The Millennium: Will We Survive It?
Is there anybody out there who hasn't heard about the doomsday
scenarios and the forecast of global disaster to follow in the year
2000?
I suppose if you're a 3000 year old mummy buried under the
deserts, or a blindish mole buried at the base of Ben Nevis, you wouldn't
rightly know, really. I don't say you wouldn't care, but you might be doing
other, more important things, like decaying, or digging.
Which is what's happening to two-thirds of the world, this being a Christian
millennium. So, is it such a big deal?
After all, we survived the first one. Little more happened in the British Isles
than a comet and an invading continental king. Historians and astrologers argue
that they were significant in shifting us out of the Dark Ages. Tell that to a
Saxon peasant who just exchanged one feudal lord for another while still living
in the same dark hovel and dying young.
How might kabbalists be with it? One way is by heaving a big sigh while turning
your eyes heavenwards. It isn't particularly constructive, but it might help to
distract the frenzied and possessed.
You could believe in it. In which case, you'll probably get a good deal out of it.
Or you could develop the measured, reflective, kabbalistic stance - even if it's an act at
first. Try anything for long enough and it becomes a habit.
Being a measured kabbalist doesn't mean visiting your favourite tailor. To start with, you'll
need gravitas, a serious, but illuminated face, deep, searching eyes and a sonorous
voice.
Don't worry. The real work comes later. Much later, usually.
Then you'll need to take a deep breath and explain in eminently reasonable
tones just how irrational it all is, considered in the context of total existence.
Or you might decide to be one of those quiet kabbalists who says nothing, but just smiles
- a little - very significantly.
This is known as perfecting the greater perspective. It takes aeons and a couple of hundred
lifetimes to achieve, but don't let that put you off. Down here, there are a thousand earth-years
ahead for practice.
Perhaps you're the sensible type who had breakfast in bed on New Year's Day, preferably with champagne,
croissants and anything else that didn't leave you feeling deeply unspiritual or suffering from raging
indigestion.
If you didn't don a white robe, hoist a white placard over your shoulder and head for the
nearest mountain, waiting for...................., then perhaps your head was in the innards
of a hot computer, making sure civilisation didn't come to an end with a surfeit of Y2K
bugs. That's the form millennial paranoia seemed to take this time round.
If we've survived the first few days like this, there's a good
chance humanity will survive to see the end of the millennium.
But, seriously, perhaps there is a point to the millennium celebrations.
In the weeks leading up to the New Year, I noticed that friends and people I knew
well were much more sober in spirit than is usually the case at this time of
year. Most often, it's a good excuse for a party, but this was different.
Almost without exception (and many of these people were not kabbalists) people
put some time aside to reflect on their lives and the century which had seen
their births.
For some it was a time of poignancy, for others, of deep
joy. Many more balanced the sadness and the happiness of their lives in a way
which made me feel that, even if the millennium was being hyped in the media,
people deeply have the capacity to acknowledge what is meaningful in their
lives. There was a sense that something profound was moving through the
population; that we were all quietly journeying towards a moment which had not
yet revealed itself.
On New Year's Eve, I spent some time watching
celebrations from around the world on television and decided to go to bed,
taking a glass of wine with me. Typically, as the hour approached, I got
caught up in some work and found myself with only five minutes to
go.
My house is on the crest of a hill overlooking Glasgow, with a
panoramic view over the city, beyond the university, to the hills far into
Ayshire. The living room, which has the best view, is at the top of the
house.
After pouring a glass of wine, I went upstairs where the
television was showing the outdoor celebrations from around Scotland. Fire was
the theme - fireworks, braziers, bonfires and, in Stonehaven, heavily-built
men swinging metal baskets of blazing wood around their bodies as they
progressed through the crowds in the street.
Then the minute struck and
the camera panned to the explosion of fireworks over Edinburgh's old town. At
that second, outside my window, bells rang and the whole of the Glasgow
skyline was a blaze of fireworks. The effect was magical and
magnificent.
For one very long moment, I knew that the rest of the UK,
Europe and parts of Africa were joined in knowing that this was the only day
in a thousand years that the whole world was united, celebrating a point in
time which will never be experienced again. The communion of living light and
wine covered the globe as the showers and fountains of sparks poured down onto
the city.
I started to shiver and realized that I was out on the
balcony, no slippers on my feet and dressed in a white, cotton nightdress. I'd
been there for thirty minutes without knowing it. Mad at one level; most
appropriate at another. The light faded slowly as the cold struck home and I
closed the french windows. The feeling of contentment and unity lasted for
days. |