Vision

"Now when something is revealed to us we see it, and the response to this revelation is not faith in the unseen or hope in Divine promises but vision, seeing face to face after we have been seeing through a glass darkly. Vision is the end of religion, and the destruction of the physical universe is the clearing of our own eyesight."  Northrop Frye

Seeing

“What,” it will be Questioned, “When the Sun rises, do you not see a round Disk of fire somewhat like a Guinea?” O no no, I see an Innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying “Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God Almighty.” -Blake

what do you see
when this vast panoply
opens up before you?
guinea in the sun
host around the Son

there's a clue here
a key to the Real

Wind Song

Aphorisms 2

5

 

Our basic starting point is the world. Previously we have been told our basic starting point is something other than this. The world is all we know. We are born, grow, and decline within it. By “world” one might think I mean the planet Earth. While it is true I shall never leave it, the planet itself would not be possible without those forces and spaces that exist outside it, act upon it, and situate it. For this reason our spiritual orientation should not be narrowly focussed on the Earth, but the COSMOS. By “focussed on” I do not mean in any way to seize upon something, but rather to open oneself up to possibility. 

 

6

 

Everything we need comes from the world. All sustenance, joys, meaning, truths, all revelations and visions, have always come from the world. If this were not so we would not know it. Even the gods must use the voice of Nature to speak: in visions perceived by brains, words, rumblings, lights, plants, fire, or even swirling tea leaves. All belong to Nature. Without the world we hear nothing.

 

7

To perceive we must direct ourselves to the world. The world speaks to us in a multitude of ways. Some ways of perceiving are direct while others are indirect. To see an oak tree is a more direct perception than to hear a description of it from a friend. But to hear of an oak tree from a friend is more direct than to learn of a general category such as “tree” from a textbook or lecture. The particular vision of a thing is always preferred to an abstraction.

 

8

 

Ninety-nine percent of religious doctrine is abstraction.

 

 

Aphorisms

1

When we start with the question, “Is there a God?” we already presume too much. It’s as if an answer has been given before the question was even asked. On what basis do we ask the question? Where did this idea come from: God? It was offered to us. It didn’t come from ourselves. It was ready-made. Have we not grown weary of believing, without reflection, in the ready-made? 

2

Kant opened his famous essay on the Enlightenment with these words: “Aufklärung ist der Ausgang des Menschen aus seiner selbstverschuldeten Unmündigkeit” (Enlightenment is man’s emergence from his self-incurred immaturity). He continues: “Unmündigkeit ist das Unvermögen, sich seines Verstandes ohne Leitung eines anderen zu bedienen” (Immaturity is the inability to use one’s own understanding without the guidance of another). The religious, on the other hand, think that accepting the ready-made on faith is one of the greatest virtues: “Lean not on your own understanding, but trust in God with all your heart” (Proverbs 3:5). Religion is the antithesis of the Enlightenment i.e. the antithesis of human emergence.

3

The basic starting point of any spiritual investigation is human experience. To be even more clear: the basic starting point is individual experience. Neither my friend’s experience, nor the experience of a man living in the wilderness two thousand years ago teaches me anything about the shape my own experience should take. They are never prescriptive. At best they offer demonstrations of various possibilities. Even here these possibilities are often marked by some previous imposition of religious structure (which is by nature a delimitation).

4

The vast majority of religious adherents never have profound spiritual experiences. They go to mosque, synagogue, church, or temple and rehearse the same ritualistic motions day after day, week after week. This monotonous rehearsal often makes up the greatest part of religious life. The multitude is content to allow the true spiritual experience be the special privilege of the religious founder, the religious genius. They think he or she is exceptional by nature when in fact the religious genius has an exceptional will.

 

 

Evening vision

As I rested on my bed my mind was opened and I had visions of what was still to come.  I was standing in my parent's house, the home of my youth, and through the Southern window I could see the hills of the far valley lifting up to the sky.  Suddenly a dark cloud, as high above the valley as the top of the valley was to the trees below, moved from the East to the West.  I looked and saw the Western edge of the cloud had a mouth about a third of the way up from the bottom.  Out of this mouth was rushing fire, and it destroyed everything in its path.  The valley was burned up, and the trees were reduced to ash.  The bottom of the cloud began to glow from the fire it reflected from below.  The cloud grew in size until it covered the entire blue sky.  Fear seized me and everyone who was in the house, but there was nothing we could do.  As the cloud continued to move to the West it eventually disappeared, leaving behind ruin in its wake, on land and in the sky. For the blue sky had completely vanished and was replaced with the clear black sky of night.  I could see the stars in the sky, even though it was the middle of the day.  Suddenly I remembered this verse: "And the heavens receded like a scroll being rolled up..."  And it occurred to me that this is what this verse truly meant.  Only there the stars fell to the earth, while here they continued to shine in the dark sky. 

little dog Molly

little dog Molly
after divorce I found you
man whose loneliness
only a spirit like you could ease
cardboard box dusty brothers and sisters
away from farm in hands of friends
new home at Clear Lake
you cried all night for family
a little bird that couldn't fly
I fed you and let you know
things would be ok
you grew and we explored
your fearless heart beating
two times to mine

finding work we left for new water
different woods begged exploration
damp nose sniffing
canine explosion you flew!
Port Carling's hills had never seen
the likes of Molly
pure exultation on four paws
we ran those roads together
when evening fell on pine and spruce
your eyes rested quietly as
I with lovers whispered

again we found new water
endless fields to Huron's rocky beach
it was all yours and remains yours
even the place where you fell to
coyote's razor teeth
to escape and turn on your attackers
while banging pots and pans
we begged you to return
"she was lucky, most don't get away"
muttered vet fussing over gaping wounds
you, sparkle in your eye
invincible
healing quicker than
coyote's pride

to north returning
forest, hill, and rabbit
because little dogs and children
often see eye to eye
but you had open spaces
hunt and Highland air
a loving hand
other furry friends for play

life was play and sleep
though play the greater part
you quickened those around you
indefatigable zest
stilled only by disease
how can I thank a dog
(or any love deceased)
appreciation overflowing
when no one was there
you were there
and now you're gone forever

in my mind's eye I see you running
mouth open scooping up the wind
dark eyes flashing pure joy
Va! Molly Va!
rest only at earth's warm hearth
home for all once beating hearts

Sitting alone in the lamplight

"The general people gathered as the ants did, and they hurried from the east to the west and from the south to the north. Some people belonged to the upper class, some did not. Some were old and some were young, some were greedy for wealth; eventually they all grew old and died. They did not know about 'the universal principle of Change.'"  Yoshida Kenko, Tsurezuregusa, 1336

Move over Joe

move over Joe
make way for the multitude
of pikininis whose lives you've touched
the nihonjin to whom you held out a hand
whose damp caves the only succor
in those dark days after the atom split
you were the brighter light!
incarnate Friend I remember you

 

and I remember a story you told me:
in the jungle of Papua
friend Jab took something that wasn't his
you good man confronted him
demanded payment be made
and he cursed you
in anger you struck his face
then both with shocked expression
embraced and wept
he repayed the theft
but you returned the money
(the fine for striking another)

 

I remember the tear in your eye
as you shared this story
and I know you've shed more
since your darling RB has gone
through war, cyclone, disease
she held your hand
she holds it still

 

move over Joe
make way for the ones you loved
spanning globe and time
they fill the world
because you filled it
and I with your memory
am full this Christmas season

 

Now we see dimly

What if this swagger, this self-confidence, this winking at the boys as if we share a secret only men can share, this suit and tie, fine watch and sunglasses, what if this whole way of being in the world is contrived?  What if we are playing at being men: like reflections in a vanity mirror - to be seen?

Real men have no reflections.

Underground People

"In a way it is even humiliating to watch coal-miners working. It raises you in a momentary doubt about your own status as an 'intellectual' and a superior person generally. For it is brought home to you, at least while you are watching, that it is only because miners sweat their guts out that superior persons can remain superior. You and I and the editor of the Times Lit. Supp., and the Nancy poets and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Comrade X, author of Marxism for Infants - all of us really owe the comparative decency of our lives to poor drudges underground, blackened to the eyes, with their throats full of coal dust, driving their shovels forward with arms and belly muscles of steel."

George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier

That Peculiar Intensity

"Don't mistake what I'm talking about. It's not that I'm trying to put across any of that poetry of childhood stuff. I know that's all baloney. Old Porteous (a friend of mine, a retired schoolmaster, I'll tell you about him later) is great in the poetry of childhood. Sometimes he reads me stuff about it out of books. Wordsworth. Lucy Gray. There was a time when meadow, grove - and all that. Needless to say he's got no kids of his own. The truth is that kids aren't in any way poetic, they're merely savage little animals, except that no animal is a quarter as selfish. A boy isn't interested in meadows, groves and so forth. He never looks at a landscape, doesn't give a damn for flowers, and unless they affect him in some way, such as being good to eat, he doesn't know one plant from another. Killing things - that's about as near to poetry as a boy gets. And yet, all the while there's that peculiar intensity, the power of longing for things as you can't long when you're grown up, and the feeling that time stretches out and out in front of you and that whatever you're doing you could go on forever."

George Orwell, Coming Up for Air

Process, Self, Society

For man does not wait for science to have his life explained to him, and when the theorist approaches social reality he finds the field pre-empted by what may be called the self-interpretation of society.  Human society is not merely a fact, or an event, in the external world to be studied by an observer like a natural phenomenon.  Although it has externality as one of its important components, it is as a whole a little world, a cosmion, illuminated with meaning from within by the human beings who continuously create and bear it as the mode and condition of their self-realization.

Voegelin, Representation and Existence

Further Up and Further In

Having read through all seven volumes of Narnia again the final paragraph still brings me to tears, after all the adventures and all the friends along the way...

"And as He spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before."

Campus wandering