The description I love best is that each of us is an intersection of matter and spirit, the above and below, the eternal and the present, of knowledge and mystery. I am tired of materialism—so very tired of its laborious absurdities, the dead ends it tries to pretty-over, the delicate faculties of the human being it would all but silence. Even so, I would not discard logic or rational thought. I would simply hold them in their proper place. I would offer them a new beginning, a more expansive starting point on which to build, and partner with whom to play. I would add unto them the faculties of inner knowing, the resonance of the heart that awakens us, the trust in the unknown that reveals us.
There is something wrong with the notion of self that we have had, but nothing wrong with the notion that we can know who we are. There is only one Self and we are it, even as we extend from it to embody particular movements of differentiation and expression. To disavow the power of identity so completely that we become trapped in an ineffectual lingering is merely to keep a circuit closed. It is a way of hiding. But to let the self of form and its myopic viewpoint drive us willy-nilly over the landscape, discontented with all it sees, arguing and pushing and nullifying, is to not exist at all. It is to be a ghost.
Identity is as fluid as beauty is. Identity has no bounds. Identity gathers itself for an instant into a loving smile, the reflections of a mountain lake, the plunging of a falcon, the fruiting of a tree. Identity is forever, and forever just beginning. We are it. Over and over. We are.
The description I love best regarding the current age is that spirit and matter have yet to fully join. The marriage is incomplete. We know a little but not a lot. The marriage must be consummated within our own hearts and minds, and then something new will emerge. We don’t know what it is. I can get carried away with ideas, with hints of what could be that I have seen even in this life, but there are those who would scoff and write me off as one of those. It is better today to rest on the abstract—the feeling of the sun, the softness of rain, the whirl of emotion, the heaviness of despair and the moment it resolves into something you can hold in your hand. Something with wings and a pulse. Something that takes flight. There is no need to say what will be when it is already being.
It’s okay to know things you cannot prove. Let us not rob each other of this sublime right, this creative necessity. When two people know something they cannot prove, and they each set it into words that cannot be reconciled, they merely haven’t dug deeply enough into what they know. They have dug into the soil and hit something hard. To one it is a field stone. Look at the wall our ancestors built that borders the property. To another its a buried trunk. Debate is no good without digging deeper.
It is just no good discounting what others know. It is arrogance, which leads to war and poverty. We are as much invisible as we are visible, as much holy as profane, as much animal as divine. We can see across time, and bring to bear a great Love upon the moment if we so choose. If we let the mystery balance the known. Or we can insist there are limits on what is knowable– on what may be known and who can know it and how. This is the cause of every poverty. This insistence.
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