I wanted to call this tale Aurora or the clarity of invisible things, but Xavier grumbled, saying it was too long. But I don’t want to give it up for so little, Xavier moans as he breathes… All the time, that is to say. So I put it where it won’t bother him too much. Well, er… I hope…
Her name is Aurora, a first name from another century. Brilliant scientist, trained in the precision of numbers, she lives surrounded by machines and certainties. One admires his rigor, his way of putting equations like others draw prayers.
When God wants to punish us, he answers our prayers.
But, for some time now, a whisper has been dwelling in his days – a curiosity that cannot be formulated. In the morning, before entering the laboratory, she stops in a square. The wind, the leaves, the shadows of the sun on the benches: everything seems to vibrate in a secret order.
She does not believe in signs, but in a form of intelligence of the world, more subtle than that of models. Her body, without her wanting to, reacts to this presence: a heat, a tension, a calming. It’s not mystical, it’s physical: a kind of active listening.
One day, during a congress, a researcher concludes his presentation with this professorial sentence that shocks her: “Everything happens as if…” This expression, cautious and soft, hurts her once again. She hears the fatigue of a science that describes without believing and notices without daring. Aurore realizes that she lives in a world that apologizes for thinking.
She wants to break protocols, without going against science, just beyond. She leaves the city for an isolated house on a plateau. There, in the meadows and stones, she tries an experience that she cannot name. On the table: a magnetometer, sensors, a black notebook and a hazel stick cut according to the method of Yves Rocard in one of his books.
Yves Rocard (1903-1992) is the father of Michel Rocard. After a thesis in mathematics and another in physics, Yves Rocard began an academic career in Paris.
During the Second World War, De Gaulle appointed him research director of the free French naval forces. In 1945, he became director of the physics laboratory of the ENS de Paris which he would only leave in 1973 at 70 years old.
He was very interested in the low values of magnetism and biomagnetism. He is known by the general public in particular for his work on dowsers and carrier pigeons.
He declared:
“Magnetism and magnetizers will survive, as well as dowsers and water-smiths. If science could explain everything and medicine, cure everything, it would be made of magnetism and the ‘wave sensors’ but – and that’s good – this is not the case.
30 years ago, when I started to be interested in water sparks and magnetizers, my scientific colleagues thought that senescence was gaining me but I still have a good foot.
Magnetizers and dowsers exist because they achieve indisputable results. They will exist as long as they continue to achieve these results.”
Does the body perceive things that instruments do not measure? This is what Aurora wonders. The first days bring no answer. A beautiful afternoon, the wind rises and the wand vibrates. A gentle tension runs through her arms. The world responds to her. Finally, she no longer observes. She participates.
“I don’t discover anything. I remember,” she writes. Little by little, it captures the nuances of feeling: the slow quivering of an underground source, the dry pulsation of a stony ground, the warm breath of the wind under the skin. Her body becomes an instrument of measurement — but without a dial or a number. The heat that rose in her is more than an emotion: a new world reveals itself.
Sometimes, the muscles of her arms tremble in tension. She no longer seeks to understand: she agrees. Letting go is not renunciation, but consent. “The wise measures, the mystic listens. The true seeker stands between them two.”
One morning, she decides to go further: barefoot, standing on the wet ground. The ground transmits a deep pulsation, almost a breath. The vibration rises through his legs, becomes heat, then lightness. She is no longer a body, but a thread stretched between the earth and the sky. Each time she relaxes, the phenomenon amplifies. His hands tingle, his breath becomes long, regular.
The ancient dowsers spoke of current, of song—she understands the idea. What they perceived was not water, but the harmony of the world. As the days go by, she recognizes the voice of the ground as that of a friend. And clears the gap between matter and meaning. The two faces of reality face each other.
Born in 1965, Roch Saüquere is a French editor, essayist, publicist and web videographer. He is editor-in-chief of Top Secret magazine, dedicated to the riddles of science and history.
https://www.facebook.com/rdvavecroch
Rocard seeks to measure the invisible, while Saüquère means to cross it. One wants to prove that the earth speaks to man, the other, that consciousness is prisoner of a cosmic illusion. In their own way, both refuse the same thing: the arbitrary limits of the real.
They seek the same junction: that of science and fervor. One addresses the body, the other the soul. It’s the same song on two different octaves. The truth is neither in evidence nor in belief, but in that moment when the seeker enters into resonance.
“Rocard would like the hand of the diviner to prove the earth. Saüquère would like consciousness to prove the sky. The truth needs neither evidence nor faith: only presence.”
Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.
In the spring, Aurora returned to the laboratory for a conference. The slides scroll, the numbers pile up, the voices reason in the void. She listens to these speeches without impatience. Moved, she recognizes her previous remarks, her empty speech, without breath.
When her turn comes, she speaks without notes: — I wanted to know why certain phenomena escape measure. Would it be the measurement that makes a screen? When the body calms down, it becomes an instrument more precise than any sensor.
A murmur of protest runs through the room. To drive home the point, she quotes Rocard and Saüquère:
— One seeks rigor, the other deliverance. I believe they speak of the same thing: the lost agreement between consciousness and matter.
A physicist interrupts him: — You speak like a mystic.
Calmly, she says: — I am not a mystic. I am a researcher who refuses to separate measure and presence.
There was a skeptical silence, then other whispers, then a new silence, deeper, attentive. For the first time, she saw looks open up, not out of conviction, but out of listening. Which is already a victory.
Later, in the corridor, some researchers approached her.
— What if your feeling was another form of measurement? A science that does not yet have units of value?
Aurore smiles. — Why not? I explore a science of relationship where doubt becomes threshold.
That evening, she will note: “Science without the soul is mechanized. The soul without science runs to delirium. The bridge between the two, it is the feeling. It is this place where one can know without proof, where one can feel without believing.”
She left the university, she ran away from conferences, she fled without warning. She had previously heard that a group of Russian researchers were working on the island of Gavdos, south of Crete. On this forgotten observatory, they studied the magnetic fields of the Aegean Sea. She went there, very attracted.
She had no plan except to feel, perceive, know. Standing on a cliff, half ruined, the station is difficult to see. Around the leader Mikhail, the Russians work, sober and attentive, between tinkered antennas and notebooks full of notes. With their numbers and sensations, they measure the real, and note the resonance they experience between themselves and the world. Several times a day, at a set time, they will touch the stones, smell the space, listen to the earth.
On their notebooks, they fill in two columns: Measurement. Impression. And most of the time, numbers and sensations respond to each other. Mikhail says to Aurora:
— We are not seeking to prove, but to agree. The Earth is an instrument. Man too. When they vibrate together, the real becomes transparent.
Aurore nods her head. She knows this vibration: the heat rises from the feet I use at the heart, then she gains the neck like a thread of light.
— It is not energy, said Mikhail. It is a resonant memory. Ours and that of the world that remembers in us.
The weeks pass. Aurore learns to listen to magnetic fields like music.
A biophysicist told her: — What the West calls intuition is only a measure that one cannot yet read.
Aurore remains skeptical.
One evening, they line up on the cliff. The wind dies down, the sea holds its breath. Under their feet, the rock vibrates. Weak, distant at first, then everyone feels it growing. All the copper antennas resonate in unison.
Mikhail murmurs: — Here we are. The world says yes.
For Aurora, it’s obvious. Rocard, Saüquère and these Russians follow the same thread, carried by the same conviction. The real is a living field of which man is not the spectator, but the vibrating node. She will write: “They do not seek truth, but agreement. When science ceases to understand and begins to agree, then real research begins.”
One evening, in a café, a young researcher recognized her. His former student talked to her about his thesis, about his doubts that divide him between science and intuition.
Aurora listened to him, then she simply said:
— Don’t choose. Listen until the evidence becomes obvious.
I have never made a single discovery according to the process of rational thought.
Outside, the rain was falling. Each drop hit the ground with a right note. Aurore walked a long time in the night. Under his steps, the earth vibrated weakly, faithful, alive.
She understood that the world had never stopped talking, only the scholars had stopped listening to her.
Then, without sadness, she thought of Rocard, of Saüquère, of Mikhail.
And, looking up at the wet sky, she murmured:
“Everything is happening, that’s all. And that’s enough.“
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