James Hillman writes in Insearch: psychology and religion, “The ego, with its light attempts to ferret out causes in hidden recesses of the personality, searches for detailed childhood memories, promotes sweet sessions of silent introspection.
From the book Insearch: psychology and religion by James Hillman
“A solution that keeps the intentionality of consciousness yet forgoes its active thrust has been called the art of listening. This art has perhaps fallen into decline along with that of conversation.”
The Kindle edition I am reading was last updated in 1994. Bringing the statement forward and making it as if written in 2014 I ask, “Do you think”
A projection of sort. In 1994 I listened little. Today I feel I do more, but not enough. Still, as I project onto the world my own failings, I claim progress.
Can the world claim the same, even if a little? I think not.
Conversation on a public stage is in remission. My readings tell me that humans do worse in groups. Whatever darkness we have individually are disproportionally multiplied when ever two or more gather as one.
I propose we make listening a graduate degree. I bet those who earn it will become more valuable to corporations than lawyers.
Friedrich Nietzsche writes, “We have art so that we shall not die of reality.”
I don’t think of Nietzsche as being the most positive guy I never met, but I like this quote. Since he is dead, I have to think I have changed and not him. Or he actually had a moment of bliss.
I take him to mean that art is as much an outlet as an escape; for the artist and the patron. What say you?
In Owning Your Own Shadow, author Robert Johnson writes, “Narrow creativity always brings a narrow shadow, while broader talents call up a greater portion of the dark.”
Most of my life I thought that avoiding my shadow meant success. Now I am distressed to learn how totally untrue this is. It is incredible to me that I have found in my writing a willingness to do just the opposite. More than a willingness, I have an almost panicky desire to dance in the shadows. I can’t get there fast enough.
I hope you learned to dance before I did.
Tor House is the name Robinson and Una Jeffers gave the house they built in Carmel, California. Tor comes from the rocky points they saw when visiting Dartmoor, England. The home was important to his poetry. My house is important to my writing. There our similarities end.
He built his house. I live in mine. They built theirs with stone carved from the boulders of the coastline in Carmel. Someone built ours a long time ago and then more recently someone else put aluminum siding on it. I don’t even have to paint it and yet I feel ownership. Just by being present.
Robinson did all that work on his home and still had time to write. Very little of my home competes for my writing time. I think, “advantage Bob.” An advantage I have yet to capitalize on. Maybe I should build a shed or something.
From the anthology Biopoetics it reads, “The eye of the octopus is amazingly similar to the eye of a human yet rose independently in evolution.”
Richard Dawkins invented the word “meme” and in his book The Selfish Gene he offers examples; tunes, catch-phrases, ways of making pots or of building arches, but not octopuses. Something of comfort about that natural exclusion.
This old tree has become part of me. We, twenty years living here, have enjoyed having it by our side.
We saw it survive winds and ice, enjoy heat and humidity, but now to save it requires major pruning. It might not be enough. Eighty years old we figure. It has seen so much, a youngster in the 1930’s.
Born years before us, it is time. I hope it does not hurt. I hope it understands. Trees falling apart are dangerous. They don’t mean to be.