Thursday, October 3, 2013

Fall crocus, Sparkill, New York.
Photograph by the author.
Notes on my birthday, Oct. 1, 5:15 a.m.

I am climbing the hill in the darkness with my dog.

Life isn't comfortable.

The irony is that I spend so much time trying to arrange things for my comfort. It's a fantasy approach; things don't work that way at all, but I doggedly persist in attempting it.

The whole aspect of life in which I encounter some kind of religious practice, some form, which I adopt and apply to everything is an attempt to be comfortable. To be comfortable with the unknown. To be comfortable with the fact that those stars up there don't have names, except the ones I give them.

In many senses, life begins as an unknown – we even have to learn how to speak a language as a baby, in order to exchange with others — and it ends as one. We come from we know not where; we go to we know not what.

In the midst of it, I come to life over and over and attempt to interpret it through one of 10,000 narrow lenses I own; and in the process, I forget how to do the living. It's the lenses I'm obsessed with; a crouched old man, hovering around his cabinets and rummaging through drawers, trying to find the right lens.

All of these things end up being technical interpretations of life: technical yogas— technical Buddhism and Christianity— technical Gurdjieff work. None of them are sharp as the stars; none of them are the crescent moon over the ridge, or the Big Dipper standing on its handle.

Life flows through the Spirit, not the technology; life flows through the living, active manifestation of the inner truth, not my attempt to fit things to it. The more I try to fit this extraordinary thing called life into my little boxes, the more I cripple it.

It's a mystery to me, why I would prefer a crushed life in a box to the dynamic realism and flowing beauty of what actually takes place. But I do. Sticking things in boxes is not just a hobby; it's an obsession.

Why am I like this? Why can't I submit to a greater good and allow things to be just as they are?

I am climb the hill in the darkness with my dog.

May your soul be filled with light.

Note to readers: another new post at the microbial octave today.

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