-the individual self is- a fleeting meeting-ground
of intricately woven relations,
its nature is profoundly participatory,
but is for that,
no less endowed with distinctiveness, particularity.
to settle deep in longing, within habits of deep imaginings, gathering past and present like slippery, silver fish, sifting through hands and heart and the sublime day from dusk to moon without ever sensing the light casting an oily glow over scales into the darkest night…..
Who am I? There are moments when I glimpse another self swimming as if in a great watery world beneath all the definitions I have been given. It may be a movement, or meditation, wakefulness, or near sleep, and suddenly a door has opened as if into a vast room. I discover dimensions in myself I had not known before and yet recognize with some sorrow as if I has been separated from an old friend for too long. The sense that I have at these moments is that I have broken through a wall into another world than the one I was raised to believe existed. In this world sensual experience has a significance beyond the narrow boundaries I learned as a child. I feel no division between what I call self and world. At these times I have felt everything in my own life and all of existence to be brilliant with a kind of lucidity. Because this clarity is inseparable from experience itself, it does not reveal a meaning that can be formulated through any logical system of words or numbers. yet the experience can be evoked. Thoreau speaks of the spring thaw at Walden Pond: “It is glorious to behold this ribbon of water sparkling in the sun, the bare face of the pond full of glee and youth, as if it spoke the joy of the fishes within it, and of the sands on its shore,- a silvery sheen as from the scales of a leuciscus, as if it were all one active fish-….” If at such moments nothing in life seems random or without purpose, it is easy to forget this feeling as I enter another mood, becoming part of the atmosphere which predominates n late 20th century America. There is too much to do and too little time. One hardly notices that in the rush something is left behind, that I am not present to my own life……Susan Griffin
Why is there being rather than nothing?
That is the question.