Monday, December 1, 2014
The shells of seeds
I was reminded today again of how everyone dreams of everything. We want to believe we have power over things; we want to believe in magic. Homeopathy, shamanism, and so on. But dreams do not serve us; we live in a difficult, brutal world with all kinds of evil and involutionary forces. It takes a constant effort just to stay in one place, let alone go up. Struggling with the death of my father, my sister, has reminded me that this is no easy place to be. Today one of my childhood friends entered treatment for an extremely serious disease; the treatment itself is not always survivable. The person I speak of undertook this task stoically, and with a courage that is frankly difficult to imagine. It is yet another terrifyingly sober moment of the kind that reminds one that this planet is a hard place, as well as a beautiful one.
We think there will be a golden day; but days are made of brass, and lead. Some of the greatest and most beautiful values are the shells of seeds on the ground; a fleeting color in the treetops, or the sun obscured behind a winter haze of clouds. It's the smallest things that count; and yet I dream of the large ones, even though my attention ought to be turned to each grain of sand, rather than the mountain.
If there were no struggle, the sacred would have no value. There are times when it's necessary to strip everything superfluous away in order to see what's valuable. Gurdjieff's uncompromising willingness to do that remains a superb example. Where am I, really? I'm a tiny little creature. The forces that surround me are vast; and it's only in my imagination that I have any control over them.
Well then. This is just a brief note, and tomorrow, the third installment of the tree of the soul will publish.