Tag Archives: god

Excerpt: Awe and Presence

Another preview taken out of context from The Constellation of Man, a work of literature planned for three volumes. All selections written by me since 2010. All remain in development, subject to change.

Most excerpts so far were not particularly representative of main themes, so as not to spoil their discovery. Today I make an exception, and present Part 3 (of 8) from Book I of Vol. I, a Book which introduces themes seminal for many Books to come. —CPB


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artwork by Banksy, photo by Steve Cotton

Our “reality” is habitually pared-down, less complex, less awe-inducing, less exciting, as an acclimation. We require experiences to open our eyes to the world around us and within us.

The experiences can always be found. In fact there are too many for our attention. But we must cease to be dead to our senses and our callings.

On one occasion we have reason to doubt. On another, we have reason to marvel. From one time to the other, it is, most significantly, we that have become different, whatever else has changed around us.

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artwork by Banksy, photo by Steve Cotton

It is not unusual that one who encounters pain or tedium lives through what seems like too much to bear, and closes. Another can observe this hardened attitude and see nothing but immaturity. They see a stuck, troubled, thoughtless child, crying “I am jaded, and there is nothing left to amaze and delight me.”

It is common to encounter hardening or dulling experiences that strip away the innocence of youth. It is rare to learn what to take from harsh or deficient experience—how to meet experiences, and not only receive them; how to remain sensitive through what could deaden, how to sublimate what could scar, and how to remain open instead of closing.

Disciplined learning about the world yields some resilience, though not the same that comes with practice. At least, learning can supply alternatives to a single way of seeing and experiencing things, or too few.

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Nelumbo nucifera, sacred lotus; umbilical symbol of creation, rebirth, unfolding enlightenment, purity, and more; seat of gods and goddesses, buddhas and bodhisattvas; iconic in myths of Vishnu, Brahma, Lakshmi; identified with Buddha. In “On the Love of the Lotus,” Chinese sage Zhou Dun Yi observed in poetic allegory that the lotus, both open and straight, grows out of mud, but remains unsullied.

It is necessary to gather perspectives on our own experiences from the breadth and depth of other experiences across time and place. All our lives are local and limited. Greatness can blossom from opening up to just a little more.

Transcending our place to see more, and awakening to the transcendent in us is one purpose of religious mythology.

Scientific knowledge can act as myth just the same; if a child is told the story of how she is made of star-stuff, she learns that her own atoms were once forged within the nuclear cores of stars bright eons before the sun, and by vaster stars that exploded. She learns that life-giving atoms in her and all people were star-sown. The truth of that legend is both incidental to its transcendental power and majesty, and no detraction.

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Light from the edge of a blast wave from a star that exploded approximately 6000 BC, during Neolithic civilization on Earth. The visible supernova remnant is now called the Veil Nebula. This mosaic of Hubble telescope images shows a small section of the distant Nebula, with false colors assigned to emissions from hydrogen, oxygen, and sulfur.

An expansive revelation about our place, and our connections to some mystery we have to struggle to imagine, fills us with awe. Awe is a kind of restorative experience. Awe knocks ennui aside without a thought for the tedium that formerly seemed to pervade life.

In awe, one forgets doubts, and ever feeling that life is insignificant, unimportant, pointless—or miserable, consigned to suffering, or to guilt. One forgets feeling that life itself could be subjected to doubts. Awe induces doubt that life could be known, could be encompassed by our smaller experience.

Simple novelty of experience promotes a modest openness. To pursue novelty is certainly easier and much more common than an awesome, transcendent revelation. Even if novel experiences do not teach, they can achieve some restoration of feeling.

Otherwise, our familiar world seems too small and too usual. That familiar domain occludes the unseen remainder of the world. Life, too familiar, obstructs our participation in all else, diverse as we cannot imagine. Life seems cramped, repetitive, even hopeless. This is our feeling, unfairly attributed to other life without our constraint and beyond our limitations. Our impression of life portrays a distortion of life, conditioned or contained. Escape from noticing life only seems the credible alternative to neurosis and depression.

A routine travesty of living appears ridiculous in the face of further experiences discovered by spontaneity, or created by improvisation. Moments in which we experience different things—or even familiar things, differently—can then become extraordinary to us. These moments deliver us.

It is not too difficult to make extraordinary moments, for those who know they must seek them out. Ordinary moments are not ordinary at all to those who know how to transform them, with observance, into informal rituals. Sense phenomena that others take for granted can attain a phenomenal attention, a spiritual attention, suitable for sacrament.

[To feel] spiritual presence means and requires that you are present. All that becomes banal—an urban skyline view, an alcoholic high, a walk in the woods, rhythm or melody, a sexual touch, an idea written long ago—can be refreshed with spirit.

Spiritual experiences are restorative, as well as extraordinary experiences. They feel special, and make us feel special about ourselves or about living—eternal objects of human desire, taking infinite guises.

Feeling special about ourselves is indistinct from the impression of having purpose, or life having significance or meaning. A “relationship with God” communicates that one is special, that one has purpose, and life has meaning. But this is the same thing that people want most from romantic relationships with other people: the opportunity to feel special about themselves through a sense of connection-to-other. They want transcendence not only from changes in perspective, but manifested in experience made special—spiritual—through renewed attention to the senses, and ensuing intensification. The bond becomes sacred; the sexual rite becomes holy. A deep relationship with one’s work or calling can likewise become sanctified by devotion, attention, and presence.

A sacred or holy experience is not derived from a thing, place, or action called sacred or holy. We must supply preparation for a sense of the sacred or holy, which can be found in almost anything; it is the person who charges the encounter, not whatever seems sacred or holy.

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Lotus Temple, Bahá’í House of Worship, New Delhi

It is a great mystical, esoteric, and at times heretical teaching that the high experiences of religion are open to you. They are allowed. They are already implicit in the living human body, though not well-realized without practice. You can learn to recognize doors and need not depend on formal rituals to unlock them. You need not borrow a set of keys that dogma approves and intercessors must provide.

Even the grandest senses of divinity do not depend upon being seized by powers outside ourselves. The power to have transcendent experiences in the world unfolds from living, open to transcendent experiences.

You must ask yourself if you allow a sense of awe before the majesty of the world, intricate beyond your knowledge, beyond your time.

Can you hear, can you say: “Awake, awake! The world is new from this moment!” This feeling can begin a creation story for a new life.

 

Awe and other concepts that sound religious describe experiences to be realized in actual life. Grace and blessedness, transcendence and revelation, love, joy, passion, ecstasy and rapture are also called religious experiences, but they refer to real experiences of feeling nonetheless.

When religion is made regular, named, and organized, these experiences are exceedingly likely to remain concepts, drafted into rituals or doctrines that may be practiced and followed without those feelings; religion without spirit; religion left with dead metaphors, antique distractions; dogma now without corpus.

Life without the set of spiritual experiences is limited to a subset without sensations of “meaning.”

All the religious concepts—or rather, spiritual feelings behind religious concepts—can be naturalized, made part of our clearer understanding of natural, human life rooted in the body’s nervous system and the dispositions and needs of the mind. Spiritual experiences are special neural experiences, not supernatural or otherworldly experiences. The numinous can be integrated into natural life, and not cast out to the supernatural—nor dismissed along with superstition by the secular-minded.

Awe has become rarer than ever before. That few wonder at the rarity of the experience called awe could almost explain its rarity. The near absence of awe in adulthood seems to go virtually unnoticed and unremarked, though the experience is extraordinary. Awe has become an empty word out of fashion to modern people who cannot relate. Many identify awe with religious devotion, no longer valued, or practiced only as custom. But devotion is a road to awe, to pervasive holiness, to reverence and resonance, and if these things must be lost with secular deliverance from superstition, we should have cause to question whether that is deliverance at all. By all those numb and jaded, awe is missed, and the unshaken soul perceived, if not by words, then deep down instead.

But it is not necessary to lose awe without religion, just as it is not necessary to abandon spirit. Awe before God, or gods, represents awe before the epic of life in the world. It is simply that the origin of mighty experiences was mistaken to be might outside oneself.

Love, also, wells up and flows out from within, not to the credit of objects of fixation: idealized figures of divinity, or erotic attraction. We have in our brains the means for intense alterations of perception and participation. In a sense, as long as we are thus prepared, the triggers are almost incidental, if we know better than to attribute our electrified chemistry to them. We misbelieve in our dependency on others, and outside forces.

Religious experiences can be summoned up from within oneself. This is the “heresy” of personal divinity, that because I can summon up divine feelings, I am God—another untrue metaphor to express a truth.

 

Excerpt: Proteus and bougonia

Continuing to post selections taken out of context from large amounts of unfinished material collected for The Constellation of Man, a work of literature planned for three volumes. All selections were written by me since 2010. Some are unrepresentative. All remain in development, subject to change. —CPB


Proteus, the deposed god of the sea, could still see through its murky depths, and consorted pleasantly with sea-creatures, behemoths and monsters. Tales of Proteus relate his daily custom to cautiously wade from the water and sleep on the shore surrounded by briny seals, like a shepherd with his flock.

Those who found Proteus dreaming there, at the threshold of his domain, could try to seize him. One resourceful enough to catch the wise old man of the depths might obtain peerless counsel. Proteus could see the past and the future.

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The appearance of dread Proteus (lit. The Infernal Proteus) depicted in 1690.

But cunning Proteus was not easily caught. He came and went in secrecy, requiring considerable guile to approach. Once grasped, holding him was even more difficult. To avoid being pinned down and divulging his mysteries, Proteus would writhe, wriggle, and suddenly change into shapes as fearsome as a serpent or wild boar, as unexpected as a leafy tree, or flame, or a torrent of water. A hero would have to dismiss these distractions. Only to him would Proteus impart hard-won truths.

So it is with introspection looking into the unconscious. The other world seems alien, capricious as the tides, then vertiginous, bottomless to the lone diver immersed and falling. Probing the depths meets strange and powerful resistance. One might have to strive despite misdirection, like Proteus’ phantasmagoria, some threatening.

This wavy sea comes replete with forms, shapes, illusions, and appearances, and below, resources, profundity, beauty, and fear. It is alive with creatures of the imagination, and as many reflections of the one who looks.

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Inner Glow of Ocean Waves, Anne Macdonald, 2013

As slippery as dreams, Proteus changes shape to avoid telling what he knows—to those who aren’t both wise to fluidity, and steadfast. But he knows the depths of us, the unvisitable deep. Literal and straightforward minds that behave as solid ground expects are never so oracular. Obtaining answers requires an indirect approach, and the wit to know that answers take on many guises. [Compare the figurative language of esoteric symbols invented to capture spiritual experiences. Like dream meanings inferred post hoc—sparer than all the feelings and intricacies of a dream—symbols deployed after the event grasp at more significance than words can hold, a nonverbal reality on its own terms.]

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Menelaus binding Proteus, as depicted in 1574.

Wily Proteus resists, yet he is not unwilling. Proteus is there, waiting to be caught, ready to yield his knowledge to the one who needs it and prepares himself for it. The trial of Proteus tests understanding and courage. The hero who passes the test accepts the undersea with its difficult wisdom as his own domain for as long as the revelation lasts, much as meditative introspection can recognize the unconscious and embrace it, learning much. To the contrary way of thinking and fighting against oneself, that domain remains quite apart, antagonistic and alien. Homer tells us that when Menelaus is stranded for some time on his voyage home from the siege of Troy by ill winds, he is only able to sail on the sea once he takes stock of his situation by Proteus’ means, reconciles himself, and thus propitiates his gods.

Knowledge comes out of a great unseen unknown. At least that is how the upwelling appears to one who has become an outsider to the fabulous realms of suggestion. The hero is making a petition to render the uncontainable truth. And first, that one must embrace the mutable monstrum that bubbles up from an unfamiliar well. [The monstrum being both “monster” and “portent.”]

The paradox of the self asking knowledge of the deeper, unknown self is this: We must already have the hidden knowledge somewhere—for we are asking ourselves—and yet we do not possess it. That is, we have not yet managed to acknowledge or reconcile the precursor of knowing. Operating under conscious guises and limitations, we do not have easy access to the unformulated.

The case of petitioning the liquid unknown for concrete knowledge amounts to steeling oneself to recognize what one does already know, after some obtuse and unrealized fashion: what must be done, or, what one hardly wants to realize.

Homer has Menelaus master Proteus—with some difficulty, and divine help, typical trope of such stories—to tell him not only what he must do to finally return home, but also what he does not want to admit. He learns what has befallen his friends, comrades and family after the long voyage home from the siege of Troy: death, murder, betrayal, stranding, loss.

Tales of Proteus have him tell heroes how they can repair the harm caused by alienating a god or demigod by past sin they had never reconciled.

Virgil says that Aristaeus, the pastoral god who devised beekeeping, sought a remedy for the mysterious demise of his bees. His mother the nymph Cyrene coaches him to surprise, grab and bind Proteus fast through his vicious changes—boar, tiger, serpent, lioness, flame, river. This Aristaeus does.

Proteus discloses that Aristaeus’ crime of pursuing the wife of Orpheus to her accidental death has had vengeance haunting him.

The ritual sacrifice Aristaeus then makes brings forth live bees, boiling from the stomachs of the oxen burning on the altars. Thus Virgil explains the provenance of the apicultural ritual of bougonia, the bovine sacrifice rumored to regenerate the hives with new bees, usually slaughter followed by burial, or covering with dung. One version specified formulaic steps for beating an ox to death, sealing it shut precisely, and walling it in for weeks.

Binding the terrifying faces of Proteus obtains more than the secrets of a seer. These are more than secrets. They are sorrows, shames and sins.

The seeker binds his doubts, aversions, and fears. He does not force the whole unconscious to his service, or tame the primal. This would misread the significance of this flavor and style, along literal lines preferred by rationalized symbolism. On the contrary, he forces his inner resistances but supplicates his inner pantheon, and old man Proteus embodies both.

With these strange littoral petitions, we enter into a domain of potency, ferocity, intensity, even savagery, at least in metaphors—enlisting the primal forces of the psyche and the vital forces of the body. Acting too tamely in the face of adverse primal obstacles means suffering passively, like stranded Menelaus first merely waiting for the sea to calm so he can sail home.

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Bugonia, Justin Gibbens, 2011

The sacrifice of bougonia makes a cruelly literal ritual of the figurative. Modern men would infer the theory of spontaneous generation, and analogy to flies swarming on rotting flesh. If it were rationalized, the hexagonal lining of the reticulum conjured bees by the principle of similarity to honeycomb. We work rather in the realms permissive of association here, casting out physical anchors as afterthoughts, and in myth, cast inner performances as named actors.

The hero seeks after rejuvenation. The seeker is conjuring primitive lifegiving out of himself once again, through forgiveness and reconciliation of the past. He honors and supplicates the deities of his unconscious with slaughter and immolation. He was the bull; he is the bees. He contains the advisor on his side; he contains the gods who were ill-disposed; he contains Proteus himself also.