I thought to myself yesterday that what currently impresses me the most about all of us, in our various religious and esoteric works, is how fastidiously we have learned to wipe ourselves after we poop on others. Admittedly, I’ve been reading George Eliot’s “Middlemarch;” and if there is any novel in the English language capable of exposing mankind’s collective foibles and conceits with surgical precision, it’s this one. So perhaps that’s coloring my cynicism; yet one knows the shade of it is far from a dated one.
One thing I cannot do, no matter how elegant my philosophies, is escape the inevitability of my own negativity.
I struggle with this because it is quite a force in me. It's interested me for years; and despite much study, I don't understand it well.
In my experience, as the inner landscape reconfigures itself, shifts in Being create new currents, eddies, and backwash, with elements of conscious and unconscious behavior rippling and swirling together in new and unexpected ways. One of the effects of this mixing of currents (mixing, mind you, as they ever-so-slowly sort themselves out) is an actual increase in negativity at times: a fact, an inescapable fact, that can’t be appreciated without tasting it.
A struggle ensues; and the deeper the inner action, the greater the struggle becomes. There are, I see, forces that actively oppose inner effort to receive the divine inflow.
And this is a puzzle, for the better parts of me know better; or, at least, ought to know better.