 1979 revolution of Ayatollah Khomeini, they've become more subdued to avoid the frowns of the intollerant." Jaffar laughs. "I know all this, because I wrote a paper about them for a sociology course in England. Want a really good book? Read Rashna Writer's Contemporary Zoroastrians."

We enter the temple. It feels cool inside after the heat of the sun. I expect incense. None. Framedverses from the sacred book, the Avesta, hang on the walls. Centered on the far wall is a charcoal-tinted window. Behind it, a reddish glow wavers and straightens, as it conquers dark surroundings, then dips and flutters. The flame represents Light and Justice, the energy of Ahura Mazda. (Bapsi Sidhwa describes movingly the spiritual power of the flame and its effect on the worshipper in her insightful book about a Parsee immigrant, American Brat, p. 42.) This flame in Yazd has been burning, though not always in this location, since 470 A.D. I look around, wishing I could talk with a Zoroastrian, but we are the only ones in the room.

We leave the cool sanctuary and feel the desert heat close in. On the street a woman offers a plate offood to a stray. The scruffy dog with matted fur, black muzzle and ears, walks forward, approaches stiffly, sniffing. The lady in a black chador sets down the plate and the dog takes such eager bites that its chest jolts with each mouthful. It holds its tail straight and then begins to wag, alert for more. I wonder if the woman's a Zoroastrian. I remember that their families should feed at least one dog during the day, not just scraps, but good food. In fact, the dog should eat before the family. The Zoroastrian religion is the only one I know of that has written rules about the treatment of dogs.

For example, the Vendidad, a Zoroastrian scripture, states, "Whosoever shall strike a shepherd dog, a house dog, a stray dog, or a hunting dog, when the soul of that man shall pass into the other world, it shall go howling louder and grieved more surely than goeth the sheep in the great forest where the wolf rangeth."

A dog has the power to absorb evil and is present at the time of death. It has a part in the rituals of preparation for the Tower of Silence. In Rohinton Mistry's masterpiece Such a Long Journey, this ritual is described with great feeling and visual clarity. Though not mentioned in that novel, two dogs guard against evil forces when the soul tries to cross the bridge before judgment. When a family's dog itself dies, rituals are performed to help its spirit.

As we walk toward the main mosque, the Masjed-e Jame (built on the site of an early Zoroastrian firetemple), we pass a huddle of foreign tourists, all scarved and wearing the officially approved shapeless raincoats called manteaus or, as alternatives, black chadors. One woman wears black with a style vaguely familiar, but out of context. "It's my son's graduation gown," she tells her friend. "It's been hanging in the closet for ten years. A perfect black chador!" Her earrings, heavy anchors on each side, must help to balance her personality. Yet, if she only knew, they're outlawed by the Iranian dress codes.

An Iranian man, his black hair framing an expectant face, falls into step with an older man in the group and asks, "You're from?"

"Amrika," replies the man. His wide combed beard mixes with his long hair.

The Iranian's eyes widen, and he straightens. "Amrika? I've seen people from Holland, from Germany, from England. You're the first Americans I've seen in Iran. Are you supposed to be here?"

The Americans look at each other and laugh.

We turn the corner and the mosque rises before us. "Elongated" seems a strange word for describing a mosque, but in comparison with all others the façade of this Yazd mosque is El-Greco-esque. The soaring narrow portal, its inner apex patterned like a honeycomb, is the highest in the land. The mosque's geometrical blue tile and blue-banded minarets drain color from the sky, leaving it pale in contrast.

Architecturally, the Yazd mosque, with its innovative hall on either side of the main chamber, set a style. The influence of this mosque reappeared in Central Asia, because Tamerlane, sparing the town, took famous architects and tile-makers from Yazd to build his dream city, Samarkand.

It's a big day for Kodak, because the tour group, and I too, take an excess of both pedestrian and innovative shots from strange angles. On a scale of clicks, this might be the winning mosque of Iran. It's lucky that I'm looking at the sky for minaret shots or I would have missed two large birds slapping their massive wings in flight, wings like those in the symbol of the Zoroastrians over the fire temple, wide wings whose leading white borders taper to dark.

I learn at dinner that the covered bazaar is open at night, so after dark I ask Jaffar to let me off at the entrance. I walk into the bazaar, lit by a row of white lights smiling down from the arched ceiling. Knobs of unlit colored light bulbs vault the passageway, but they must be reserved for weekends or holidays. From deep within the cavern of the bazaar, comes the smoky smell mixed mysteriously with a spice sharp enough to be turmeric. Open stalls on either side sell clothes and crockery. I'm surprised by a row of legs as high as my shoulder, a dark chorus line of shapely calves and tip-toed feet. Certainly the legs are not for sale, but only their black patterned stockings with designs of leaves, hearts, and roses. Who can know what beautifu1 clothing a woman is wearing under her chador?

The lights of a yard-goods stall cast deep shadows on a cluster of women draped in black. With folds of their black chadors gathered to their chins, they examine bolts of black and measure cloth for more chadors. One gives a handful of rials to a young man dressed in a black shirt and trousers, and he wraps her cloth. Bikes and motorcycles lean against the side of the stalls.

From the wall above the counter of a jewelry shop, presides the triad of President Khatami, Ayatollah Khomeini—looking not fierce but benign—and his successor, Ayatollah Khamenei, wearing glasses over his stern expression. Jars of cosmetics on shelves across the shop reflect and curve the photographed images.

Voices are soft. Iranian teenagers hold their chadors at the chin and gaze at the displayed strings of gold necklaces. Chains of gold descend to lower rows of bright rings. A teen asks the owner to lift out a tray of jewelry. In excitement, her friends try on rings. The jeweler, hunched and with watchful eyes, doesn't object. One ring's too big. The teen tries another, extends her fingers, admires the glowing effect. Within three minutes, in a flurry of hands and black sleeves, they return the rings and leave across the pebbled concrete floor, glistening from a recent washing.

Across the end of the lane, a row of white lacey girls' dresses, dancing in the breezy width of the vaulted roof, suggest the power of light against darkness, and of joy against solemnity and contempt.

References and Further Reading

Barbara Cunliffe Singleton has taught in Bolivia, Indonesia, Peru, Taiwan, Tunisia, Turkey,and Uruguay. She has written for many periodicals, including the Boston Review, Christian Science Monitor, English Today (Cambridge University Press), International Quarterly, and New York Times. Her last Quest article was "Mourning Hussein in Ladakh" (Winter 1990).

Originally printed in the January - February 2002 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Dunningham-Chapotin, Diana. "An Infinity Within to Give." Quest  90.1 (JANUARY - FEBRUARY 2002):12-17.

by Diana Dunningham-Chapotin

There is an infinity in each one of us to give; we have to discover the mode of giving it.

—N. Sri Ram, Thoughts for Aspirants

When we are called to the path of service by the suffering around us, we soon discover that a seemingly inexhaustible source of love and energy is required. "Good causes" claim our attention on all sides. The good news, according to Theosophy, is that we have an inexhaustible source of love and energy within us. In fact, according to our literature, we have an infinite source of energy on which to draw.

Of course the tricky part is how to tap our limitless power to give and to love. Wouldn't it be wonderful if there were a simple esoteric formula that would magically release this supposed infinite power within us? Just think of all the situations that would be transformed, even little ones we've all experienced, like these:

1. You're standing in the street with an acquaintance who's rambling on because she's lonely. You know that, and so you're trying to be patient. But your mind strays to your watch. In fact it strays again and again. Is there a formula to tap into greater powers of understanding and patience?

2. A friend is really worked up about a certain injustice in society. And you agree with her on the issue. She has invited you to take a petition around your neighborhood. You don't mind asking your friends to sign but you feel shy about approaching strangers. Have you ever wanted to protest against something but felt afraid or reluctant to take the appropriate action?

3. Have you ever found yourself putting off visiting an elderly friend in a rest home? You say to yourself, I really must go this week.

4. You've been helping a friend for months over a relationship difficulty. You come to realize that no one's getting anywhere. No solutions are appearing to your friend's problem, there's no change in the attitude or behavior that may be contributing to it. You've put in weeks and begin to feel you are just keeping your friend company as a listening post. Do you continue in a seemingly useless activity?

5. Have you ever walked past a street beggar or bag lady, avoiding their gaze?

6. Have you ever been in a position of dependency on others, either for financial or health reasons, and felt vulnerable, helpless?

7. Have you ever nursed someone for an extended period—say a friend with cancer or an elderly relative—and got so tired that you wondered just how much longer you could go on?

Our feelings in all these, and other situations like them, are typical human responses—understandable ones, given the limitations we function under until we have tapped that infinity within ourselves, and have discovered the mode of giving it. All these situations involve giving, serving, and receiving, as well as the feelings we inevitably encounter in the process, feelings of powerlessness, cynicism, fatigue, boredom, embarrassment, resentment, impatience, and so on. All these situations require turning within, to deep inner resources.

As we experience such typical human responses, we have a great ally:Theosophy. How does it help us in all these situations? If someone were to ask you what connection Theosophy has to the work you do as service to others, you might reply that it is at the very heart of all your service activities, that it is pivotal. You might say that you are constantly trying to understand in the light of Theosophy all the situations in which you are lending a hand, so it affects the way you look upon and respond to them.

Whether we realize it or not, our underlying metaphysical assumptions influence our attitude toward everything. We are constantly faced with decisions in our lives: which charities we're going to donate to each year and how much we will give to each, what kind of volunteer work we'll sign up for and how much time we will give, whether to bring our aged parents to live with us, whether to go and live with our children when we're elderly ourselves, whether we should register as a conscientious objector when we're young, whether to adopt a child from an underprivileged family, whether to support the call for the forgiveness of the debt of developing countries or UN intervention in this or that war-torn country, or even what political party to vote for.We tend to make decisions like these, consciously or subconsciously, in the light of our philosophy of life.

The quality of our service to others, the depth of our giving, is directly influenced by our worldview. And the worldview of Theosophy sets giving in a very large context. Because Theosophy gives us a vast perspective on life and a deep insight into our own natures, it can revolutionize our motive for giving ourselves to others.

So what is truly Theosophical service and giving?

• Theosophical servers look not just to the physical health and security or the psychological comfort of those they are helping, but also to their long-term growth and their spiritual welfare. They seek not just a quick fix, but a lasting benefit.

• Theosophical servers do not go out and fight the government on social issues with a them-and-us, adversarial mentality; they seek consensus with all the love and intelligence of which they are capable.In supporting the interests of their nation, they try to avoid doing so at the expense of other nations. They try to keep in mind a global perspective.

• Theosophical servers view the peaks and valleys of psychological experience in relation to the larger picture of cyclic evolution. They see the way we swing between pleasure and pain, sorrow and joy, attraction and repulsion, and rest and activity as a function of the polarity operating in the universe. They look at suffering in terms of the growth it can bring and the opportunities to exercise compassion it affords.

• Theosophical servers consider themselves lucky to be engaged in an undertaking in which there are no obstacles. In the ordinary world, if you're booked on a flight to Singapore and the air controllers go on strike, you've got an obstacle. If you want to buy a property and a loan doesn't come through, you've got a problem. On the spiritual path, obstacles are opportunities for action that further our evolution and that of the whole world.

Our relationships with co-workers in the Society who seem to us to be "unbrotherly" may be the very terrain of evolutionary action. I used to think that personality hassles within the Society were time-wasting, annoying things, but maybe they are part of the process of growth and development that we should not resent, but look on as an opportunity for learning how to deal with both personality and hassling. Through them, we can learn how to transform obstacles into opportunities.

So Theosophy, through the spiritual perspective it provides, can deepen our giving. But what happens in the sort of nitty-gritty situations mentioned above? What is the quality of our giving in such cases? If there are no magical formulas to help us, are there not at least some special principles, insights, or practices that can release the will, wisdom, and love latent within every one of us?

Theosophical servers typically hold some convictions that directly affect their capacity to give. One of these is the conviction that every person is perfectible and will inevitably one day be self-actualized or self-realized.

Annie Besant composed an epigram, the first part of which was written in gold letters on the front wall of my old home Lodge in Auckland, New Zealand: "No soul that aspires can ever fail to rise; no heart that loves can ever be abandoned. Difficulties exist only in that overcoming them we may grow strong, and they only who have suffered are able to save."

The conviction that everyone is perfectible helps to broaden our power to give and to dissolve the selective, judgmental way we sometimes operate in our giving. This conviction stops us from subconsciously writing people off. The following story, "We Are Three, You Are Three," illustrates this point.

When the bishop's ship stopped at a remote island for a day, he determined to use the time as profitably as possible. He strolled along the seashore and came across three fishermen mending their nets. In pidgin English they explained to him that centuries before, they had been Christianized by missionaries. "We Christians!" they said, proudly pointing to one another.

The bishop was impressed. Did they know the Lord's Prayer? They had never heard of it. The bishop was shocked.

"What do you say when you pray?'

"We lift eyes to heaven. We pray, 'We are three, you are three, have mercy on us.'" The bishop was dismayed at the primitive, even heretical nature of their prayer. So he spent the whole day teaching them the Lord's Prayer. The fishermen were poor learners, but they gave it all they had, and before the bishop sailed away the next day he had the satisfaction of hearing them go through the whole formula without afault.

Months later the bishop's ship happened to pass by those islands again and the bishop, as he paced the deck saying his evening prayers, recalled with pleasure the three men on that distant island who were now able to pray, thanks to his patient efforts. While he was lost in thought, he happened to look up and noticed a spot of light in the east.The light kept approaching the ship, and, as the bishop gazed in wonder, he saw three figures walking on the water. The captain stopped the boat and everyone leaned over the rails to see this sight. When the figures were within speaking distance, the bishop recognized his three friends,the fishermen.

"Bishop!" they exclaimed. "We hear your boat go past island and come hurry hurry meet you."

"What is it you want?" asked the bishop, awe-struck.

"Bishop," they said, "we so, so sorry. We forget lovely prayer. We say, 'Our Father in heaven, holy be your name, your kingdom come . . ..' Then we forget. Please tell us prayer again."

"Go back to your homes, my friends," he said, "and each time you pray, say, 'We are three, you are three, have mercy on us!'"

It is easy to write people off, as the Bishop almost did. One of the problems at the beginning of this article was that we start to feel like a listening post while trying to help friends in distress. After trying for a while to help someone, we may catch ourselves deciding that they are too scarred by their experiences to go anywhere much further in this incarnation. But in arriving at that decision, we have lost sight of their perfectibility, which we need to keep before us as at all times if we are truly to help.

The more experience we have, the more opportunities we have to realize that every individual has some amazing qualities, no matter how damaged the individual may appear to us. Every person has some aspect we can work with, some qualities of value for others. And our presence, for however long or short a time, can be the very gift that person needs.

A growing realization of the preciousness of every individual can make us just a little more patient with the bore, with those who don't seem to be getting on top of their problems, with the elderly person who repeats the same stories endlessly. That realization can open the doors of the heart so wide that no one is excluded. From it, we can glimpse the fact that a hidden Life is indeed vibrant in every atom, that a hidden Light is shining in every creature, and that a hidden Love is embracing in Oneness not just those who are beautiful, grateful, and appealing but also those who are unattractive, irritating, and bothersome to help.

Rachel Naomi Remen ("In the Service of Life," Noetic Sciences Review, spring 1996) distinguishes between fixing, helping, and serving."Fixing," she says, "is a form of judgment." To "fix" a person is to see them as broken rather than inherently whole and perfect. "Helping," she says, "is based on inequality." To "help" is to use one's own strength in place of the lesser strength of those helped and so diminishes their self-esteem and incurs a debt. "Serving," on the other hand, "is mutual." "We don't serve with our strength, we serve with ourselves."Remen says, "If helping is an experience of strength, fixing is an experience of mastery and expertise. Service, on the other hand is an experience of mystery, surrender and awe. . . . Service rests on the basic premise that the nature of life is sacred. . . . When you help you see life as weak, when you fix, you see life as broken. When you serve, you see life as whole."

Thus far we have been considering the "infinity in each one of us to give," which Sri Ram wrote of. His epigram has, however, a second part:"we have to discover the mode of giving it." That discovery comes from a realization of our unity with all other life. As we realize our oneness with others, we begin to tap into what seem like magical powers to comfort, protect, heal, uplift, and transform. What brings about that realization of unity?

Experiences in our lives sometimes come like bolts from the blue, evoking an awareness of unity, but more often than not the realization of oneness comes about imperceptibly. It is a process that starts withthe impulse to reach out to assist others in danger or difficulty. When we see someone on the verge of fainting, our arms go out automatically. When a child falls off its bicycle, we stop and pick it up. When we learn a neighbor is sick, we hang up the telephone with one hand as the other hand is reaching out for the soup pot.

Our impulse to serve others is not born of a desire to shine—not fundamentally. It is born of an underlying kinship, an urge to unity. Cynics might say that we are social animals and that our urge to reach out and help is a sort of herd instinct, an act of collective self-preservation. That is, in fact, probably how our evolutionary journey started, but it is not the essence of the instinct to reach out. We suffer from a sense of our own separateness, which enables us to recognize the pain of isolation in others. This is what makes us care.

In his book How Can I Help? Ram Dass tells about a person with special insight into our underlying kinship with other human beings. We might call the story "Christ, in all his distressing disguises." A woman is speaking:

In the early stages of my father's cancer, I found it very difficult to know how best to help. I lived a thousand miles away and would come for visits. It was hard seeing him going downhill, harder still feeling so clumsy, not sure what to do, not sure what to say.

Toward the end, I was called to come suddenly. He'd been slipping. I went straight from the airport to the hospital, then directly to the room he was listed in.

When I entered, I saw that I'd made a mistake. There was a very,very old man there, pale and hairless, thin, and breathing with great gasps, fast asleep, seemingly near death. So I turned to find my dad's room. Then I froze. I suddenly realized, "My God, that's him!" I hadn't recognized my own father! It was the single most shocking moment of my life.

Thank God he was asleep. All I could do was sit next to him and try to get past this image before he woke up and saw my shock. I had to look through him and find something beside this astonishing appearance of a father I could barely recognize physically.

By the time he awoke, I'd gotten part of the way. But we were still quite uncomfortable with each another. There was still this sense of distance. We both could feel it. It was very painful. We both were self-conscious . . . infrequent eye contact.

Several days later, I came into his room and found him asleep again. Again such a hard sight. So I sat and looked some more. Suddenly this thought came to me, words of Mother Teresa, describing lepers she cared for as "Christ in all his distressing disguises."

I never had any real relation to Christ at all, and I can't say thatI did at that moment. But what came through to me was a feeling for my father's identity as . . . like a child of God. That was who he really was, behind the "distressing disguise." And it was my real identity too, I felt. I felt a great bond with him which wasn't anything like I'd felt as father and daughter.

At that point he woke up and looked at me and said, "Hi." And I looked at him and said, "Hi."

For the remaining months of his life we were totally at peace and comfortable together. No more self-consciousness. No unfinished business. I usually seemed to know just what was needed. I could feed him, shave him, bathe him, hold him up to fix the pillow—all these very intimate things that had been so hard for me earlier.

In a way, this was my father's final gift to me: the chance to see him as something more than my father; the chance to see the common identity of spirit we both shared; the chance to see just how much that makes possible in the way of love and comfort. And I feel I can call on it now with anyone else.

Perhaps the bravest and most radical step we can take to release our infinite capacity to give is to be willing to face our own doubts, needs, and resistances—the inner barriers to the expression of our caring instincts. We can look at specific situations like those at the beginning of this article: when we sneak glances at our watch while someone is rambling on, when we begin to feel like adult babysitters for friends with endless problems, when we avoid meeting the gaze of a beggar or bag lady, when we are so exhausted from caring for someone with a terminal illness, that we wonder how much longer we can go on.

We need to own up to feelings of guilt, anxiety, discomfort, disappointment, and vulnerability. We also have to be willing to look for the deeper fears behind these spontaneous reactions: fears of loss of control, of being overwhelmed, of having our heart broken, and ultimately of extinction. This is the core of Theosophical service and the surest way to open the heart to its potential of limitless giving.

What does it mean to look behind our spontaneous reactions? Maybe when we grow impatient with someone who is going on and on about their problems, we're not being impatient just because we're busy people and they are being self-centered, but also because our subconscious mind is saying, "And what about me and my problems? Who cares about my problems?" Our impatience can actually be our own suppressed cry for love. Maybe when we keep putting off going to visit that friend bedridden and lonely in a rest home, it's not just because of the difficulty of masking our sadness for them and of making conversation.Maybe underneath we are being confronted with the terrifying specter of our own loss of control, our own potential helplessness, and above all our own abandonment.

How does the threat of heartbreak, of being overwhelmed and drowned with sadness by what we see around us affect our giving? It may mean that we are like oysters that open up and let in just so much pain, then snap shut. We help out on Monday and Friday afternoons; after that wecome home and close our front door.

We may drop a friend with terminal cancer, or a friend who has just lost a child, not only because we don't know what words to use to comfort her, but because deep and frightening questions are surfacing. Our philosophy of life, so logical, so beautiful, so metaphysically satisfying, which gives us a sense of security and optimism, is being attacked and undermined by notions of injustice and absurdity.

Everything we do is based on mixed motives. Accompanying genuine sympathy can be a need to avoid boredom, loneliness, or feelings of uselessness. Helping others may give us a good conscience, raise our self-esteem, and give us a measure of authority. But again, what is beneath such motives? Underlying and feeding surface motives can be afear of the terrible inner void.

Considering the deeper motives that underlie much of human behavior should not undermine our enthusiasm for serving others. We are not in the business of self-flagellation. We are not judging. An excessive concern about motives in service can take away our spontaneity and joy. If we wait for perfect purity of motive, we will become paralyzed. But just repeatedly observing, peeling away layers, and noting is the process that removes the barriers between others and us until we realize unity. Eventually there is no longer any sense of "helper" and "helped."We help by who we are, less than by what we do.

Service is really a journey of awakening. We know that we have an infinite power within to give and that every human being is perfectible.We can stride out boldly and joyfully on the path of service, looking fearlessly at the deeper, darker levels of our psyche and reaching gently to touch that special quiet center within. If the conviction of our Oneness is strong and the vision of it remains clear, it will be with us at all times so that only compassion fills our heart.

Diana Dunningham-Chapotin is a New Zealander by birth, an American by adoption, and a Francaise by residence (as she likes to be near her husband). She is International Secretary of the Theosophical Order ofService and edits its bulletin. This article is based on the Founders Address she delivered at the 2001 Convention of the Theosophical Society in America.