Archive for the ‘vitalism’ Category

“Unnatural”

December 21, 2014

“My dear, I did not doubt that you would acknowledge I was right in much that I have said. Indeed, I am so bold as to think that presently you will come to agree with me, if not in every detail, at any rate in the main. But as yet you still scoff, and take the view that three-fourths of my ideas arise from contrariness of spirit, and that of the rest, at least half are to be put down to my sadistic nature. “If you are to be believed,” you write, “we must abandon the accepted idea that there are unnatural lusts and adopt the view that what we are wont to call perversions, masturbation, homosexuality, sodomy, or whatever these things are named, are innate tendencies of man, the common property of everybody’s nature.”

Have we not already had a talk about that word “unnatural?” To me it seems an expression of man’s self-glorification, that he likes to feel himself lord of creation. He divides the world into two parts; whatever pleases him at the time is for him natural; what he has an aversion to he calls unnatural. Have you ever yet seen anything at all that lay outside the realm of nature? For that is what is signified by the word unnatural. I and Nature, that is how man thinks, and never once is he troubled at the thought of his presumptuous self-deification. No, dear scoffer, whatever is, is natural, even if it seems to you to be contrary to rule, even if it goes against the law of Nature. Natural laws are the creation of men, one must never forget that, and if anything appears to be contrary to a natural law, that is only proof that the law is wrong. Strike the word “unnatural” out of your vocabulary, and there will be one stupidity the less in your speech.”

From Georg Groddeck, The Book of the It. Intro. Lawrence Durrell (New York: Vintage, 1961[1923]), 65-66.

Low Tide

December 6, 2014

Low Tide

Soundless fowl in mist
Moonlit no-thingness of life
Gulls squawk, the road hums

“Otterness”

November 28, 2014

Sat watching a trio of otters having lunch by the shore. One of them swam off but the other two busied themselves with their meal. As one crunched hungrily at a piece of mussel, the other languished on the beach — stretching and grooming with furious nibbles and scratches. Then, suddenly, the two turned and dove into the water, swam out briefly, and came right back to shore, shaking off and flipping their wet otter tails back and forth. It was all so unaffected and relaxed. Leisure incarnate. Just taking a dip.

They resumed their meal. The larger of the two went back to preening, getting quite fluffy in the process. He turned to look at me briefly, and as the other finished her meal the two rubbed their heads together, nuzzled and “kissed” each other, and ambled with a waddling gait up the beach to new adventures…

Just watching “otterness”. Just watching.

Birds

November 25, 2014

Birds. They embody the un-embodied. They are as the very wind, a zephyr. Almost pure spirit — if not for the feathers. My attraction to them is echoed in all my worldly attachments, most of which aren’t that worldly. As you may have gathered by my photography and writing, I am drawn to the sky and stars.

I am also drawn to birds for this same — in alchemical terms — overabundance of spirit. I have been in turmoil, mind and body in a tortured battle for supremacy. This blind dualism has been further reinforced by a tumultuous and destabilizing romantic relationship. No doubt my Achilles heel, and as a Freudian analyst would say, yet another reason I like “birds”. The Id is a real pun-y guy.

Yesterday mind and body just collided…Bits came apart and things curled off in wild orbits, lacking any cohesiveness. The body was damaged — scarred but still fully functional — and the mind shifted uncomfortably.

And where was spirit? Somehow in the midst of all that spirit appeared. And it brought calm to what could have been an even worse situation.

This morning, after it was all over, I went outside. And there were the birds. There was a wet, foggy, quiet over everything, what one might call the ideal bird environment. It’s in those times when I think birds remember their deepest Jurassic roots. One might even say life remembers. Dinosaurs with feathers has always seemed like an apt phrase.

The birds were everywhere. Little songbirds — sparrows, finches, juncos — fluttered in and out among the leafless branches in the garden. The air was alight with “bird-ness”. A Stellar’s Jay, boisterous and bold, chased the smaller birds away from the neighbor’s feeder.

I decided to do more than step outside briefly and actually immersed myself in the space. I grounded myself, took a few breaths and found Malkuth very deeply…

And just as I opened my eyes an eagle soared across my field of vision and perched on one of the highest nearby trees. He displaced a companion, who settled on the top of another tree beside him.

As I just watched (I often ask now…When do we “just watch”?) these two regal incarnations of spirit I thought of a quote from a book I am currently reading — Eckhart Tolle’s A New Earth — that reminded me of why I — and in some way we all — like birds:

“Since time immemorial, flowers, crystal, precious stones, and birds have special significance for the human spirit. Like all life-forms, they are, of course, temporary manifestations of the underlying one Life, one Consciousness. Their special significance and the reason why humans feel such fascination for and affinity with them can be attributed to their ethereal quality.

Once there is certain degree of Presence, of still and alert attention in human beings’ perceptions, they can sense the divine life essence, the one indwelling consciousness or spirit in every creature, every life-form, recognize it as one with their own essence and so love it for themselves. Until this happens, however, most humans see only the outer forms, unaware of the inner essence, just as they are unaware of their own essence and identify only with their own physical and psychological forms.

In the case of a flower, a crystal, precious stone, or bird, however, even someone with little or no Presence can occasionally sense that there is more there than the mere physical existence of form, without knowing that this is the reason why he or she is drawn towards it, feels an affinity with it. Because of its ethereal nature, its form obscures the indwelling spirit to a lesser degree than is the case with other life-forms. The exception to this are all newborn life-forms — babies, puppies, kittens, lambs, and so on. They are fragile, delicate, not yet firmly established in materiality. An innocence, a sweetness and beauty that are not of this world still shine through them. They delight even relatively insensitive humans.

So when you are alert and contemplate a flower, crystal, or bird without naming it mentally, it becomes a window for you into the formless. There is an inner opening, however slight, into the realm of spirit. This is why these three “en-lightened” life-forms have played such an important part in the evolution of human consciousness since ancient times; why, for example, the jewel in the lotus flower is a central symbol of Buddhism and a white bird, the dove, signifies the Holy Spirit in Christianity. They have been preparing the ground for a more profound shift in planetary consciousness that is destined to take place in the human species. This is the spiritual awakening that we are beginning to witness now.”*

As I continued to turn this idea — the symbolic bird — around in my mind I also tried to get beyond the “I” of it. Of what it means to me. Today, because of the “news” of the world, I thought of Maya Angelou’s I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, a book largely devoted to her experiences of racism growing up in the southern US. I reflected on the powerful sway of ego in the world we live in, and of the way it generates notions of race and of identity — both as it is lived and as it is projected onto the living. I think the final stanza of the poem that the book’s title centres around is a universal (that isn’t universal):

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom
.

For much of the last few months I have bemoaned what I perceived as my own loss of freedom, something that has been difficult for me to understand and accept. In truth I have access to a kind of freedom, a kind of privilege, if you will, that many do not have. And yet, in a way as the above quote suggests, we can all have access to that privilege — that freedom. And this is true even when we aren’t free.

I don’t know what that means. It doesn’t mean much.

But it does leave me with a question:

When did we start caging birds at all? And why?

*Quote From Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose (New York: Plume [Penguin], 2006), 3-5.

The Way

November 3, 2014

“…The individual must devote himself to the way with all his energy, for it is only by means of his integrity that he can go further, and his integrity alone can guarantee that his way will not turn out to be an absurd misadventure.”

From C.G. Jung, Psychology and the East, Trans. R.F.C. Hull (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), 20.

Life and Childhood

September 8, 2014

“Life begins with childhood, and by a thousand devious paths through maturity attains its single goal, once more to be a child, and the one and only difference between people lies in the fact that some grow childish, and some childlike.”

From Georg Groddeck, The Book of the It. Intro. Lawrence Durrell (New York: Vintage, 1961[1923]), 13.

(H)orses

August 31, 2014

Horses

The Maddening Mountains

July 10, 2014

[Ed. Note: This post is a short story I wrote a few months ago. Combines my passion for the Pacific Northwest with my interest in the mythic and Lovecraftian. Submitted it a couple of places without luck, and decided it would appropriately find a home here. Hope you enjoy. If you do, re-posts, Facebook shares and re-Tweets are quite welcome.]

The Maddening Mountains

There is a way it rains in the Pacific Northwest reminding you life has always been here. It was here – skyscraper trees standing with grace against the everlasting tide – before you were ever born. It will be here when you’re gone. That rain is also a quiet voice. It is the voice of the mountains.

I once heard that voice.

Those mountains. It never made sense. How could they just “be”? And yet they clearly were. I watched them before I heard them. They sat majestic and proud evening after evening, the setting sun highlighting every intricate valley and showy snow-capped peak, only to become sullen and for days, sometimes weeks, be obscured in dense cloud. Even in these times there would be glimmers – a lone peak briefly revealing itself, reminder of ageless Olympian presence.

Like old women all huddled together, they started with idle chatter, and appeared as hunched over crones in certain lights. Then came the secrets, the vast knowing. I could never dream such vaulted comprehension was possible, before. The mountains told their stories. And they were long, for mountains are ancients. They told tales in the life-giving rain that dripped off their backs, bubbling and winding wildly down to the sea.

The mountains continued their soft sounds, words indistinguishable from a wind blowing across the strait. They told of the shore, a place where they spoke to the sea. And what conversations they had! In its solemn, sullen and soul-destroying ire, the sea thought I was descended of maritime folk and wouldn’t even whisper in my ear. But the mountains had hinted.

There were times, when water was low and waves few, where mountain and sea merely murmured, barely audible, their quiet exchange the sound of a few raindrops. At other times, sea roared and raged, crashing and splashing into the side of mountain. I wanted to know what the sea was trying to say in these times, yet the mountains would not tell me.

Those maddening mountains, how little they cared. They’d revealed a few things in passing, when wind, water and waves were just right. I wondered; what ageless secrets of the earth did they still contain? What unfettered reserves of life did they harbor?

Though their voice could sometimes so deeply soothe, it also reminded of difference. How young, silly and innocent I felt. The mountains once said that to them I sounded and acted as a hummingbird, or even a mayfly, would to me. They would be gregarious and do their best to make me feel an equal. Still I was often deeply humbled.

The mountains once talked to me a lot. They spoke the words of the Salish, the Bella Coola, the Comox, the Nootka and the Tlingit. And, for a time, I understood them all. I felt their strength and eternal presence. They were always fickle, however, coquettish in spite of imposing vastness. Such is the odd, playful way of mountains.

And then the mountains grew quieter. They almost stopped their cautious dialogue with me altogether and wouldn’t tell me why. I asked, and they hinted it was something they’d been told.

I asked and asked (a lifetime passed) – who was it that caused them to fall silent? Who told them to stop speaking?

In the end, only one name was uttered. He was the walker upon the winds, they said.

Who was this wind-walker, I asked and asked (and another lifetime passed).

Ithaqua,” the mountains said.

In this utterance I became a babbling and to all appearances incoherent fool in the company of fellow men. I was trapped, and inside such a feeble husk as the mind. The mountains couldn’t know the last word they spoke would bring me irreversible madness.

I knew thereafter of others, though their names were never spoken. Some dwelled there with the mountains across the strait. But the mountains wouldn’t speak of them, for the others were older and greater still.

Nonetheless, I know they are there. I know to whom the mountains, deaf even to the ferocious and fearsome voice of the sea, listen. The one whose name was uttered speaks in whispers. But, I suspect, the others do more than whisper. Their words break the world. It is from them, I believe, that the mountains came.

The mountains say no more. And I’ve heard enough. I know of Borea, and the moons whose names are said (nay, whispered) in hushed hatred.

Those maddening mountains are now silent. And so am I. But it is good to remember how they spoke.


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