God puts the tree in the middle of the garden as the instrument by which the two become human enough to die, maybe, but also be reborn … to be human also means to be capable of evil in this sense they do fall … into humanity opening out into history and redemption.
I promised to leave the door open
no matter what
vainly hoping a pearl would appear
in the rusting lock
as if she would ever again wear it
yes, I left it open
but don’t live there anymore
(Not just the Protestant or blended Catholic.)
Scratch an American and find a farmer.
(Lenny Bruce’s goy.)
Or the desire to be one with hills and corn in an industrial society.
And, as we know, family farming doesn’t pay diddly.
Sometimes I was searching for a new form or genre somewhere between a short story and an essay. Not that I successfully found it.
Jnana, in yoga = path of wisdom = self-analysis and awareness leading to cessation of identifying Self with body, mind, and ego.
Complete identity with the Divine within self and everything else = realization of oneness.
Where am I? Who am I?
Am also curious:
Who’s going to catch me, hold me, embrace me?
In the endless swirl.
spiritual rooting / awareness
quiet playfulness / humor
strong sense of history and place (rediscovery / remembering)
Do we have to go back a whole century for a model of a greatly influential news columnist of philosophical bent?
One from Baltimore, no less.
Can’t imagine him writing from anywhere else.
Who are you reading these days?
A major influence on my work has been an awareness of the variables of place. When I lived in the ashram, my yoga teacher returned from her first trip to India and described with wonder her sensation that each locale there felt different – to the extent that each village or region had its own god or gods to embody its distinct character or, as she put it, vibration.
Fifty years later, having lived and worked in eight states, I can say that’s true in America, too, even though we’ve muddied much of the indigenous awareness. I’m especially convinced that people in deeply prayerful states do somehow leave an imprint on a place.
That sensation has unexpectedly led me to Quaker meetinghouses and burial grounds or arisen in the midst of conversation in old houses of worship.
How have you felt special locales?