This poem is by Éva Ancsel. It’s translated from Hungarian by Ann Arbor Ashtanga practitioner Lilla Homolya. The image is a still from Tarkovsky’s gorgeous 1966 film Andrei Rublev, and is shared by Ann Arbor Ashtanga shadowshala (virtual) practitioner Ksenia Vlatkovic.
Ashtanga is art and science. Art in the way of esoteric masonry, bookbinding, permaculture, and secret societies. Science in the way of weird science: not equations but lab chemistry and freaky particle accelerator physics.
If you see the film, I think you’ll agree that Rublev the icon painter (like the bell caster Boriska) is the soul of his place in time. He’s a practitioner of ultra-technical science whose art can only evoke spirit and unify his world if done in soulful, technically precise relationship with the mentor he adores, and with the squirrely insolent mentee who is the breaker and yet keeper of his heart.
A bell can only be cast in one way. Only the way Boris—no, not Boris—Boriska, does it in Andrei Rublev.
For bell casting, you need a special kind of material. To find such material, you must be prepared to travel to the ends of the earth, to search for it with tremendous patience, all the while forbidding yourself from thinking about how you might lose your head if it’s not ready in time.Because bell casting must not be rushed.
There are critical moments in bell casting. Those who doubt and stop at such times should not be argued with; they must be compelled to continue working. But a good bell caster suffers from this forced coercion.
If someone catches fire during bell casting, they should calmly, casually, and almost off-handedly tell the person next to them to extinguish the flames.
Bell casting can only be led by someone who knows how to do it—it doesn’t matter if they’re young.
Bells must be cast with seriousness, as they are not for ordinary use but are meant to call people to shared practice.
A bell cannot be cast without the experience of our forebears, but inherited knowledge alone is not enough.
If the bell rings and everyone rejoices, the one who cast it should, if possible, cry far from the eyes of others because its sound is not perfect—for there is no perfect bell.
If someone is dissatisfied with the bell they cast, they may, in a moment of despair, blame their ancestors for not passing down their secrets. But curses won’t help.
Instead, it is better to set out on a journey to find even better materials and cast a perfect bell.
And a bell must still be cast in the same way even if the commission is so grand—or calls for such a new type of casting—that one lifetime is not enough to complete it.
A bell, therefore, must always be cast the way Boris does—with patient passion—even if the caster knows they will never hear its chime.
After all, they are not casting it for their own use.