I confess, this has been an abundant week -- an adventurous week, given my usual quiet solitude. Even the solitude is abundant. Right now, for example (it's Sunday evening) I am writing this during breaks from Poirot, drinking wine and eating good dark chocolate. While I can quite reasonably claim that the specifics are unusual -- I rarely drink wine -- luxury is not unusual for me. I am not one of those anorexic, self-depriving, scarcity types for whom this chapter was written:
. . . a little authentic luxury can go a long way. The key word here is authentic. Because art is born in expansion, in a belief in sufficient supply, it is critical that we pamper ourselves for the sense of abundance it brings to us.
On the contrary, my lesson has been self-discipline -- and I do discipline myself, by necessity, at present. I know I can live on very little, having done so (and barely doing so now) and I know I can live on plenty -- by spending it. I also know that, in terms of contentment, there isn't a lot of difference -- assuming there's enough for shelter, heat, food, and pets. Which is quite a lot, actually. A very lot, by many measures.
All too often, we become blocked and blame it on our lack of money. This is never an authentic block. The actual block is our feeling of constriction, our sense of powerlessness.
The difference between enough to live on and a great deal is insignificant; the difference between not-enough and enough is vast. It is true, though, that the discontent in my life has generally stemmed from matters other than money.
In order to thrive as artists -- and, one could argue, as people -- we need to be available to the universal flow. When we put a stopper on our capacity for joy by anorectically declining the small gifts of life, we turn aside the larger gifts as well.
The exercises in this chapter were enlightening, and give me some sense of why I may have difficulty holding on to the abundance that comes my way. Deserving (or, rather, undeserving) is a big word in my personal vocabulary.
A personal god/dess is still not in my personal vocabulary. And as I write that, I notice on C-Span2 Book TV, Sam Harris, The End of Faith: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason -- which I will now watch.
Monday morning notes: The Sam Harris program was fascinating. Sadly, I came in half-way through. The book has been sitting on my shelf for many weeks; I will begin it today. The back cover blurb says:
In The End of Faith, Sam Harris delivers a startling analysis of the clash between reason and religion in the modern world. He offers a vivid, historical tour of our willingness to suspend reason in favor of religious beliefs -- even when these beliefs inspire the worst of human atrocities. While warning against the encroachment of organized religion into world politics, Harris draws on insights from neuroscience, philosophy and Eastern mysticism to deliver a call for a truly modern foundation for ethics and spirituality that is both secular and humanistic.
Linda, in her reading, gestured and said: This space moves to let my hands pass through. She spoke of the Navajo language as a language of verbs, while English is a language of nouns. I find myself thinking: this world, this universe, is not a creation, it is a Creating. Rather like the old joke: Be Patient. I'm not done yet.
I am a creating. We are a happening! It's all verbs. Even a stone, with its internal space and whirling -- molecules? -- is a verb.
Little terriers are, most certainly, verbs; and cats are slow and sudden verbs. I -- I am a languid verb, an intense verb, a deepening verb. I am a poeming verb.
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Yes, molecules.
A fact I often think of: if the atoms or molecules in a solid were the size of stars, the empty space between them would likewise be a large as the space between stars. A stone, like the galaxy, is mostly empty space.
A complementary fact: empty space in fact has its own energy, which causes little matter ghosts to flicker in and out.
Like the light seen in a closed eye.
If a stone is a verb it must be "dream" -- don't you think?
Posted by: Erin | 21 February 2006 at 09:36 AM
The dreaming stone. Yes.
And perhaps we are little matter ghosts, flickering?
Posted by: SB | 21 February 2006 at 11:37 AM