It's Elemental

Tag: Fly

  • do not think about this

    do not think about this

    footprints

    do not think about this
    it is not here for your pleasure
    not waiting self-less
    for some deathly embrace
    as if it were not already perfect
    and rising starkly, gently behind you
    perusing the pages of your eyes
    passing no judgment

    straighten your back
    and fly into the sunset
    as you were meant to –
    objectless, void, unsundered
    by the sheer presence of its wings
    will you be lifted
    footprints trailing clouds
    into what has always known you

    pulling the threads of your heart
    it makes your fists close hard
    about what you can never grasp
    the light to your shadow
    a silence around your music
    forgeless and forging
    you become its thoughts
    it is no it
    I AM

  • Organs of Perception

    Basarab Nicolescu is a physicist and proponent of transdisciplinarity.  In the book of the same name (which he edited), he speaks of multiple “levels of Reality”, which are accompanied by multiple “levels of perception”. These two complementary duals form, on the one hand, what he calls the “transdisciplinary object” and on the other the “transdisciplinary subject”.  These are united by a flow of “nonresistance to experience” he calls the sacred, which moves through all the levels.  See the picture from his book below:

    Transcendent Object/Subject and Sacred
    Transcendent Object/Subject and Sacred

    Although this view is a bit schematic, one of the things that Nicloescu includes which is often very lost in modern discussions about these sorts of things is the necessity for a corresponding “level of perception” when encountering various levels of reality.

    Specifically, this is something verifiable in my own experience: that it actually takes not just some kind of intellectual shift to see things from a new perspective, but rather the rhythmic development of new organs of perception in order to perceive new realities.  I’m speaking of ‘organs of perception’ because they are strictly analogous to real organs like our eyes and ears, but without physicality — they are, if you will, organs made ‘on the fly’ in the soul, which are capable of resolving details in a situation that otherwise would be lost.  Their constituency relies entirely upon the way in which they are themselves created — they form in the image of what they can thus perceive.  For example, a Waldorf teacher I know has developed in her contemplative work with children a soul-organ which can perceive movements of ‘warmth’ in ways that offer specific and practical information and actions regarding individuals — this is something experienced as eminently real and subtle, which would be lost on anyone who hadn’t done the same rhythmic work to create the relevant capacity for experience to hold that kind of perception.

    It seems we often expect that such perceptions should be contingent upon a primarily intellectual shift in understanding — and an understanding of outer phenomena in particular — as if it were only a question of having the right ideas about things that would allow us to perceive newly.  I think this is an error;  that kind of change is only preparation and accompaniment, but cannot fully constitute the necessary basis for actual perception of new realms.

  • fly

    on the wing

    sometimes you stand on the borders of things
    waiting for that little nudge
    just the thing you needed
    for you to fly 

  • falling horizons

    today I stand on the horizon
    beyond the vast, known spaces
    my steps tracing a Moebius membrane
    as the white sea pours through my heart
    no there, no past, no unwanted memory
    –all swept lovingly into the waves
    seeds for waiting oysters

    did you know that I could fly?
    I didn’t either until the wind caught my wings,
    and the rock’s weighty tomes fell ponderously away
    like the unexpected removal of an atrophied, forgotten limb
    the only thing between my life and some great height

    it was the sound of the air rippling behind the gulls wing,
    the inevitable pulsing call of invisibly present stars
    –shining. always shining  
    and I eagerly ask

    who is singing the song that calls the fruit to bud?
    what whispered word ripens them? why must our ears be so ignorant?
    does not silent nature speak with my mouth?
    touch with my porous skin? cry these salty tears?

    nature, like an atrophied, forgotten limb, has been removed
    –or perhaps I am the limb of nature,
    which, only newly awakened, cannot yet know its mother  
    for I usurp her ears, her skin, her tears,
    assume them like a mask stretched taught over this shifting body
    while I forget how my wings lift me up
    though their rhythm ever flows on

    which is why I am here, cradled by the rocks and wind
    endless waves spread out before my dangling feet,
    waiting to reach the horizon

    sea meets sky