While taking a long walk the other day through the emptying landscape, I had this funny feeling - as if I knew how to do it, to empty myself as the trees had done, and let the real, full sunshine of Self in. It was this walk that got me to write the essay on trees, even though everyone in the world has written at sometime, probably in grade school, about trees. But we are not seeking to become Andy Warhol here, not seeking to separate ourselves from the masses with some incredible novelty, but to simply mark what is. And trees are "what is", and so is Self.
Like the trees, the Self cannot be defined by a botanist's dissection, a breaking up of its parts. Nor is it readily available from ordinary perspective. When we read the spiritual masters on this issue, they tell us that the Self is that part of God that is within us, and yet separate - eternal and merged, but still unique, still "us," only as we seldom know ourselves. This is what I felt for only a few minutes, and is was so clear - for clear is the word. It was a clearing of the stuff of daily self and perceptions, a brief but thorough house-cleaning that showed what I was and could be so simply, with just an act of will. Yes, it seemed that simple, but once the feeling was gone, so was the secret. I could no more do that house cleaning now than I could before, but I got another glimpse of that Self, and it is not annihilation. It is the real self, and it is better, way better, than the mask I see in the mirror or in my mind's eye. It is, in fact, the beginning of true happiness.
As has been the case for the past week, what I read just last night in Thomas Merton's "New Seeds of Contemplation" dovetailed perfectly with this experience. In one chapter he spoke of the totally emptied soul, which in Catholic belief (unknown to me before) is most represented by Mary, the mother of Jesus. It is she, he explains, who is so clear, so pure of ego and baggage, that she allows the light of God to pass through her like a perfectly clean window. Yet she is also fully human, and in her perfected feminine attributes is the perfect solace for those in need of repair - as we all are. Thus we see why the macho Mediterranean Christian meta-culture is so enthralled with her, framing her as a goddess, for she alone offers the non-demanding breast to rest upon for the proud, for those expected to act violently at any slight. With her, at last, they can be the wounded children they have never quite transcended.
More so, in this writing Merton exposes the meaning of the "meek" in the Gospels, and of humility in general. It is not that one should become a foot servant to proud masters, but that one should reduce the baggage and noise of the ego, so that one can be "like a child" (without the petty childishness). With this cleansing, the light of the eternal can shine through. And with this, too, we understand what the Christians call the "mercy of God" - or what the Buddhists would call "non-attachment", although with different emphasis: that with the dropping of the ego facade, all is forgiven, for there is now nothing left to forgive. The false self has fallen, and in its place is the eternal self, that mysteriously separated part of God, that may make mistakes (as it is not God itself) but never in "sin" - that is, never out of selfishness, never out of a sense of being truly separate from either God or fellow humans.
It is odd, this Self, and I think that without Merton I could not have defined it as I have. It is certainly not a no-thing, certainly not a part of the "collective," as distopian literature depicts. It is also not a loss, nor a loss of compassion or a distancing from others. It is, instead, bright and new, like the first moment of wakefulness after a well-needed sleep.
Perhaps this is what the Hindu idea of reincarnation refers to - at each "birth," like a good night's sleep, we awake new, only to quickly put on the garments - the habits and social agenda and facade - of the day. We are given this chance, then, again and again, and our "karma" is that very baggage, accumulated through each new day.
But it need not be renewed, the old baggage. To drop it behind is the best thing possible, and the easiest thing in the world. But our daily self cannot quite grasp it, for it is of another world, of another law. And so it is forgotten, usually so quickly that we hardly know that it was ours. But it is. Maybe next time, or the next, or the next I or you or someone will find a way to grasp it for good, if grace or serendipity or whatever one wants to call it allows for a next time. And it will, for that, this pure simplicity, is the beginning of a sacred mercy which is never withdrawn, only hidden in plain sight. FK
Like the trees, the Self cannot be defined by a botanist's dissection, a breaking up of its parts. Nor is it readily available from ordinary perspective. When we read the spiritual masters on this issue, they tell us that the Self is that part of God that is within us, and yet separate - eternal and merged, but still unique, still "us," only as we seldom know ourselves. This is what I felt for only a few minutes, and is was so clear - for clear is the word. It was a clearing of the stuff of daily self and perceptions, a brief but thorough house-cleaning that showed what I was and could be so simply, with just an act of will. Yes, it seemed that simple, but once the feeling was gone, so was the secret. I could no more do that house cleaning now than I could before, but I got another glimpse of that Self, and it is not annihilation. It is the real self, and it is better, way better, than the mask I see in the mirror or in my mind's eye. It is, in fact, the beginning of true happiness.
As has been the case for the past week, what I read just last night in Thomas Merton's "New Seeds of Contemplation" dovetailed perfectly with this experience. In one chapter he spoke of the totally emptied soul, which in Catholic belief (unknown to me before) is most represented by Mary, the mother of Jesus. It is she, he explains, who is so clear, so pure of ego and baggage, that she allows the light of God to pass through her like a perfectly clean window. Yet she is also fully human, and in her perfected feminine attributes is the perfect solace for those in need of repair - as we all are. Thus we see why the macho Mediterranean Christian meta-culture is so enthralled with her, framing her as a goddess, for she alone offers the non-demanding breast to rest upon for the proud, for those expected to act violently at any slight. With her, at last, they can be the wounded children they have never quite transcended.
More so, in this writing Merton exposes the meaning of the "meek" in the Gospels, and of humility in general. It is not that one should become a foot servant to proud masters, but that one should reduce the baggage and noise of the ego, so that one can be "like a child" (without the petty childishness). With this cleansing, the light of the eternal can shine through. And with this, too, we understand what the Christians call the "mercy of God" - or what the Buddhists would call "non-attachment", although with different emphasis: that with the dropping of the ego facade, all is forgiven, for there is now nothing left to forgive. The false self has fallen, and in its place is the eternal self, that mysteriously separated part of God, that may make mistakes (as it is not God itself) but never in "sin" - that is, never out of selfishness, never out of a sense of being truly separate from either God or fellow humans.
It is odd, this Self, and I think that without Merton I could not have defined it as I have. It is certainly not a no-thing, certainly not a part of the "collective," as distopian literature depicts. It is also not a loss, nor a loss of compassion or a distancing from others. It is, instead, bright and new, like the first moment of wakefulness after a well-needed sleep.
Perhaps this is what the Hindu idea of reincarnation refers to - at each "birth," like a good night's sleep, we awake new, only to quickly put on the garments - the habits and social agenda and facade - of the day. We are given this chance, then, again and again, and our "karma" is that very baggage, accumulated through each new day.
But it need not be renewed, the old baggage. To drop it behind is the best thing possible, and the easiest thing in the world. But our daily self cannot quite grasp it, for it is of another world, of another law. And so it is forgotten, usually so quickly that we hardly know that it was ours. But it is. Maybe next time, or the next, or the next I or you or someone will find a way to grasp it for good, if grace or serendipity or whatever one wants to call it allows for a next time. And it will, for that, this pure simplicity, is the beginning of a sacred mercy which is never withdrawn, only hidden in plain sight. FK
RSS Feed