Friday, March 14, 2008

sensibility

If I develop the sensibility of my work, every day becomes an unexpected encounter with the inner state.

I say unexpected, because I am eternally at the beginning of my encounter with my inner self. In every moment, it is a new encounter.

I call it an encounter because when I am present to it, one part of this Being meets another part. And we are like friends that have been separated; we know each other intimately, yet have forgotten one another.

The sensibility of my work is the inner sense of work, the taste and touch and smell of my inner state, as opposed to the sensory inputs of the outer state.

To be sure, I continually encounter radiant forces outside me that enter this vessel. There is also a force, however, that emanates from inside me, and this is the force I wish to develop a greater sensitivity to. To be in relationship with.

Gurdjieff’s movements can be taken many different ways, but when one finds one’s self in a class led by a real master of movements teaching, sometimes this force becomes much more tangible. And of course the development of a sense of this energy within the body is part of what the movements are designed to help with.

Movements classes, of course, are quite special conditions. The aim is to discover this force within the context of ordinary life, that is, walking down the street, or while having tea with a friend. In this way I discover that everything is movement, and the efforts and lessons I take with me from “assuming different positions”—just ordinary living, observed-- may be part of what actively instructs me in my relationship to life itself.

In each of the ordinary outer circumstances I encounter, I have an opportunity to see what it means to be in relationship to an inner force at the same time. My study of a connection to sensation can mark the beginning of this search, but ultimately the search must lead me past sensation, and, while still including it, forge into a different kind of territory.

This force springs from wells deep within the being that cannot be plumbed, and that don’t always yield the sweet water of their support very readily.

So I meet my life “head on,” but hopefully with more than just my head active. And I see how I am—physically, organically. I discover what it is to be an ox: to pierce the nostrils, tend the horns, grow fur. In doing so, I discover that I am an animal quite different than anything I imagined.

In fact, I have to throw imagination away, because it is entirely insufficient. Who could imagine what we are? Not possible. When we encounter it within truth, we are not what we imagine. We are something else entirely, just like planets and stars and suns can hardly be imagined, but only encountered.

Dwelling within a complete ignorance of rationality, but a true experience and understanding of a vibration that penetrates to the very marrow of the bones, I see that I am insufficient.

There is something that is entirely sufficient, but it is not me.

What is this? It has no name. It is alive, but it cannot be touched, or seen, or smelled, or tasted, or heard, because while it exists everywhere and in everything, it is hidden from the outer senses and everything that is external. It wears that clothing, but is itself invisible.

May your roots find water, and your leaves know sun.

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