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I’m sitting in a Cafe enjoying my second Guinness while a tall young fellow sporting a hedgerow mohawk regales a slight but boisterously talkative crowd with songs I don’t recognize, when, swiping a finger through an iPadded document titled ‘Notes And Ideas’ I come upon this sparkling gem: “Symbols are not literary— they are biological!”
Shite! Wasn’t I going to write a post on that one?!
But that was long ago now and the words—the argument—just doesn’t seem worth the effort anymore. Words touch no one… only the song does… or the symbol, come to think of it.
And then another loosely associated thought comes to mind, one I had intended to put down some time ago—or maybe I did but have forgotten where: ‘what once (and I’m talking thousands of years ago here) was accomplished in an intense week’s time under the ministrations of a genuine Shaman/Priest nowadays can take upwards of twenty years to a lifetime… if indeed it is achieved at all!’
Twenty years to a lifetime… if it is achieved at all; a leitmotif for our age. A sort of undercurrent running beneath all tales told today, and for that matter at the heart of the reckoning to come.
No matter. The second Guinness is done and the young man has put down his guitar and there is such a oneness to it all it makes my head and heart swim.
How do you share wonders? How do you share the reality that you and I are alive and share this very instant with all living beings great and small here on planet earth and across the vast crazy reaches of space? And that the moment you hold to a thought or idea—any thought or idea—and particularly the idea of one’s self with accompanying delimiting ‘name’, you have removed yourself from the flow—from the oneness?
The symbol as herald from a forsaken oneness—the biological-psychological-spiritual whole.
I love that….