Topic: Fear of the Inexplicable

[Endless Whisper]

Since daphne mentioned beauty and terror and so forth, made me think of who else? Rilke. From one of his letters though, not his poetry. Thought Id share this:

Fear of the Inexplicable

But fear of the inexplicable has not alone impoverished the existence of the individual; the relationship between one human being and another has also been cramped by it, as though it had been lifted out of the riverbed of endless possibilities and set down in a fallow spot on the bank, to which nothing happens. For it is not inertia alone that is responsible for human relationships repeating themselves from case to case, indescribably monotonous and unrenewed: it is shyness before any sort of new, unforeseeable experience with which one does not think oneself able to cope.

But only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live the relation to another as something alive and will himself draw exhaustively from his own existence. For if we think of this existence of the individual as a larger or smaller room, it appears evident that most people learn to know only a corner of their room, a place by the window, a strip of floor on which they walk up and down. Thus they have a certain security. And yet that dangerous insecurity is so much more human which drives the prisoners in Poe's stories to feel out the shapes of their horrible dungeons and not be strangers to the unspeakable terror of their abode.

We, however, are not prisoners. No traps or snares are set about us, and there is nothing which should intimidate or worry us. We are set down in life as in the element to which we best correspond, and over and above this we have through thousands of years of accommodation become so like this life, that when we hold still we are, through a happy mimicry, scarcely to be distinguished from all that surrounds us. We have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. Has it terrors, they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abysses belong to us; are dangers at hand, we must try to love them. And if only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful. How should we be able to forget those ancient myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.

[Endless Whisper]

I think one of the most profound aspects of what Rilke wrote in this, is about the corner of the room. How people will know a corner of the room (of themselves specifically), but not the whole room. Its masked, hidden. But its not that there is anything, intentionally trying to keep it masked. It feels like it at times, seems like it, but its just a matter of having to, shift our heads, turn around, and look around the room. Walk around it. Its like the Allegory of the Cave. The reference is to 'prisoners' but really, nothing is stopping the prisoners from getting up, and walking around. What it is, is things hook our attention, we get fixed, our AP, gets fixed. But we are the ones who fix it. So when we hear the whisper.... turn around... then we do several things.

We might, hear it, shrug it off. Shrug our shoulders, shake our head, go on about our business. Then we might hear it again, hmmm.... Then maybe odd things start occuring, or we start noticing different things. Bird in flight at a certain point and time, our attention goes on it. Odd streak in the sky of fire. Scent that catches us, by coming out of nowhere. Just, different little, subtle things, trying to make us turn around, turn our head.

But all so we can examine our own 'rooms.' When we dream, we end up in various rooms. I do that a lot. End up in all sorts of rooms. Some are pleasant, others are not. But its like I said on the other thread - you cant get too lost in the images. Ill play the game, play along with the imagery for a bit, but im always aware of how the game is played, and what the deal is. Its just a form of communication, and so I translate, and I peel more wallpaper off the walls, read the writing on it, stalk out the characters and creatures, and keep moving. Even if all is leading to another smaller death, or a bigger one, in some form.

In a way, thats what dreams are doing, to us. All of it is preparation for the next step, here comes another tennis match, and so we swerve at it once again on the court, hit it, til spirit swerves the ball back at us, and we go running across the court, trying to beat spirit at its own game. "Yeah, I saw it coming, I didn't miss." Trying to not get tangled in the net.

Dragons are really princesses. And this is where im gonna post the Rumi poem I talked to daph about:

God's presence is there in front of me, a fire on the left,
a lovely stream on the right.
One group walks towards the fire, into the fire, another toward the sweet flowing water.
No one knows which are blessed and which not.
Whoever walks into the fire appears suddenly in the stream.
A head goes under on the water surface, that head pokes out of the fire.
Most people guard against going into the fire,
and so end up in it.
Those who love the water of pleasure and make it their devotion are cheated with this reversal.
The trickery goes further.
The voice of the fire tells the truth saying, I am not fire.
I am fountainhead. Come into me and don't mind the sparks.

Ass-backwards. That's what he's talking about. And Rilke is too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is one of the dilemmas of the spiritual path. Ill just tell it like it is.

A good amount of people, go about trying to find, their path, themselves and how they fit. We all do that. We get on one cause others, parents or friends, say "You should do this, do it like me," or society says "You should do it like us." We play that game and we're unhappy. We do everything, other people think we should be doing. Then we may find, hey, this is a waste of time. When we start encountering the 'real spirit,' versus the one which other people created, or created for themselves and say we're supposed to do this and that, per that conflict, drop off it, deal with whatever programming is involved and then get away from all that.

Then because we're human, fallible, can't help ourselves, we pursue the spirit thats light, beyond light, loves us no matter what we are, accepts us. And thats all good. But then, we have to deal with the shadows, cast in the light. Our minds play tricks on us, we thought, okay, I think ive found my path, myself, but the more we play along, we begin to get lost. "Oh shit, who am I in all this?" We thought we knew who we were, when we were doing the path, as others saidweshoulddoit. Now, we're "makin' our way downtown walkin' fast,' and homebound. doing it our own way, oh but shit, this is not good either. We are on the right track. We get lost and dont know ourselves. Thats exactly whats supposed to happen. Like daphne said, spending all these years, doing the work. "I dont know myself!" Shes dressing backwards. It all looks backwards. But in truth, she's on the right track. Its whats supposed to happen, so its ok.

My son has this book, sitting right in front of the monitor here, its called The Blank Book. Its one of those, A Series of Unfortunate Events publications. Not the actual books per se, but a journal type book, where you can pen your own journal.

It has quotations from the books, and when you go to the first page, from The Carnivorous Carnival, it says "The sad truth is the truth is sad." LOL

Irony as I find messages in all sorts of ways. Bottles wash up on the shore with little notes, clutched in the jaws of a dolphin's mouth. I grasp it, pet its little head, it laughs and dives down beneath the ocean water. I grab a piece of driftwood, and float on it, open the bottle, and find the message, and have to laugh.

"The sad truth is  the truth is said."

Poignant, in a remarkable way.

So as I float on the driftwood in the ocean of the Nagual, flicking water between my fingers, swirling the foam into spirals, tossing the seaweed out of the way, I glance up at the starry nighttime sky, and think "But the truth is out there... and it all can't be sad, right?" And its here, within, and its everywhere. I know this. But my fascination is why, we make it so difficult on ourselves, to find this out.

We want to reach high, and unzip a large zipper in the sky, part the atmosphere and find the face of god. That doesnt work. There is no zipper. So we look into the water, and look over it at our reflection. I could sit here all day gazing at the water but I know that's not totally it either. Its close, but no cigar. What it is, is everything, is a reflection of god, even ourselves. The whole thing is.

So if I only focus on the corner of the room, I deny all the other space. Im the blind man holding onto the elephant's toe, and saying its god. Its the truth, but the sad truth is, its only, a toe. Im on the right track, but im not seeing the whole picture.

So how do we get the whole picture. Rumi explains it - you go through the fire. You dont avoid it. You aim at it, no matter how terrifying it is. No matter how painful it is. You dont seek relief - you seek the angst and agony.

and then, also seek why the heck spirit, makes it all, ass-backwards for us. The riddle to that one, too. The sad truth.

[Endless Whisper]

This is the rest of Rumi's poem:


If you are a friend of God, fire is your water.
You should wish to have a hundred thousand sets of mothwings, so you could burn them away, one set a night.
The moth sees light and goes into fire. You should see fire and go toward light. Fire is what of God is world-consuming.
Water, world-protecting.
Somehow each gives the appearance of the other.
To these eyes you have now what looks like water burns.
What looks like fire is a great relief to be inside.
You've seen a magician make a bowl of rice seem a dish full of tiny, live worms.
Before an assembly with one breath he made the floor swarm with scorpions that weren't there.
How much more amazing God's tricks.
Generation after generation lies down, defeated, they think, but they're like a woman underneath a man, circling him.
One molecule-mote-second thinking of God's reversal of comfort and pain is better than any attending ritual.
That splinter of intelligence is substance.
The fire and water themselves:
Accidental, done with mirrors.

[Endless Whisper]

"That splinter of intelligence is substance."

What does Rumi mean by this. He gives a clue in another discourse, where the fountainhead is mentioned again:

The intellect is of two kinds: The first is
acquired. You learn it like a boy at school.
From books, teachers, reflection and rote, from
concepts and from excellent and new sciences.
Your intellect becomes greater than that of
others, but you are heavily burdened because of your
acquisition...

The other intellect is a gift of God.
Its fountainhead lies in the midst of the spirit.
When the water of knowledge bubbles up from
the breast, it will never become stagnant, old, or discolored.
If the way to the outside source should become
blocked, there is no reason to worry since the water keeps on
bubbling up from within the house.
The acquired intellect is like a stream led into a
house from outside.
If its way should be blocked, it is helpless. Seek
the fountain from within yourself!

[Endless Whisper]

Bodily Intelligence by Rumi

Your intelligence is always with you,
overseeing your body, even though
you may not be aware of its work.

If you start doing something against
your health, your intelligence
will eventually scold you.

If it hadn't been so lovingly close by,
and so constantly monitoring,
how could it rebuke?

You and your intelligence
are like the beauty and precision
of an astrolabe.

Together, you can calculate how near
existence is to the sun!

Your intelligence is marvellously intimate.
It's not in front of you, or behind,
or to the left or the right.

Now try, my friend, to describe how near
is the creator of your intellect!

Intellectual searching will not find
the way to that king!

The movement of your finger
is not separate from your finger.

You go to sleep, or you die,
and there's no intelligent motion.

Then you wake,
and your fingers
fill with meanings.

Now consider the jewel-lights
in your eyes. How do they work?

This visible universe has many weathers
and variations.
                      But uncle, O uncle,
the universe of the creation-word,
the divine command to Be, that universe
of qualities is beyond any pointing to.

More intelligent than intellect,
and more spiritual than spirit.

No being is unconnected
to that reality, and that connection
cannot be said. There, there's
no separation and no return.

There are guides who can show you the way.
Use them. But they will not satisfy your longing.

Keep wanting that connection
with all your pulsing energy.

The throbbing vein
will take you further
than any thinking.

Muhammad said, "Don't theorize
about essence!" All speculations
are just more layers of covering.
Human beings love coverings!

They think the designs on the curtains
are what's being concealed.

Observe the wonders as they occur around you.
Don't claim them. Feel the artistry
moving through, and be silent.

Or say, "I cannot praise You
as You should be praised.

Such words are infinitely
beyond my understanding."