I don't want to give the impression that I'm lonely or sad. I've read through my blogs and a fear took over--I sound perhaps depressed or under the weather. Although I have felt these emotions throughout my life, I'm not writing about these category of feelings, at least not in the way we're accustomed to understanding them. In fact, I haven't felt these emotions for a long while, ever since I changed my lifestyle but that's for another blog. Maybe I care too much what others think but I feel I should be really clear about something.
I'm exploring my ideas and spiritual sentiments in this space. People do it through music or art or any other creative outlet. At this time, I choose to explore through writing. Words are funny sometimes. But honestly, I don't feel the need to write when I'm happy or ecstatic--these aren't feelings I want to explore. Most of the time I have an idea about what I want to share but the flavor of the piece is revealed as I go along. I can't pretend here. It's unfair to me and the reader. I can't freely talk about this face to face, not unless I'm part of a group where expression is encouraged, where the format is designed to explore such ideas. However, the ideas don't freely come to me when I'm face to face with another person, no matter who it is. This isn't entirely true, of course. There are those special and rare people I speak to openly who simply get me. I just find that on paper, I can express my feelings poetically in a way I'm not able to express vocally. On paper, there isn't anything holding me back--I'm not distracted by a look in the eye, or some other form of non verbal communication that would indicate the other person is in a hurry or just not listening. Even if the other is fully engaged, I'm not able to be fluid with my thoughts. The poetry is lost. I don't know how else to put it. The magic is gone. It takes a back seat. It stops breathing. That's why I write because here it flows easily and uninterrupted.
I lean towards the highly Romantic. I'm investigating those things that I don't want to go unnoticed or unacknowledged. Here, it's all about depth. There's got to be some kind of depth because otherwise, it's just not worth it for me. There's plenty of meaningless stuff I could occupy my time with but I choose not to entertain that here. I want to explore the intangible, the unseen, that ever elusive veil. My cup is half full and sometimes it overflows. If there's one thing I've learned about myself is that I need contrast. In the dark, I'm able to see the light and appreciate it for what it truly is. In my sweet sorrow (which is unlike sadness), I can taste how great the joy is (which is unlike happiness). Where there's a front, there's a back. That's what I know. That's what I like to explore. Gibran may have written from the heart but I never once thought he was a sad person. When you speak from the heart, you naturally reside in sacred territory. You speak from a place of universal and unconditional Love not love. The heart won't let me disrespect it by being false or insincere.
This so called longing I speak of is not meant to be satiated in its entirety. I'd have nothing to write about otherwise. I don't even know what this longing is exactly. And it isn't designed to be filled by some other thing or person if only to provide some insight and further exploration. I'm content with my state of being. This is about self-exploration.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Zen & Motorcycles
Yesterday night went horribly wrong. I felt anxious and uneasy and was fighting off what seemed like a cold but not really. I hadn't felt that dark in a long long time. It's still lingering this morning. Perhaps this is what happens when one divulges and shares, when the centers of ourselves open up. Like a friend said to me the other day, When you talk to the Universe, the Universe talks back...Maybe it's all a necessary release but if I cry anymore, I'll have to make myself some wings and fly away.
There's a point when I cry where suddenly, I get some kind of revelation and the tears just stop. Maybe I spoke too soon when I concluded that it wasn't loneliness I was experiencing a week ago. And maybe it isn't loneliness per Se but a kind of spiritual isolation. It's like the more I dig, the more isolated I feel. I thought I'd develop a sense of freedom with inner knowledge or wisdom. I mean, I've been asking for this. I've been putting it out there for years. Show me the way. Show me the way. Show me the way, like a mantra that goes on automatic with or without my knowledge. Then there's a knock on the door and when you go to open it, the information floods in. You know there's no turning back.
I was immediately comforted by memories of my motorcycle ride over a year ago. An old acquaintance discovered how much I wanted to go for a ride on his Harley or how much I wanted him to take me out for a ride on his Harley. R is special. I knew he had that something I don't see or notice in many people. I just gravitated towards his philosophy. He had a way of calming me down, of making me see what's truly important and how easily I become rattled by nonsense and trivialities. He reflects a kind of freedom I don't experience in my daily activities. He's always so still, so centered, and so on purpose.
I remember how fast the bike was going, the roaring sound of the engine and wheels, how close my feet were to the ground, the way my hair whipped against my face. I recall looking up and seeing nothing but sky and some clouds. I told myself then and there, that I would remember that moment forever. There's a stillness that takes place in the mind in the midst of all that movement and sound. I was everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. R took me to a coffee shop somewhere up north in what appeared to be a biker's town. I'd never seen so many bikes in one place and I can't even begin to speak of the comraderie between these men. It didn't matter where we were on the road, if a biker rode by, we'd get a salute, a hello. I took a liking to a tiny antique store right next to the coffee shop. I remember feeling as though I was in a different part of the world and in many ways, I was. I was residing in a different place within myself looking at the world through another set of lenses.
R says to me, You should see your face right now. Yes, I was high. Something about the open road lifted me up, way up. And yet I settled into myself quite nicely. On our way out of this heaven, he made a right turn on a small road by a stream and a line of people looking to catch some fish. I will never forget how the sun sparkled through the trees, how vibrant the yellow, orange and red leaves looked to my eyes. It occurred to me then the way it occurs to me now--I belonged to nothing and no one out there on this road. It's like if I had been obliterated, it wouldn't have bothered me. I was free and not at all boggled down by my left brain. I had no where to go and no where to be even though in reality, my parents were expecting me for Thanksgiving dinner. I was envious of those who were able to let go of the good life as it were and settle for well, maybe a better life. I admired how R knew how to be under any circumstance.
But I'm not free like that. I'm still trying to find the balance, still trying to figure out when to surrender or trek on. I asked for this. I want these dark nights of the soul. It's the only way I know how to discover myself at this point. I've got to infuse more laughter into all of this, keep it light and steady. When I find the recipe, I'll fill you in.
There's a point when I cry where suddenly, I get some kind of revelation and the tears just stop. Maybe I spoke too soon when I concluded that it wasn't loneliness I was experiencing a week ago. And maybe it isn't loneliness per Se but a kind of spiritual isolation. It's like the more I dig, the more isolated I feel. I thought I'd develop a sense of freedom with inner knowledge or wisdom. I mean, I've been asking for this. I've been putting it out there for years. Show me the way. Show me the way. Show me the way, like a mantra that goes on automatic with or without my knowledge. Then there's a knock on the door and when you go to open it, the information floods in. You know there's no turning back.
I was immediately comforted by memories of my motorcycle ride over a year ago. An old acquaintance discovered how much I wanted to go for a ride on his Harley or how much I wanted him to take me out for a ride on his Harley. R is special. I knew he had that something I don't see or notice in many people. I just gravitated towards his philosophy. He had a way of calming me down, of making me see what's truly important and how easily I become rattled by nonsense and trivialities. He reflects a kind of freedom I don't experience in my daily activities. He's always so still, so centered, and so on purpose.
I remember how fast the bike was going, the roaring sound of the engine and wheels, how close my feet were to the ground, the way my hair whipped against my face. I recall looking up and seeing nothing but sky and some clouds. I told myself then and there, that I would remember that moment forever. There's a stillness that takes place in the mind in the midst of all that movement and sound. I was everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. R took me to a coffee shop somewhere up north in what appeared to be a biker's town. I'd never seen so many bikes in one place and I can't even begin to speak of the comraderie between these men. It didn't matter where we were on the road, if a biker rode by, we'd get a salute, a hello. I took a liking to a tiny antique store right next to the coffee shop. I remember feeling as though I was in a different part of the world and in many ways, I was. I was residing in a different place within myself looking at the world through another set of lenses.
R says to me, You should see your face right now. Yes, I was high. Something about the open road lifted me up, way up. And yet I settled into myself quite nicely. On our way out of this heaven, he made a right turn on a small road by a stream and a line of people looking to catch some fish. I will never forget how the sun sparkled through the trees, how vibrant the yellow, orange and red leaves looked to my eyes. It occurred to me then the way it occurs to me now--I belonged to nothing and no one out there on this road. It's like if I had been obliterated, it wouldn't have bothered me. I was free and not at all boggled down by my left brain. I had no where to go and no where to be even though in reality, my parents were expecting me for Thanksgiving dinner. I was envious of those who were able to let go of the good life as it were and settle for well, maybe a better life. I admired how R knew how to be under any circumstance.
But I'm not free like that. I'm still trying to find the balance, still trying to figure out when to surrender or trek on. I asked for this. I want these dark nights of the soul. It's the only way I know how to discover myself at this point. I've got to infuse more laughter into all of this, keep it light and steady. When I find the recipe, I'll fill you in.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Wizard
He says I have to dig deeper. He says it's the only way I'll overcome. He insists shallowness will get me nowhere. I stand there at the door in a basement of a house. In front of me are rows of bookshelves and what feel like ancient texts in all different colours--rich purples, reds, and golds. I intuitively understand that everything I need to know rests in this dwelling. To my right sits a Wizard. He wears a long, purple pointed hat and a shiny purple robe with gold symbols. I find it odd that he sits behind a desk that appears to be too small for his height, his stature. Then I perceive that this image is perhaps on purpose to create a certain impression and some kind of poetic effect. It works. He says, You know, you're going to have to deal with all of this some day. And I answer him by saying, Yes, I know. But I really don't know. I don't have a clue. Well, that's not entirely true but sometimes, just sometimes, I really wish I didn't have a clue or inclination.
I walk upstairs and out the front door but the memory of it is a blur. Like a blanket laid out by the gods, I see nothing but open space as far as the eye can see. It's cloudy but warm and slightly windy. When I turn to look behind me, I notice the structure from which I came--squared shape, made of stone, with a flat roof top. There are two white pillars, one on each side of the porch which is a single step from the ground. On my left, I see Jesus leaning against one of the pillars. He says nothing. He never says anything. It's an agreement we have.
You see, for a lucid dreamer like me (one who knows s/he is dreaming), to see the dead is a pretty frightening thing. Whenever I have a dream of someone who's passed, it's understood s/he is not to utter a word to me unless I'm asking a question or making a comment. I just don't want to hear what they have to say. I don't want to know what the message is...through words. Words from the dead and I just don't mix. It doesn't matter that it's just a dream. I can't put any faith in just, not in this context. I sense there would be too much power in the delivery. I don't trust in the idea that they'd ever have anything positive to share. That being said, a dream of Jesus never makes me feel uneasy. On the contrary, I'm always left feeling quite high. So Jesus stands there and stares at me with arms folded. He has a way of making me feel safe and whole. I also see a faint smile on the side of his face. But the same rule applies to him, nonetheless. If he needs me to know anything, he's got to come at me with feeling. I'm a feeler.
I want this life to have meaning and purpose. Otherwise, what's the point? Why bother? Why care? Why anything? But I'm the only one that can infuse meaning and purpose into my life. Me and me alone. There are teachers that can help show the way but ultimately it's up to me, up to us, up to those of us who want more or who want what is but aren't able to see what is. Jesus is a self-master. I'm not even close. There's so much work to do, so much information to unravel and I'd rather surrender to fantasy and dream today. But maybe that's part of the work, my work. So I'll smile and say nothing more.
I walk upstairs and out the front door but the memory of it is a blur. Like a blanket laid out by the gods, I see nothing but open space as far as the eye can see. It's cloudy but warm and slightly windy. When I turn to look behind me, I notice the structure from which I came--squared shape, made of stone, with a flat roof top. There are two white pillars, one on each side of the porch which is a single step from the ground. On my left, I see Jesus leaning against one of the pillars. He says nothing. He never says anything. It's an agreement we have.
You see, for a lucid dreamer like me (one who knows s/he is dreaming), to see the dead is a pretty frightening thing. Whenever I have a dream of someone who's passed, it's understood s/he is not to utter a word to me unless I'm asking a question or making a comment. I just don't want to hear what they have to say. I don't want to know what the message is...through words. Words from the dead and I just don't mix. It doesn't matter that it's just a dream. I can't put any faith in just, not in this context. I sense there would be too much power in the delivery. I don't trust in the idea that they'd ever have anything positive to share. That being said, a dream of Jesus never makes me feel uneasy. On the contrary, I'm always left feeling quite high. So Jesus stands there and stares at me with arms folded. He has a way of making me feel safe and whole. I also see a faint smile on the side of his face. But the same rule applies to him, nonetheless. If he needs me to know anything, he's got to come at me with feeling. I'm a feeler.
I want this life to have meaning and purpose. Otherwise, what's the point? Why bother? Why care? Why anything? But I'm the only one that can infuse meaning and purpose into my life. Me and me alone. There are teachers that can help show the way but ultimately it's up to me, up to us, up to those of us who want more or who want what is but aren't able to see what is. Jesus is a self-master. I'm not even close. There's so much work to do, so much information to unravel and I'd rather surrender to fantasy and dream today. But maybe that's part of the work, my work. So I'll smile and say nothing more.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
"Heroes"
I sit in a corner of a room that feels warm and inviting. There is one window facing west and from my viewpoint, all I see is sky with some floating clouds and a hint of sunshine. I don't want to get up and interrupt this feeling so I continue to look around. There is a rectangular wooden table that takes up most of the space and I'm aware of how much I like the scent of pine.
I could stay in this room forever--feels like a late Sunday afternoon in August. I get a slight chill from the air outside but it suits me just fine. I'm not alone. Johnny Cash sits at one corner of the table with a guitar on his lap, his arms outstretched and hands folded. I've never seen hair so black, so velvety. I gather he's in his thirties here. He looks quite sharp and calm. He stares at June who sits right in front of him. Thank goodness for June. She knew how to take care of him. She knew how to love him. What a poet. What a man. I can't help but hear his music in my head. He was so real, so dark and broken. Musicians are the innovators of this world.
I notice Cobain and Zappa at the table as well sitting on the left of June at some distance. They discuss a chord change. Zappa says something obviously eye opening because Cobain suddenly looks up, one brow lifting, amused at the idea he hadn't thought of himself. Zappa is something else, even here among the others. He's always so strong, so sure, and unwavering. He's always one step ahead, a genius and a rock god.
Cobain's blond hair is a nice contrast to Cash's and Zappa's. He's still twenty seven and I can't believe I'm older than he was when he passed!! It's all so so strange. I recall the number of dreams I'd had of Kurt after his death. I still wonder whether he actually took his own life. In one of my lucid dreams, we were sitting in a bar. I could smell the stench of smoke, its heaviness, how it saturated everything. Cobain looked pasty white, his eyes full of sparkle and glitter but void of any kind of real light, a sort of dull display of a man that wasn't. It just seemed as though his light was trapped from behind the eyes. I sensed the cold coming off his body although he wore a long brown coat to keep himself warm. I remember saying, They say you could have been murdered. He lifts from his chair, his face approaching mine, his lips aiming for my right ear and whispers, That was the mocking bird, with the most disconcerting smile.
I notice Joan of Arc. What a presence. And oh how young! Her sword sits to the right of the window on the floor like a beacon. I wonder how Joan's small frame could carry the weight of such a thing. The sun shines through the clouds like some eager lover and then settles in nicely lighting everything up, creating some dancing shadows on the wall as well. Everyone's eyes are fixed on how spectacular the sword shines. I can't help but feel Joan's courage and strength and how crazy and frightening her journey must have been. Here, she sits quietly meditating on some spot on the floor and not too far from her armor.
Brandon Lee, standing silent and pained with arms crossed, stares aimlessly out the window. His eyes are now met by flat rooftops, some shrubs, a few trees and a chirping bird. He's still in costume as Eric Draven from The Crow. It's like he has a hard time parting with it. As Eric, he loses his life and his Shelly on the night before the day of their wedding. He avenges her death as well as his own. I think it's the greatest love story ever told by James O'Barr who is no stranger to tragedy. What's so unbelievable, so heartbreaking is that as Brandon, he too misses the bride that never was. Due to an accident on the set of the movie, he was pronounced dead on March 31, 1993 and was supposed to be married on April 17 to Eliza, just seventeen days later! Brandon is beautiful. I like how his guitar hangs from his side.
Jesus and Gurdjieff are speaking softly because they're the only two aware that I'm even in the room! I'm a little amused by that. I mean of course they know. I can only imagine what they're going on about, the way they communicate with their eyes. I can't even say I'm impressed, maybe a little jealous. I'm through with figuring out riddles and deciphering messages. At least that's how I feel right at this moment. Tomorrow may be different.
George Harrison and St.Teresa of Avila are here as well but they come and go like fleeting thoughts. Some day soon, I'll focus and devote an entire page to each but as for now, The Fourth Way is pressing hard upon my mind. It's time to rethink a few things.
I could stay in this room forever--feels like a late Sunday afternoon in August. I get a slight chill from the air outside but it suits me just fine. I'm not alone. Johnny Cash sits at one corner of the table with a guitar on his lap, his arms outstretched and hands folded. I've never seen hair so black, so velvety. I gather he's in his thirties here. He looks quite sharp and calm. He stares at June who sits right in front of him. Thank goodness for June. She knew how to take care of him. She knew how to love him. What a poet. What a man. I can't help but hear his music in my head. He was so real, so dark and broken. Musicians are the innovators of this world.
I notice Cobain and Zappa at the table as well sitting on the left of June at some distance. They discuss a chord change. Zappa says something obviously eye opening because Cobain suddenly looks up, one brow lifting, amused at the idea he hadn't thought of himself. Zappa is something else, even here among the others. He's always so strong, so sure, and unwavering. He's always one step ahead, a genius and a rock god.
Cobain's blond hair is a nice contrast to Cash's and Zappa's. He's still twenty seven and I can't believe I'm older than he was when he passed!! It's all so so strange. I recall the number of dreams I'd had of Kurt after his death. I still wonder whether he actually took his own life. In one of my lucid dreams, we were sitting in a bar. I could smell the stench of smoke, its heaviness, how it saturated everything. Cobain looked pasty white, his eyes full of sparkle and glitter but void of any kind of real light, a sort of dull display of a man that wasn't. It just seemed as though his light was trapped from behind the eyes. I sensed the cold coming off his body although he wore a long brown coat to keep himself warm. I remember saying, They say you could have been murdered. He lifts from his chair, his face approaching mine, his lips aiming for my right ear and whispers, That was the mocking bird, with the most disconcerting smile.
I notice Joan of Arc. What a presence. And oh how young! Her sword sits to the right of the window on the floor like a beacon. I wonder how Joan's small frame could carry the weight of such a thing. The sun shines through the clouds like some eager lover and then settles in nicely lighting everything up, creating some dancing shadows on the wall as well. Everyone's eyes are fixed on how spectacular the sword shines. I can't help but feel Joan's courage and strength and how crazy and frightening her journey must have been. Here, she sits quietly meditating on some spot on the floor and not too far from her armor.
Brandon Lee, standing silent and pained with arms crossed, stares aimlessly out the window. His eyes are now met by flat rooftops, some shrubs, a few trees and a chirping bird. He's still in costume as Eric Draven from The Crow. It's like he has a hard time parting with it. As Eric, he loses his life and his Shelly on the night before the day of their wedding. He avenges her death as well as his own. I think it's the greatest love story ever told by James O'Barr who is no stranger to tragedy. What's so unbelievable, so heartbreaking is that as Brandon, he too misses the bride that never was. Due to an accident on the set of the movie, he was pronounced dead on March 31, 1993 and was supposed to be married on April 17 to Eliza, just seventeen days later! Brandon is beautiful. I like how his guitar hangs from his side.
Jesus and Gurdjieff are speaking softly because they're the only two aware that I'm even in the room! I'm a little amused by that. I mean of course they know. I can only imagine what they're going on about, the way they communicate with their eyes. I can't even say I'm impressed, maybe a little jealous. I'm through with figuring out riddles and deciphering messages. At least that's how I feel right at this moment. Tomorrow may be different.
George Harrison and St.Teresa of Avila are here as well but they come and go like fleeting thoughts. Some day soon, I'll focus and devote an entire page to each but as for now, The Fourth Way is pressing hard upon my mind. It's time to rethink a few things.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Revelations
At 4:30am, he suddenly rises from bed and mumbles words I can't quite make out as he heads for the restroom. Upon his return, he lays down and the words continue to roll off his tongue and straight to the back of my head. I know some heavy philosophical ideas are circulating in his mind.
He thinks that if the real came for me, I’d turn it away.
He thinks that I bury my light under a bushel. He’s always making references to Jesus.
He thinks that a part of me wants to be normal and says, So sad. Sad. Sad.
He thinks I listen to my family too much at the expense of my self.
He thinks I don’t want truth bad enough.
I hear Muse's Map of the Problematique play in my head now.
Life will flash before my eyes
So scattered and lost
And no one thinks they are to blame
Why can’t we see
That when we bleed, we bleed the same
I can’t get it right
Get it right
Since I met you
I try not to say anything. I want sleep to come back and reclaim me but it doesn’t just yet.
He says, Who knows, maybe we’ll have to part ways one day. My head feels warm, my eyes focused on the wall. This is one of many things he won’t remember having said in the morning.
I’m not sure what shocks me most. Is it maybe, part ways, or one day?
He gets this way when he’s on a mission.
He feels the need to be preachy.
He forgets he isn’t the only one searching.
He’s looking for the real in the normal.
I’m looking for some kind of normal in the real.
He forgets what he's learned of me.
He forgets how deep and how far a woman’s heart goes and what dreams and secrets are trapped within its chambers.
He forgets how strength has shaped me, how it shields me.
He forgets how he’s supported in his quest for truth.
And all this…because I fell asleep during the movie, Meetings with Remarkable Men.
But then again, I understand he talks in his sleep. And in this sleep, he
says things he fears in himself.
So I'm relieved when sleep comes back for me knowing he's just projecting.
Yes, he's just projecting...
He thinks that if the real came for me, I’d turn it away.
He thinks that I bury my light under a bushel. He’s always making references to Jesus.
He thinks that a part of me wants to be normal and says, So sad. Sad. Sad.
He thinks I listen to my family too much at the expense of my self.
He thinks I don’t want truth bad enough.
I hear Muse's Map of the Problematique play in my head now.
Life will flash before my eyes
So scattered and lost
And no one thinks they are to blame
Why can’t we see
That when we bleed, we bleed the same
I can’t get it right
Get it right
Since I met you
I try not to say anything. I want sleep to come back and reclaim me but it doesn’t just yet.
He says, Who knows, maybe we’ll have to part ways one day. My head feels warm, my eyes focused on the wall. This is one of many things he won’t remember having said in the morning.
I’m not sure what shocks me most. Is it maybe, part ways, or one day?
He gets this way when he’s on a mission.
He feels the need to be preachy.
He forgets he isn’t the only one searching.
He’s looking for the real in the normal.
I’m looking for some kind of normal in the real.
He forgets what he's learned of me.
He forgets how deep and how far a woman’s heart goes and what dreams and secrets are trapped within its chambers.
He forgets how strength has shaped me, how it shields me.
He forgets how he’s supported in his quest for truth.
And all this…because I fell asleep during the movie, Meetings with Remarkable Men.
But then again, I understand he talks in his sleep. And in this sleep, he
says things he fears in himself.
So I'm relieved when sleep comes back for me knowing he's just projecting.
Yes, he's just projecting...
Monday, February 1, 2010
Gibran & Ziadeh
I'm ashamed. Gibran and Ziadeh have been on my mind. My original copy of Love Letters burned in a fire over 10 years ago. Trying to get another copy soon after was difficult and had to be ordered but I finally received it a little later. It's been on my book shelf ever since...never once having been picked up until yesterday.
The book is a collection of letters between Kahlil Gibran and May Ziadeh spanning over a 19 year period between the years 1912 and 1931. I felt a connection with Gibran after reading The Prophet, his most famous piece. When I read it, I resonated with the words and the images that conjured up in my mind and the feelings that stirred in my heart. Half of what I say is meaningless but I say it so that the other half may reach you. This one line is a reflection of the man and the art.
Gibran's correspondence with Ziadeh, at first, was an exchange of views and opinions regarding literature and other pieces of work. As the years passed, the letters took on a more spiritual and deeply poetic feel. Gibran and Ziadeh never knew that in their nows, in their moments of strength and of weakness, in their joys and sorrows, these letters would find their way to the public. I am so grateful for this gift and to be a present witness to a love that was and still is one of the most beautiful exchanges of deep, heart felt affection that I have ever read on paper. A kind of longing and yearning for the real permeates the pages. I could feel the desire and the challenge in trying to keep a thought, a feeling in the now and how Gibran made every attempt to make the eternal tangible, fluid, and not separate from his art and his life. He was a reflection of spirit and all that entails.
In one letter May asks what the colour of Kahlil's suit is. In his response, he describes two suits, one made of flesh and bones and the other as one designed for dervishes (I love that image of the dervish). He indicates that his garment is also stained with paint. Then he goes on to say how he'd like to divest himself of flesh and bones because he doesn't want them about him when he speaks with her. When I first read that line, I had to stop reading. It's just so moving. One can't help but be awakened and then transported to those spaces within oneself that up until then, had either been hidden or neglected. Gibran sees his flesh, his body as a distraction, and something that gets in the way of that kind of expression which comes from a place of spiritual purity and sensibility. There is no need for I love you. Gibran makes our present day expression of love and emotion look trivial, meaningless and painfully superficial. And of course it isn't. It's just that the correspondence between Gibran and Ziadeh feels different and the magic that is created and felt cannot be denied.
The most interesting aspect of their relationship is that they never met, ever, at least not in person. And yet they were together...in spirit. After rereading Love Letters, I remember why I so thoroughly enjoyed it the first time. I'm aware of the fact that at one time, they were both alive and breathing, that they each roamed the earth and their own sacred spaces. I imagine what it would have been like for May to have received that third, fifth, tenth letter...I also wonder what life would have been like for them had they met. Would that kind of dialogue have continued?
It appears safe to pour the contents of one's being and heart out onto paper. I don't have any trouble with that myself but I can't say it's easy. I do sense a kind of vulnerability that is created with an unveiling of sentiment or emotion. If you know that someone important to you is going to be on the receiving end whom you've never actually met, you're careful as to how and what words come through because you're residing in sacred territory and you don't mess around with the sacred. I'm sure it wasn't easy for May to profess her love considering the times, social conventions and restrictions. The genuine outpouring in these letters is expressed through a sort of spiritual language that is unmistakable and poetically powerful. This was not a typical relationship by any means.
There is also something to be said about the anticipation of the next letter. I imagine a great passion was continually ignited and the fact that they weren't involved physically only made their bond greater. I think the dialogue would have ended to a certain extent. It would have had no choice but to change. On paper, the dream becomes the real, the constant, the eternal. But in this world, in the world they would have known and experienced, and in person, the real would have been somewhat obscured because it wouldn't have had that kind of poetic background or justice to keep it steady and fluid. For brief moments, one can maintain that kind of intensity but out here where most of us live in our left brain, it is an endeavour, a life long task to find the right balance between the left and right hemispheres. I think a little bit of the magic would have naturally been lost which is why I think I am so moved by their unique relationship to begin with--it doesn't fit into any other mold I can think of when it comes to love, unity or the eternal flame, as Gibran liked to call it. To me, both Gibran and Ziadeh were evolved beings capable of fusing all parts of themselves into one.
The book is a collection of letters between Kahlil Gibran and May Ziadeh spanning over a 19 year period between the years 1912 and 1931. I felt a connection with Gibran after reading The Prophet, his most famous piece. When I read it, I resonated with the words and the images that conjured up in my mind and the feelings that stirred in my heart. Half of what I say is meaningless but I say it so that the other half may reach you. This one line is a reflection of the man and the art.
Gibran's correspondence with Ziadeh, at first, was an exchange of views and opinions regarding literature and other pieces of work. As the years passed, the letters took on a more spiritual and deeply poetic feel. Gibran and Ziadeh never knew that in their nows, in their moments of strength and of weakness, in their joys and sorrows, these letters would find their way to the public. I am so grateful for this gift and to be a present witness to a love that was and still is one of the most beautiful exchanges of deep, heart felt affection that I have ever read on paper. A kind of longing and yearning for the real permeates the pages. I could feel the desire and the challenge in trying to keep a thought, a feeling in the now and how Gibran made every attempt to make the eternal tangible, fluid, and not separate from his art and his life. He was a reflection of spirit and all that entails.
In one letter May asks what the colour of Kahlil's suit is. In his response, he describes two suits, one made of flesh and bones and the other as one designed for dervishes (I love that image of the dervish). He indicates that his garment is also stained with paint. Then he goes on to say how he'd like to divest himself of flesh and bones because he doesn't want them about him when he speaks with her. When I first read that line, I had to stop reading. It's just so moving. One can't help but be awakened and then transported to those spaces within oneself that up until then, had either been hidden or neglected. Gibran sees his flesh, his body as a distraction, and something that gets in the way of that kind of expression which comes from a place of spiritual purity and sensibility. There is no need for I love you. Gibran makes our present day expression of love and emotion look trivial, meaningless and painfully superficial. And of course it isn't. It's just that the correspondence between Gibran and Ziadeh feels different and the magic that is created and felt cannot be denied.
The most interesting aspect of their relationship is that they never met, ever, at least not in person. And yet they were together...in spirit. After rereading Love Letters, I remember why I so thoroughly enjoyed it the first time. I'm aware of the fact that at one time, they were both alive and breathing, that they each roamed the earth and their own sacred spaces. I imagine what it would have been like for May to have received that third, fifth, tenth letter...I also wonder what life would have been like for them had they met. Would that kind of dialogue have continued?
It appears safe to pour the contents of one's being and heart out onto paper. I don't have any trouble with that myself but I can't say it's easy. I do sense a kind of vulnerability that is created with an unveiling of sentiment or emotion. If you know that someone important to you is going to be on the receiving end whom you've never actually met, you're careful as to how and what words come through because you're residing in sacred territory and you don't mess around with the sacred. I'm sure it wasn't easy for May to profess her love considering the times, social conventions and restrictions. The genuine outpouring in these letters is expressed through a sort of spiritual language that is unmistakable and poetically powerful. This was not a typical relationship by any means.
There is also something to be said about the anticipation of the next letter. I imagine a great passion was continually ignited and the fact that they weren't involved physically only made their bond greater. I think the dialogue would have ended to a certain extent. It would have had no choice but to change. On paper, the dream becomes the real, the constant, the eternal. But in this world, in the world they would have known and experienced, and in person, the real would have been somewhat obscured because it wouldn't have had that kind of poetic background or justice to keep it steady and fluid. For brief moments, one can maintain that kind of intensity but out here where most of us live in our left brain, it is an endeavour, a life long task to find the right balance between the left and right hemispheres. I think a little bit of the magic would have naturally been lost which is why I think I am so moved by their unique relationship to begin with--it doesn't fit into any other mold I can think of when it comes to love, unity or the eternal flame, as Gibran liked to call it. To me, both Gibran and Ziadeh were evolved beings capable of fusing all parts of themselves into one.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Aloneness and the idea of one
Last night, while trying to fall asleep, I became concerned with the idea of aloneness. It was not loneliness I was experiencing for I was neither down nor depressed. I think aloneness is quite a different experience. I was perfectly satisfied to be with myself, by myself, enveloped by my thoughts and all of those emotions these thoughts produced, neither good nor bad. I wanted to take the time to acknowledge these little feelings and give them a voice.
I was also painfully aware of the inability or impossibility of fully flowing into an other. I think of poppies in a field and although we are able to say they are all poppies, they are each a poppy as well, independent of the other, so that no two poppies are the same. Poppy A grows out of the ground and claims a spot just like Poppy B and so on and so forth. There is an inherent sadness in that perception--the idea that no one will every truly know me. To know thy self is reserved for us and us alone. It's as though no matter how open or receptive I am, there are places within me that will always and forever remain hidden not because of any desire to have it that way but because I am not fully aware of who and what I am or equipped to access certain parts of my being. Can we ever truly be in the presence of others? Except for a few people, who really knows who and what we are? Who notices our joys or our sorrows at each given moment? Who knows our every wish or takes note of every gesture, meaningful or otherwise? Who lies there with us and feels when our thoughts weigh heavy or senses that je ne sais quoi of our being?
A veil, I am aware of but not yet able to lift, hangs over my eyes. There are times when a longing takes over and I truly feel that the only way to appease it is to surrender, to blend in with the scenery, with Nature, neither wanting nor needing nor longing--to be a part of the whole without any expectations. For moments at a time, it becomes a goal I wish to achieve. But there is no destination to get to. It's a state of being.
In retrospect, the idea of losing my individual self or the I that is me, has always been a frightening concept but I can see now that it was only because of a perception or a fear that I was not connected to something bigger than myself. Last night, I wanted nothing more than to be one with all that is. Perhaps it's what Andreas Moritz refers to when he speaks of humanity's longing to go home and that as long as we are alive, we are always searching for our real selves. To lose oneself in this sense, and still come out intact, is both a blessing and a curse. In many ways, I am asleep in my waking.
I'm perplexed by a lack of some thing I can't quite place or fully grasp. I catch glimpses of it like a sudden whiff of air, a sudden moment of clarity and in that awareness, it vanishes but not without leaving an imprint. There stirs a power within me that if I were able to harness it, would open me up to new possibilities, new ways of perceiving the world and the universe. Is it futile to want more than what is? And is my inability to grasp the magic of all that is the core of this longing? Vulnerability comes knocking on the door, a sort of sweet suffering that makes way for beauty to rise up above from her mysteries and depths. When she comes and has her way with me, I'm left transformed and not at all like my former self.
There is an image that keeps playing with me over and over again like a nudging of sorts. I'm in a forest whose trees are magnificent, nurturing and shielding. My long purple dress is reminiscent of a world that belongs to the preraphaelites such as Waterhouse and Morris and the women they depict in their paintings like the Lady of Shalott and Ophelia...I'm welcomed by the sound and feel of soft misty rain and am suddenly aware of how powerful this element truly is. After all, in the world of Tarot, water represents the emotions. I can feel the silkiness of the lush greens between my fingers and smell the sweet scent that is given off from water mingling with soil.
The image is changing and developing. I'm now standing on a cliff in Ireland. I don't know why it's Ireland, except that it feels like Ireland. I am now wearing a dress more suited for warriors like The Lady Kriemhilde and Athene. I am alive and sexy in this new attire, much more alive and sexy than I was able to experience in my former wear which, although does represent a kind of art, beauty and femininity I admire, also carries much sadness and loneliness along its seams. I carry a sword, a majestic sword with a point so fine, I can dissect the air with it. If I can just find that single opening in space, all of the secrets of the universe would have no choice but to spill through. I am aware that the sword represents the air and the intellect. I've asked myself whether I carry it to protect myself or because a part of me resonates with that part of the sword which manifests strength and courage. For now, it's an accessory I wear to help bring me out and a tool I use to access the heavens with its tip. My boots are heavy and masculine and provide just the right balance to ground and root me in the earth. I stand tall and beautiful,imbued with wisdom and passion and just enough grace to weather any storm.
They say that when the student is ready, the teacher appears...
I was also painfully aware of the inability or impossibility of fully flowing into an other. I think of poppies in a field and although we are able to say they are all poppies, they are each a poppy as well, independent of the other, so that no two poppies are the same. Poppy A grows out of the ground and claims a spot just like Poppy B and so on and so forth. There is an inherent sadness in that perception--the idea that no one will every truly know me. To know thy self is reserved for us and us alone. It's as though no matter how open or receptive I am, there are places within me that will always and forever remain hidden not because of any desire to have it that way but because I am not fully aware of who and what I am or equipped to access certain parts of my being. Can we ever truly be in the presence of others? Except for a few people, who really knows who and what we are? Who notices our joys or our sorrows at each given moment? Who knows our every wish or takes note of every gesture, meaningful or otherwise? Who lies there with us and feels when our thoughts weigh heavy or senses that je ne sais quoi of our being?
A veil, I am aware of but not yet able to lift, hangs over my eyes. There are times when a longing takes over and I truly feel that the only way to appease it is to surrender, to blend in with the scenery, with Nature, neither wanting nor needing nor longing--to be a part of the whole without any expectations. For moments at a time, it becomes a goal I wish to achieve. But there is no destination to get to. It's a state of being.
In retrospect, the idea of losing my individual self or the I that is me, has always been a frightening concept but I can see now that it was only because of a perception or a fear that I was not connected to something bigger than myself. Last night, I wanted nothing more than to be one with all that is. Perhaps it's what Andreas Moritz refers to when he speaks of humanity's longing to go home and that as long as we are alive, we are always searching for our real selves. To lose oneself in this sense, and still come out intact, is both a blessing and a curse. In many ways, I am asleep in my waking.
I'm perplexed by a lack of some thing I can't quite place or fully grasp. I catch glimpses of it like a sudden whiff of air, a sudden moment of clarity and in that awareness, it vanishes but not without leaving an imprint. There stirs a power within me that if I were able to harness it, would open me up to new possibilities, new ways of perceiving the world and the universe. Is it futile to want more than what is? And is my inability to grasp the magic of all that is the core of this longing? Vulnerability comes knocking on the door, a sort of sweet suffering that makes way for beauty to rise up above from her mysteries and depths. When she comes and has her way with me, I'm left transformed and not at all like my former self.
There is an image that keeps playing with me over and over again like a nudging of sorts. I'm in a forest whose trees are magnificent, nurturing and shielding. My long purple dress is reminiscent of a world that belongs to the preraphaelites such as Waterhouse and Morris and the women they depict in their paintings like the Lady of Shalott and Ophelia...I'm welcomed by the sound and feel of soft misty rain and am suddenly aware of how powerful this element truly is. After all, in the world of Tarot, water represents the emotions. I can feel the silkiness of the lush greens between my fingers and smell the sweet scent that is given off from water mingling with soil.
The image is changing and developing. I'm now standing on a cliff in Ireland. I don't know why it's Ireland, except that it feels like Ireland. I am now wearing a dress more suited for warriors like The Lady Kriemhilde and Athene. I am alive and sexy in this new attire, much more alive and sexy than I was able to experience in my former wear which, although does represent a kind of art, beauty and femininity I admire, also carries much sadness and loneliness along its seams. I carry a sword, a majestic sword with a point so fine, I can dissect the air with it. If I can just find that single opening in space, all of the secrets of the universe would have no choice but to spill through. I am aware that the sword represents the air and the intellect. I've asked myself whether I carry it to protect myself or because a part of me resonates with that part of the sword which manifests strength and courage. For now, it's an accessory I wear to help bring me out and a tool I use to access the heavens with its tip. My boots are heavy and masculine and provide just the right balance to ground and root me in the earth. I stand tall and beautiful,imbued with wisdom and passion and just enough grace to weather any storm.
They say that when the student is ready, the teacher appears...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)