The Holon and the Fire Festivals
Integral theorist Ken Wilber, in his books Sex, Ecology, Spirituality and A Brief History of Everything, maintains that every discrete thing (or “holon”) in existence displays four fundamental capacities. These capacities include the drive to self-preservation (“agency”) and the drive to self-adaptation (“communion”), as well as the drive to self-transcendence (“eros”) and the capacity for self-dissolution (“thanatos”). You can see this in action simply by considering an individual human being. We mortals have within us the desire for agency (“no one tells me what to do”) but also the desire for communion (“part of the tribe”) — sure, some folks exhibit one more than the other, but each capacity is in all of us. Meanwhile, anyone who has ever fallen in love, created a work of art or tried to become a better person has participated in the drive for eros/self-transcendence, and every last one of us will have a final, ultimate, date with thanatos/self-dissolution (i.e., death).
Thinking about this today, it occurred to me that these four fundamental capacities dovetail nicely with the ancient Celtic fire festivals:
- Samhain is a festival celebrating thanatos;
- Imbolc is a festival celebrating communion;
- Beltaine is a festival celebrating eros;
- Lughnasa is a festival celebrating agency.
Disablity Awareness Day 2007
Yesterday Fran, Rhiannon and I went to the Georgia State Capital to participate in Disability Awareness Day, with some 1700 other disabled persons, their family and friends, and community advocates. For us, this is an opportunity to support efforts to increase funding for disabled persons who would like options beyond simply relying on (too often limited) family resources or else ending up in subsistence situations (such as nursing homes). Even though Rhiannon’s disabilities are so complex that she will likely never earn a wage, for many disabled persons the right kind of support can enable them to hold a job, earn money, and pay taxes. The sign I’m holding points to one of key concerns among the disabled: historically, public support for the disabled has often been paternalistically administered: “we’ll decide what kind of services you need.” By contrast, the concept of “Money following the person” points to a new paradigm where the disabled and their caregivers have greater control over determining the scope of support they need, with public funding following their lead, rather than forcing the disabled to “fit in” to a cookie cutter support network. Critical to disability issues — at least in Georgia, but I suspect elsewhere as well — is the lack of funding. Currently in Georgia funding is only available to support about a third of the people who need help. What happens to all the thousands of disabled persons who don’t receive public support? Well, if they’re lucky, their family shoulders the burden. If the family can’t afford it… well, how do you spell poverty? Or institutionalization?
Disability Awareness Day 2007
Yesterday Fran, Rhiannon and I went to the Georgia State Capital to participate in Disability Awareness Day, with some 1700 other disabled persons, their family and friends, and community advocates. For us, this is an opportunity to support efforts to increase funding for disabled persons who would like options beyond simply relying on (too often limited) family resources or else ending up in subsistence situations (such as nursing homes). Even though Rhiannon’s disabilities are so complex that she will likely never earn a wage, for many disabled persons the right kind of support can enable them to hold a job, earn money, and pay taxes. The sign I’m holding points to one of key concerns among the disabled: historically, public support for the disabled has often been paternalistically administered: “we’ll decide what kind of services you need.” By contrast, the concept of “Money following the person” points to a new paradigm where the disabled and their caregivers have greater control over determining the scope of support they need, with public funding following their lead, rather than forcing the disabled to “fit in” to a cookie cutter support network. Critical to disability issues — at least in Georgia, but I suspect elsewhere as well — is the lack of funding. Currently in Georgia funding is only available to support about a third of the people who need help. What happens to all the thousands of disabled persons who don’t receive public support? Well, if they’re lucky, their family shoulders the burden. If the family can’t afford it… well, how do you spell poverty? Or institutionalization?
The loner with the bulging rolodex
My dear friend Pat writes, in response to my previous post (“The Loveliest Dream“):
I was rather surprised that you refer to yourself as a ‘loner’ and that you ‘refrain from connecting with others’. That’s NOT how I remember you from when I lived in Atlanta! You always had scads of friends and I practically had to make an appointment to see you.
I suppose life is all about perception. Yes, Pat, I tend to keep a busy schedule and most friends (not just you!) find that if they want to see me they’ll be lucky to get “something on the calendar three or four weeks from now.” That’s kind of how I live my life.
But I still think of myself as basically a very interpersonally awkward and anxious person, who’s rarely at ease in social situations (unless I’m with a small group of people all of whom I trust), and who continually has to force myself to go to parties, or teach classes, or call friends I haven’t seen in a long time. If people do not notice my anxiety, this speaks to how armored I am — I know how to keep it under wraps. Truly, I do force myself to be socially engaged, since I fear loneliness almost as much as I crave solitude. I do love the many friends I’ve had over the years. But my comments speak both to how rare it is for me to maintain a friendship over the long haul, as well as how rare it is for me to truly disarm myself and vulnerably connect with people on a deeply intimate level.
For every friend like you, Pat, who has remained in my life over the years, there are dozens of casualties: friendships I have either allowed to die for lack of attention, or others that have gone up in spectacular flames as I have knowingly burned yet another bridge.
Pat, when you and I first met, think of the people I counted as good friends: Michael B., Wade S., Maureen W., Oskar A., among others. Today I have no idea how to get in touch with any of those people. Furthermore, I don’t have a single active friendship from my Sewanee years; and I am rapidly losing touch with most of my Pagan friends. Granted, I lose more friendships due to attrition than to active conflict (although I had a few stunning conflagrations among the Pagans when I announced I was becoming a Catholic), but the point remains: I lose friendships. I let them go. Why? Not because I’m misanthropic; au contraire, I love people. But simply because I’m a loner.
As for “refraining from connecting with others,” again I think this is a relative thing. Sure I connect with folks, lots of them. My bulging rolodex and typically-full appointment calendar testify to this. But do I connect in such a way that I cultivate a friendship that lasts for years and years? Historically, not much. Okay, so I’m trying to change this: I have two quite close friends currently with whom I’m trying to be very intentional about maintaining regular contact, and a number of other friends I want to keep at least in the “occasional contact” category. Trying to learn a few new tricks, I am. Meanwhile, though, when I think of some people I know and how effortlessly they seem to establish and maintain heartfelt, intimate relationships that last for years on end, I just become keenly aware of how impoverished my own skills as a friend seem to be in comparison. For all my friends reading this, I hasten to add: “It’s not you, it’s me!” I’m the common factor here.
I’m thankful how my loveliest dream (not to mention the treasure that is Cistercian spirituality) reminds me that there can be profound grace in the experience of introversion and solitude. It’s important for me to keep this in mind, otherwise that part of me that likes having lots of friends will continually berate that part of myself that deeply and profoundly prefers the limitless silence of being alone.
My Loveliest Dream
A reminder to my friends and to those who stumble on this page: I now have a (semi-active) blog at my main webpage, www.anamchara.com. If you haven’t visited it, I invite you there now, to read my most recent post, called My Loveliest Dream.
And no, it’s not a book review!
My Loveliest Dream
It must have been sometime in the early 1980s. I was either still working on my Master’s or had just recently graduated, and my spiritual life was nurtured mostly by reading books by the Anglican mystic Evelyn Underhill and the Christian Jungian Morton Kelsey. And then one night, I had a dream. In it I was climbing up a hill near the Ballston Metro station in Arlington, Virginia. The hill was lush, covered with trees and vegetation that provided comforting shade in the midst of the bright noonday sun. It wasn’t a steep hill, I reached the top without unduly exerting myself (or course, I was a young thing in my 20s at the time). Coming to the crest of the hill, I saw a long, white building across the street. It was a hotel: the Hilton. The front of the building sported a long row of clear glass doors. I walked up to one, and entered; inside I found a vestibule as long as the building itself, with another row of glass doors directly in front of me, leading into the lobby proper. I walked confidently into the building. Once inside, I found a space that was tastefully and beautifully decorated, but not at all ostentatious or even particularly luxurious. Ahead of me and to my right was the lounge area, while to the left was a store. I walked into the store; it was divided into two departments. No walls separated the store from the lounge, or the departments within the store; the entire space felt open, airy, unenclosed. The first department was a toy store, filled with old-style wooden toys that seemed to hearken back to a folksier time, before electronic gadgets and pop-culture tie-ins came to dominate the world of children’s playthings. The toys were simple, brightly colored, and all seemed inviting and fun. Beyond that was a little nursery, filled with houseplants: peperomias and African violets and other such indoor varieties. All were luscious, verdant, healthy; none were priced although small tags identified the species of each plant on display.
I’m not sure if it was while I was browsing the toy store or once I had wandered over into the nursery, but at some point I came to realize that I felt utterly, totally, and incontestably safe. Not just in an “I’m relaxed” sort of way, but in an “I’m immersed in the loving presence of God” sort of way. I did not have to question anything, or achieve anything, or make anything happen. It was probably the second most beautiful emotional tone I’ve ever experienced, the loveliest being the sense of Divine Presence that I encountered in 1977 at the Lutheran youth retreat.
Then I woke up.
It’s fun to look at this dream now, almost a quarter century later. I think it’s the loveliest dream I’ve ever had. How is it that a dream filled with such mundane imagery be given that distinction? Hey, I’ve had some splendid dreams, filled with majestic waterfalls, lush English and Irish countrysides, gorgeous women (!), and, of course, flying (both in human form and as a bird). Yet this unremarkable sequence of climbing a hill, strolling into a hotel, and browsing a store wins the prize. As I dreamt this dream, the fullness of heaven infused my consciousness. And that what’s makes this the loveliest of dreams.
Reflecting on the dream, I’m struck by how utterly alone I was: I don’t believe another human being was present in the dream at all. Maybe there was somebody with me at the bottom of the hill, but if so, that person was inconsequential and did not walk with me to the top of the hill or accompany me into the hotel. I’ve always been a loner, and in recent times that has bothered me somewhat: I wonder if I have burned too many bridges, allowed too many friendships to lapse, and held myself back both professionally and spiritually by my social anxiety and tendency to refrain from connecting with others. And then I think about this dream, and I remember that I am simply a deep introvert and that’s the way God made me. Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s better to be a naturally imperfect introvert than an unnatural, conflicted extravert-wannabe.
That the hotel was the “Hilton” I’ve long taken to be a pun on Walter Hilton, the fourteenth century English mystic who has suffered the same fate as George Harrison (just as Harrison was an accomplished musician and songwriter who had the misfortune of being in the same band as two genuises — Lennon and McCartney — so was Hilton a fine mystic who unfortunately lived in the same country and at the same time as, and thus will always be grouped with and compared to, Julian of Norwich and the author of The Cloud of Unknowing). In many ways, I rather think I’m more of a “Walter Hilton” than a “Julian of Norwich,” — it seems that whatever I do in my life, I’m more of a Salieri than a Mozart, I can achieve competence but greatness always seems to elude me. Perhaps for many of my readers this may seem an obvious and normal dimension of experience, but I have the curse of the writer’s ego, which means that I am eternally haunted by the desire to be great. Maybe finding existential safety in a hotel punderfully named after a lesser mystic can help me to find peace in my ever-present humility rather than in a chimerical grandeur.
Speaking of that which is unreal, I should also note that the hill, and the Hilton atop it, are not to be found anywhere near the Ballston Metro station in the “real” (i.e. gross physical) world. They exist only within my dreamspace. Isn’t that the way with dreams? My Hilton dream may be my loveliest dream, but it’s not my only truly memorable (or deeply emotionally satisfying) dream — and it seems that all my most wonderful dreams without exception ushered me into places that are “real” only within the dreamscapes themselves (the realm that Ken Wilber, following the metaphysics of the east, labels the “subtle”). I don’t begrudge that my subtle paradise has no direct correlation in the gross world. Finding a glimpse of heaven on the subtle plane is good enough for me — it gives me two hopes: first, that I can somehow be a portal through which the experiential loveliness of heaven might find a beachhead here in the physical realm, and second, that no matter how icky things get here “in the flesh,” I can always trust in the veracity of a heavenly refuge that exists in reality on another plane, a refuge to which I will someday return — not only when I die, but perhaps as soon as my very next dream.
Quote for the Day
“If nature (via evolution) produced humans, and humans produced the ozone hole, then didn’t nature produce the ozone hole? If not, then there is some part of humans that is not part of nature, and therefore nature cannot be the ultimate ground of existence. Nature cannot be a genuine God or Goddess or Spirit — because nature is clearly not all-inclusive and thus must simply be a smaller slice of a much bigger pie.”
— Ken Wilber, A Theory of Everything
Lectio Mystica
I invite readers of this blog to visit my old blog on Livejournal. I’ve set up a poll there to gauge interest in book reviews in a blog context.
One of the problems I’ve had with blogging is that I write better when I have a focus, and my blog has always felt, well, un-focussed. Before I went on blog-hiatus, what little focus my blog had was mostly about promoting myself and my books, which is what led to my blog’s demise — that was a focus I simply lost interest in, it felt fake and forced and not from my heart. So for the past several months I’ve been trying to find the “heart center” of my blog, and I’m still not sure what that looks like. But now I have an idea.
It involves book reviews. I read voraciously and I love to tell people about books I enjoy. I used to write reviews regularly for PanGaia and Atlanta’s own Aquarius magazine, but as my reading center of gravity has moved toward classical mysticism and away from contemporary new age and neopagan writing, those print gigs have pretty much dried up. So I’m thinking, “Why not a blog totally built around book reviews?”
Really it’s an expansion of the “111 Mystics” concept — only I wouldn’t limit myself to just the great mystics. Anything, from children’s books to bawdy humor to travel guides to the latest left-wing screed would be fodder for the review mill. Meanwhile, I’m not saying I won’t pepper my blog with my theological angst and heartwarmingly cranky opinions — just that said angst and opinion would now be expressed in the context of whatever review I happen to be writing.
So here’s the question for you, my small band of as-yet-loyal readers (or whoever happens to stumble across this post): is this an idea worth pursuing. In other words, would you be interested in following a blog that is strictly book reviews?
Please visit the original post on Live Journal and participate in the poll and/or leave a comment. Note: if I do move in the focus-on-book-reviews direction, it will be at this blog, not at LiveJournal (LJ readers can subscribe to this blog via RSS).
Cynthia Bourgeault
I’m back from Birmingham and the weekend with Cynthia Bourgeault. She’s a wonderful speaker and provides an interesting insight into the nexus where Christian contemplation/centering prayer meets the great wisdom traditions of the world. I never thought I would be attending a workshop at an Episcopal Church in a room filled with mainstream Christian types where the speaker held forth on shifting one’s energy to precipitate a change of consciousness — yes, I know, it sounds eerily reminiscent of (the best elements of) neopaganism — and yet, it was thoroughly grounded in the Christian mystical tradition and the best insights of other traditions, particularly Sufism. Bourgeault remarked early on that it is the contemplatives (i.e., the wisdomkeepers) of all traditions who carry the best hope for humanity rising above sectarianism and fundamentalism and the violence that such levels of consciousness engender. In other words, it is the contemplatives and the wisdomkeepers who will not only break down the walls of hostility and fear and misunderstanding which separate Christianity from Islam or Islam from Judaism, but they are also the ones whose visionary consciousness will erase the boundaries that keep Chrsitianity and neopaganism so at odds.
I asked Bourgeault what her thoughts were regarding Ken Wilber. She noted that she knew him well and truly admired his work, but she also felt that at times his Buddhist categories prevented him from truly ‘getting’ mystical Christianity. I agree with her wholeheartedly, although I do think Wilber gets kudos for trying to integrate mystical Christianity into his overall theory, even if sometimes his perspectives seem a little overbroad and stereotypical.
Bourgeault recommended a few authors/books: the writings of Kabir Helminski, Michael Brown’s The Presence Process, and even Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now.
It was a wonderful weekend. Lots of meditation; Fran and I enjoyed having a vacation from the challenges of living with Rhiannon (hooray for our friend Roxanne, who stayed with Rhiannon so we could get away). Next year Contemplative Outreach Birmingham is bringing one of the founders of Centering Prayer, Fr. William Meninger OCSO, to Birmingham for their February conference. I hope to be there.
Lectio Mystica
I know my blog has been dormant for so long that I am reduced to only a handful of readers… but for those of you who do still check in with me from time to time (or who never bothered to delete me from your friends’ page), here’s a question about the future of my blog.
One of the problems I’ve had with blogging is that I write better when I have a focus, and my blog has always felt, well, un-focussed. Before I went on blog-hiatus, what little focus my blog had was mostly about promoting myself and my books, which is what led to my blog’s demise — that was a focus I simply lost interest in, it felt fake and forced and not from my heart. So for the past several months I’ve been trying to find the “heart center” of my blog, and I’m still not sure what that looks like. But now I have an idea.
It involves book reviews. I read voraciously and I love to tell people about books I enjoy. I used to write reviews regularly for PanGaia and Atlanta’s own Aquarius magazine, but as my reading center of gravity has moved toward classical mysticism and away from contemporary new age and neopagan writing, those print gigs have pretty much dried up. So I’m thinking, “Why not a blog totally built around book reviews?”
Really it’s an expansion of the “111 Mystics” concept — only I wouldn’t limit myself to just the great mystics. Anything, from children’s books to bawdy humor to travel guides to the latest left-wing screed would be fodder for the review mill. Meanwhile, I’m not saying I won’t pepper my blog with my theological angst and heartwarmingly cranky opinions — just that said angst and opinion would now be expressed in the context of whatever review I happen to be writing.
So here’s the question for you, my small band of as-yet-loyal readers (or whoever happens to stumble across this post): is this an idea worth pursuing. In other words, would you be interested in following a blog that is strictly book reviews?
Deepening the Practice of Contemplative Prayer
Tonight Fran and I leave for Birmingham, where we will be attending a weekend program called Deepening the Practice of Centering Prayer. The presenter is Cynthia Bourgeault, who has written not only about centering prayer but about the esoteric/wisdom tradition of Christian spirituality in general. I like her books and the monks in Conyers think the world of her, so needless to say I’m excited about going. Another neat intersection point: Bourgeault is close to Thomas Keating, who in turn has worked with Ken Wilber. So I’m eager to pick her brain about the interrelationship between centering prayer and integral life practice.
Looking back, looking forward
Yesterday marked the thirty-year anniversary of my first experience of nondual consciousness, which occurred at a Lutheran Youth Weekend at Massanetta Springs in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. If you’re interested in the story, check out chapter one of The Aspiring Mystic — that’s where I tell the tale.
And the day before yesterday, Sunday, I submitted my letter of intent to enter the novitiate of the Lay Cistercians of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit. If I’m accepted, I’ll be received as a novice on Palm Sunday — which this year happens to fall on April 1. This old fool for Christ’s sake considers that a serendipitous date indeed!
It seems appropriate enough to link the insecure Lutheran teenager who without wanting it or expecting it was suddenly ushered into the presence of Divine love and bliss, with who I am today — still none too confident, now a middle-aged Catholic, interested in how the wisdom of Christian mysticism ties in with the integral vision of other visionaries, from the ancient (Plotinus) to the postmodern (Ken Wilber). All this is a fancy way of saying that it is amazing how the unplanned events of one night three decades ago continues to make such an impact on my life today — and tomorrow.
