A rare occurrence in our multi-tasking, high speed society is viewing or experiencing a pure act, one not dipped in some kind self-return. We have developed an expectation of falsehood, like that of the American Indians encounters with the White Man: "White Man speaks with forked tongue." We experience far more acts done with conditions attached.
"Sir! Let me help you with that." The help is given, but it requires financial reimbursement.
"Here is Seven Million for this social need. Oh and yes! The building will be in my name."
Viewing or experiencing an act, done for the sake of the act, unconditionally, is so out of the ordinary it stuns us.
The case of an unconditional act done to the writer.
Both my arms were full: a box of books and papers in one hand, a brief case in the other. I was giving a class in a school new to me. I was at a juncture in a large hallway and didn't know which direction to turn, left or right. A maintenance man suddenly appeared into my space. I asked, "Which way to room 348?" He pointed left, and without hesitation took the box of books and papers from me. My first reaction was feeling the relief from the weight of the books and papers. My second reaction was surprise, by the unexpected aid.
He said not a word but went straight to room 348, with me following. At the door to the room, he placed the box of books and papers on the floor, pulled out a set of keys from his belt, and unlocked the door.
After the door was opened, I heartfeltly thanked him and bent down to pick up the box of books and papers, but his aid wasn't finished. He had picked up the box before I did, walked into the class room and waited for my directions as to were to put the box. I pointed to the top of the desk and he placed the box down, and with a twist of his head out the door he went. I followed him to the door thanking him with every step I took.
His aid had finished, and he didn't need, thanks, reimbursement, or ego stroking. Later, as I contemplated his actions, I was struck by the simplicity and power of his pure intention and stunned by this unconditional aid-so rare in our society.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
allegory of the cave
The allegory of the cave is an allusion taken from Plato's, Republic, Book VII. He used the allegory to help explain why a "philosopher" is the best person to head a community or society. In addition to the argument, Why the philosopher is the best to head a society? is a deeper exposure, it might be called an esoteric meaning. Plato and sages of his level of understanding, often communicated on several levels of consciousness. Thus, besides the main argument, the allegory also shows how the education and ignorance of humans determines the level of their consciousness. Essentially there are three levels of consciousness: first, from lowest to highest, ego consciousness, psyche consciousness, and spiritual consciousness. It maybe helpful to the understanding process to know, that these three levels of consciousness collate with the three compositions of humans: body, soul, spirit, and the three states of awareness: awake, dream sleep, deep sleep without dreams.
Here is the description of the allegory as set up by Plato: Imagine mankind as dwelling in an underground cave with a long entrance open to light across the whole width of the cave; in this they have been from childhood, with necks and legs fettered, so they have to stay where they are. They cannot move their heads round because of the fetters, and they can only look foreword, but light comes to them from fire burning behind them higher up at a distance. Between the fire and the prisoners is a road above their level, and along it imagine a low wall has been built, as puppet showmen have screens in front of their people over which they work their puppets. Bearers carrying along this wall all sorts of articles which they hold projecting above the wall, statues of men and other living things, made of stone or wood and all kinds of stuff, some of these bearers speaking and some silent.
Socrates comments to Claucon, "Just like ourselves. For, first of all, tell me this: What do you think such people would have seen of themselves and each other except their shadows, which the fire cast on the opposite wall of the cave?"
Claucon, "I don't see how they could see anything else."
Socrates, "Very well, what of the things being carried along? Would not this be the same?"
Claucon, "Of course it would."
Socrates, "Suppose the prisoners were able to talk together, don't you think that when they named the shadows which they saw passing they would believe they were naming things"
Claucon, "Necessarily."
Socrates, "Than if their prison had an echo from the opposite wall, whenever one of the passing bearers uttered a sound, would they not suppose that the passing shadows must be making the sound?"
Claucon, "Indeed I do."
Socrates, "If so, such persons would certainly believe that there were no realities except those shadows of handmade things?"
Claucon, "So it must be."
Socrates, "Now consider, what their release would be like, and their cure from the fetters and their folly; let us imagine whether it might be naturally be something like this. One might be released, and compelled suddenly to stand and turn his neck round, and to walk and look towards the firelight; all this would hurt him, and he would be to much dazzled to see distinctly those things whose shadows he had seen before. What do you think he would say if someone told him that what he saw before was foolery, but now he saw more rightly, more real? What if he were shown each of the passing things and compelled by questions to answer what each one was? Don't you think he would be puzzled, and believe what he saw before was more true than what was shown to him now?"
Claucon, "Far more."
Socrates, "Then suppose he were compelled to look towards the real light. It would hurt his eyes, and he would escape by turning them away to the things which he was able to look at, and these he would believe to be clearer than what was being shown to him."
Claucon, "Just so."
Socrates, "Suppose now, that someone should drag him thence by force, up the rough ascent, the steep way up, and never stop until he could drag him out into the light of the sun, would he not be distressed and furious at being dragged ; and when he came into the light , the brilliance would fill his eyes and he would not be able to see even one of the things now called real?"
Claucon, "That he would not, all of a sudden."
Socrates, "He would have to get used to it, surely, I think, if he is to see the things above. First he would most easily look at shadows, after that images of mankind and the rest in water, lastly the things themselves. After this he would find it easier to survey by night the heavens themselves and all that is in them, gazing at the light of the stars and moon, rather than by day the sun and the sun's light."
Claucon, "Of course."
Socrates, "Last of all, I suppose, the sun; he could look on the sun itself by itself in its own place, and see what it is like, not reflections of it in the water or as it appears in some alien setting."
Claucon, "Necessarily."
Socrates, "And only after all this he might reason about it, how this is he who provides seasons and years, and is set over all things which they saw."
Claucon, "Yes, it is clear, that after all that, he would come to this last."
Socrates, "Very good. Let him be reminded of his first habitation, and what was wisdom in that place, and of his fellow-prisoners there; don't you think he would bless himself for the change, and pity them?"
Claucon, "Yes indeed."
(fyi) The above quotes were taken from the "Great Dialogues of Plato," translated by, W.H.D. Rouse, New American Library. For a deeper, more comprehensive rendering of Plato's Dialogues, look for a translation by Thomas Taylor.
The first description of the Cave shows the prisoners fettered, neck and legs. They have been this way from childhood, and can only look straight away. This condition of the fettered prisoners represents ego consciousness. Our ego, can be thought of as an objectified self; created, sustained, and extended by our ideas and perceptions derived from our material relationship with life. All of the world's manifestations seem to our senses to be solid and substantial: objects that can be touched, moved, and manipulated, objects emitting distinctive colors, forms, odors, and tastes, and objects that occupy a duration in time and space. Since our immediate sensual encounters are primarily with physical objects, all of our experiences seem therefore, to originate and culminate with the physical. The logic behind this material reasoning is very appealing to us, for it reduces a multidimensional world into a three dimensional, more predictable, routine, and safe world.
Our material perception is the most immediate medium our senses contact. It tends to become the most dominate and influential field of our conscious involvement. All other modes of perception are undermined because of our preoccupation with the material world. Most of our life energy is given to feed and maintain our ego-self. This exclusivity of our energy develops an extremely thick shell of resistance to change. The energy that is bound up in the structures of the ego-self and world image, is immense. That is the reason Plato symbolized this first level of consciousness as "prisoners." That which incarcerates our ego-self, ironically, is our ignorance of true reality. The irony comes because we use errant material perceptions as bulwarks for our reality, when essentially we are spiritual beings with essential spiritual realities.
In truth, our world is multidimensional, and is in no way bound exclusively by length, breath, and width. The three dimensional aspect of our world is only a small outer portion of a considerably greater whole. A strict use of material perceptions as an exclusive measuring stick for understanding our world falls extremely short along side of an overall comprehensive understanding. Our world consists of realities superimposed upon realities, from the visible to the invisible. In effect, our world is a creative synthesis of multiple realities, mosaically wrapped and networked; speck and star united within a system and process so vast, so subtle, and so intricate, as to defy accurate definition. How many separate yet unified realities exist within our world? The answer is not available, for it would imply a knowledge beyond what can be known. What we can know, however, is that our senses receive input on a multidimensional field, but consciously interpret only a fractional part. Since our perceptions focus on a very small fraction of the comprehensive whole of our being, our understanding is consequently greatly limited. To this limit add, an inborn compulsion to maintain the status quo, and the emotional factors of anxiety and fear of change, and we have a glimpse at the formidability of our material based perceptions.
Now, one of the prisoners in the cave is released of his fetters and compelled to stand and turn his neck round, and to walk and look towards the firelight. This traumatic experience would be the cause of an instant breakdown of the reality he had known from childhood. After a time of integrating the truth of this new reality, his consciousness would have expanded. This expanded consciousness is the second level of consciousness, the soul consciousness.
The soul is the bridge between the material and the spirit world. This connection is vital for it allows us a portal to the spiritual aspect of our being. It provides a pathway from our powerful, mental, material barriers, to the essential aspect of our spiritual being. An encounter with our spiritual aspect causes a rebirth, a new reality, a soul consciousness. It is only through this state of metamorphosis that we can hope to fulfill our true human destiny.
Now, our prisoner is dragged by force, up the rough ascent, the steep way up, and never stops until he was outside of the cave , into the Sun's light. This new reality is his spiritual consciousness. Notice that as the prisoner moves up the consciousness levels, he becomes more liberated of his original confinement. Instead of his original condition as a prisoner, the soul consciousness releases his confinement, opening the knot, so that the higher spiritual energy integrate his being. The involvement of the spiritual consciousness then opens the final knot for the awakening of the True Reality. The true reality is from I am I, to I am thou. There is a Sufi story, (a mystic branch of Islam) which brings some clarity to this wondrous metamorphosis: There was a human soul who spent millennium wondering, gaining discipline, holiness, devotion, and self-sacrifice, hoping to be accepted into heaven. He believed he was ready and went to the Gates of Heaven and began to ring the Bell of Entrance. He heard a thunderous voice asks, "Who goes there?" The soul answered, "It is I Lord." The booming voice answered, "I know no I." The Gates of Heaven remained closed. The soul once again began to wonder, focusing more of his energy on devotion to the Lord. Once again he believed he was ready, and went to the Gates of Heaven and rang the Bell of Entrance. The thunderous voice asks, : "Who goes there?" The soul answers, "It is thou, Lord." The booming voice responds, "Enter!," as the Gates of Heaven open.
THE BRIDGE
It spans an abyss,
where siren sounds from an impetuous
wind, lure and snag curious souls.
The curious become ensnared, not by
eagerness to know, but by an affection for the abyss.
They are captured, by their own intentions. The
tantalizing, spinning, wind, gently urges and coerces them,
while filling their senses with tastes of euphoria.
It whispers, "All yours. All yours to have. Take and fill.
Take."
As they succumb to their affection, the wind
bends their souls until their head turns down
and their feet up.
Suddenly, the wind releases its hold, and head
long they fall into the heart of the abyss.
If only the poor souls' eyes, cleared, and glimpsed
the golden span within arms reach.
If only they could have grasped it, and held fast
with all their strength, instead of frolicking in
self-pleasure. What a price paid for such frivolity. Such
unworthy attention. Yet alas! Too late.
The bridge still spans the abyss, as a humble
signpost against grand illusion, and high conceit.
And he need only grasp it with sincere heart,
to escape the torments of mortality.
Here is the description of the allegory as set up by Plato: Imagine mankind as dwelling in an underground cave with a long entrance open to light across the whole width of the cave; in this they have been from childhood, with necks and legs fettered, so they have to stay where they are. They cannot move their heads round because of the fetters, and they can only look foreword, but light comes to them from fire burning behind them higher up at a distance. Between the fire and the prisoners is a road above their level, and along it imagine a low wall has been built, as puppet showmen have screens in front of their people over which they work their puppets. Bearers carrying along this wall all sorts of articles which they hold projecting above the wall, statues of men and other living things, made of stone or wood and all kinds of stuff, some of these bearers speaking and some silent.
Socrates comments to Claucon, "Just like ourselves. For, first of all, tell me this: What do you think such people would have seen of themselves and each other except their shadows, which the fire cast on the opposite wall of the cave?"
Claucon, "I don't see how they could see anything else."
Socrates, "Very well, what of the things being carried along? Would not this be the same?"
Claucon, "Of course it would."
Socrates, "Suppose the prisoners were able to talk together, don't you think that when they named the shadows which they saw passing they would believe they were naming things"
Claucon, "Necessarily."
Socrates, "Than if their prison had an echo from the opposite wall, whenever one of the passing bearers uttered a sound, would they not suppose that the passing shadows must be making the sound?"
Claucon, "Indeed I do."
Socrates, "If so, such persons would certainly believe that there were no realities except those shadows of handmade things?"
Claucon, "So it must be."
Socrates, "Now consider, what their release would be like, and their cure from the fetters and their folly; let us imagine whether it might be naturally be something like this. One might be released, and compelled suddenly to stand and turn his neck round, and to walk and look towards the firelight; all this would hurt him, and he would be to much dazzled to see distinctly those things whose shadows he had seen before. What do you think he would say if someone told him that what he saw before was foolery, but now he saw more rightly, more real? What if he were shown each of the passing things and compelled by questions to answer what each one was? Don't you think he would be puzzled, and believe what he saw before was more true than what was shown to him now?"
Claucon, "Far more."
Socrates, "Then suppose he were compelled to look towards the real light. It would hurt his eyes, and he would escape by turning them away to the things which he was able to look at, and these he would believe to be clearer than what was being shown to him."
Claucon, "Just so."
Socrates, "Suppose now, that someone should drag him thence by force, up the rough ascent, the steep way up, and never stop until he could drag him out into the light of the sun, would he not be distressed and furious at being dragged ; and when he came into the light , the brilliance would fill his eyes and he would not be able to see even one of the things now called real?"
Claucon, "That he would not, all of a sudden."
Socrates, "He would have to get used to it, surely, I think, if he is to see the things above. First he would most easily look at shadows, after that images of mankind and the rest in water, lastly the things themselves. After this he would find it easier to survey by night the heavens themselves and all that is in them, gazing at the light of the stars and moon, rather than by day the sun and the sun's light."
Claucon, "Of course."
Socrates, "Last of all, I suppose, the sun; he could look on the sun itself by itself in its own place, and see what it is like, not reflections of it in the water or as it appears in some alien setting."
Claucon, "Necessarily."
Socrates, "And only after all this he might reason about it, how this is he who provides seasons and years, and is set over all things which they saw."
Claucon, "Yes, it is clear, that after all that, he would come to this last."
Socrates, "Very good. Let him be reminded of his first habitation, and what was wisdom in that place, and of his fellow-prisoners there; don't you think he would bless himself for the change, and pity them?"
Claucon, "Yes indeed."
(fyi) The above quotes were taken from the "Great Dialogues of Plato," translated by, W.H.D. Rouse, New American Library. For a deeper, more comprehensive rendering of Plato's Dialogues, look for a translation by Thomas Taylor.
The first description of the Cave shows the prisoners fettered, neck and legs. They have been this way from childhood, and can only look straight away. This condition of the fettered prisoners represents ego consciousness. Our ego, can be thought of as an objectified self; created, sustained, and extended by our ideas and perceptions derived from our material relationship with life. All of the world's manifestations seem to our senses to be solid and substantial: objects that can be touched, moved, and manipulated, objects emitting distinctive colors, forms, odors, and tastes, and objects that occupy a duration in time and space. Since our immediate sensual encounters are primarily with physical objects, all of our experiences seem therefore, to originate and culminate with the physical. The logic behind this material reasoning is very appealing to us, for it reduces a multidimensional world into a three dimensional, more predictable, routine, and safe world.
Our material perception is the most immediate medium our senses contact. It tends to become the most dominate and influential field of our conscious involvement. All other modes of perception are undermined because of our preoccupation with the material world. Most of our life energy is given to feed and maintain our ego-self. This exclusivity of our energy develops an extremely thick shell of resistance to change. The energy that is bound up in the structures of the ego-self and world image, is immense. That is the reason Plato symbolized this first level of consciousness as "prisoners." That which incarcerates our ego-self, ironically, is our ignorance of true reality. The irony comes because we use errant material perceptions as bulwarks for our reality, when essentially we are spiritual beings with essential spiritual realities.
In truth, our world is multidimensional, and is in no way bound exclusively by length, breath, and width. The three dimensional aspect of our world is only a small outer portion of a considerably greater whole. A strict use of material perceptions as an exclusive measuring stick for understanding our world falls extremely short along side of an overall comprehensive understanding. Our world consists of realities superimposed upon realities, from the visible to the invisible. In effect, our world is a creative synthesis of multiple realities, mosaically wrapped and networked; speck and star united within a system and process so vast, so subtle, and so intricate, as to defy accurate definition. How many separate yet unified realities exist within our world? The answer is not available, for it would imply a knowledge beyond what can be known. What we can know, however, is that our senses receive input on a multidimensional field, but consciously interpret only a fractional part. Since our perceptions focus on a very small fraction of the comprehensive whole of our being, our understanding is consequently greatly limited. To this limit add, an inborn compulsion to maintain the status quo, and the emotional factors of anxiety and fear of change, and we have a glimpse at the formidability of our material based perceptions.
Now, one of the prisoners in the cave is released of his fetters and compelled to stand and turn his neck round, and to walk and look towards the firelight. This traumatic experience would be the cause of an instant breakdown of the reality he had known from childhood. After a time of integrating the truth of this new reality, his consciousness would have expanded. This expanded consciousness is the second level of consciousness, the soul consciousness.
The soul is the bridge between the material and the spirit world. This connection is vital for it allows us a portal to the spiritual aspect of our being. It provides a pathway from our powerful, mental, material barriers, to the essential aspect of our spiritual being. An encounter with our spiritual aspect causes a rebirth, a new reality, a soul consciousness. It is only through this state of metamorphosis that we can hope to fulfill our true human destiny.
Now, our prisoner is dragged by force, up the rough ascent, the steep way up, and never stops until he was outside of the cave , into the Sun's light. This new reality is his spiritual consciousness. Notice that as the prisoner moves up the consciousness levels, he becomes more liberated of his original confinement. Instead of his original condition as a prisoner, the soul consciousness releases his confinement, opening the knot, so that the higher spiritual energy integrate his being. The involvement of the spiritual consciousness then opens the final knot for the awakening of the True Reality. The true reality is from I am I, to I am thou. There is a Sufi story, (a mystic branch of Islam) which brings some clarity to this wondrous metamorphosis: There was a human soul who spent millennium wondering, gaining discipline, holiness, devotion, and self-sacrifice, hoping to be accepted into heaven. He believed he was ready and went to the Gates of Heaven and began to ring the Bell of Entrance. He heard a thunderous voice asks, "Who goes there?" The soul answered, "It is I Lord." The booming voice answered, "I know no I." The Gates of Heaven remained closed. The soul once again began to wonder, focusing more of his energy on devotion to the Lord. Once again he believed he was ready, and went to the Gates of Heaven and rang the Bell of Entrance. The thunderous voice asks, : "Who goes there?" The soul answers, "It is thou, Lord." The booming voice responds, "Enter!," as the Gates of Heaven open.
THE BRIDGE
It spans an abyss,
where siren sounds from an impetuous
wind, lure and snag curious souls.
The curious become ensnared, not by
eagerness to know, but by an affection for the abyss.
They are captured, by their own intentions. The
tantalizing, spinning, wind, gently urges and coerces them,
while filling their senses with tastes of euphoria.
It whispers, "All yours. All yours to have. Take and fill.
Take."
As they succumb to their affection, the wind
bends their souls until their head turns down
and their feet up.
Suddenly, the wind releases its hold, and head
long they fall into the heart of the abyss.
If only the poor souls' eyes, cleared, and glimpsed
the golden span within arms reach.
If only they could have grasped it, and held fast
with all their strength, instead of frolicking in
self-pleasure. What a price paid for such frivolity. Such
unworthy attention. Yet alas! Too late.
The bridge still spans the abyss, as a humble
signpost against grand illusion, and high conceit.
And he need only grasp it with sincere heart,
to escape the torments of mortality.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
tuning up with spring
Spring! were everything is muddlishously wonderful; were the songs of the birds, burst forth joy from the constriction of winter's freeze; were the young's fancy turns to thoughts of love; were all of Nature is being released to follow endless possibilities.
The Cherokee Indians have a ritual initiated in correspondence with the Spring Equinox. They go to a river and there scoop up some of the river's water with their hand, turn their back to the river and throw the scooped water over their shoulder, doing this seven times. With each throw releasing what should have been, would have been, could have been; forgiving any past transgressions caused by themselves or others, and detaching from focusing on future outcomes. In this way they release themselves from attachments of the past and the future while aligning themselves with the present, and with the powerful influence of the awakening and rebirthing elements of Spring.
We too are caught up in this current of Spring. On that first day, when the temperature rises to the 50's, and Father Sun is high enough in the sky to feel His warmth, every mother's child leaves the protection of their home and begins to scurry about: walking, biking, playing games, washing their cars, cleaning up their yards, shopping, etc. Its like everybody heard a cosmic alarm clock at the same time, and instantly understood that it was time to leave the house. Whether we are consciously aware of our reactions to Spring or not, we are essentially tied to its rhythm, and upon its call, invariably celebrate its arrival.
Although we instinctively react to the call of Spring, we can depress our reaction by becoming distracted by the "getting and spending" of our daily lives. The poet, William Wordsworth, admonishes us in his poem, The World is to Much With Us:
The world is to mush with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours,
We have given our hearts away, a sorted boon!
...For this, for everything we are out of tune;..
There is a cyclical rhythm to our lives, one which has little to do with an eight hour work day and a forty hour work week. This life rhythm is found in the recognition of the beat of the seasons moving around the year. As the rhythm of the season resonate, we are meant to join in, blending our heart beat to the pulse of the cosmos in a sacred dance. We dance to the pulse and live by the heart beat, and in this sacred manner we find and accept our place in the harmony of it all.
Happy Spring, every body.
The Cherokee Indians have a ritual initiated in correspondence with the Spring Equinox. They go to a river and there scoop up some of the river's water with their hand, turn their back to the river and throw the scooped water over their shoulder, doing this seven times. With each throw releasing what should have been, would have been, could have been; forgiving any past transgressions caused by themselves or others, and detaching from focusing on future outcomes. In this way they release themselves from attachments of the past and the future while aligning themselves with the present, and with the powerful influence of the awakening and rebirthing elements of Spring.
We too are caught up in this current of Spring. On that first day, when the temperature rises to the 50's, and Father Sun is high enough in the sky to feel His warmth, every mother's child leaves the protection of their home and begins to scurry about: walking, biking, playing games, washing their cars, cleaning up their yards, shopping, etc. Its like everybody heard a cosmic alarm clock at the same time, and instantly understood that it was time to leave the house. Whether we are consciously aware of our reactions to Spring or not, we are essentially tied to its rhythm, and upon its call, invariably celebrate its arrival.
Although we instinctively react to the call of Spring, we can depress our reaction by becoming distracted by the "getting and spending" of our daily lives. The poet, William Wordsworth, admonishes us in his poem, The World is to Much With Us:
The world is to mush with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours,
We have given our hearts away, a sorted boon!
...For this, for everything we are out of tune;..
There is a cyclical rhythm to our lives, one which has little to do with an eight hour work day and a forty hour work week. This life rhythm is found in the recognition of the beat of the seasons moving around the year. As the rhythm of the season resonate, we are meant to join in, blending our heart beat to the pulse of the cosmos in a sacred dance. We dance to the pulse and live by the heart beat, and in this sacred manner we find and accept our place in the harmony of it all.
Happy Spring, every body.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
share the world
They sat and talked. Filled somber ears, with weather conditions, sports
events, and conduct of governments. The highest forms of life flapping lips, to
to avail.
"Do you think it might snow?" said one.
"Possibly! The weather man says chances are 50-50. Though you know
his margin for error is greater than 50-50," replied the other.
Silence, both heads spin in hopes of finding subjects to next vocalize.
"That damn football team, blew it again. All they had to do, to win, was
run the defence's weak side," said one.
"The coach should have tried the rookie quarterback," replied the other.
Their emotional context is bogged down, restrained by non-felt words.
Spinning heads fall off contact, as if an electro magnetic's power switch
was suddenly turns off.
Silence, then lips start flipping, contact resumes at minimum power.
"That idiot mayor of ours is running for reelection again.
He hasn't an ethical cell in his enter body," says one.
He, however, presents an appealing image, will fool a majority of the
voters," says the other.
Silence, contact withdrawn to inner dialog. Two sentient beings,
sharing the same world, at a complete lose of how to share their common
heart felt experiences.
A wall starts to build between them. Blank eyes fix on invisible objects.
The wall builds higher; silence looms thick. Each sense their shallow words,
and are reluctant to flap more. The wall builds even higher. Power is off.
No residue contact. They are now deep into their own heads. The wall
builds higher, and now isolates them Curious these two, who's combined
memories, store vast ranging, sensations of lived experiences, set such
a limited, bland boundary for their expression.
"Look there! says one, opening the circuit, "That man, disgustingly drunk,
and its so early in the day. Its sad to see."
Hesitating, the other adds, "He cannot manage his drinking." Than pausing
nervously continues, "I know his need, and what kind of emptiness alcohol
fills. You see, I am an alcoholic."
Ears perk; interest piqued, hot; eyes merge and focus intense. Full power on.
Hallelujah! a devastating blow smacks and weakens the wall.
"I am surprised, " rejoins the other, "I never suspected you had a drinking
problem. You seemed so conservative, and not given to impulse. You
know," pausing, "my wife has a drinking problem, and I have a real
compassion for the difficulty alcohol causes. I greatly respect and admire
your honesty with yourself."
The other says, "You have taken on a completely new aspect. Previously,
I thought you reserved and some what aloof. Now, hearing you respone
to my problem with sympathy, and sharing your own experience has changed
my opinion. I like you."
Smiles burst forth. The two virgorously pat one another on the back. Then
a warm, long hand shake, while eyes twinkle with good feeling. The wall
now comes tumbling down, and in its stead, friendship unfolds.
Now the world seems none so bad, and they themselves such sterling lads;
a mixing in with life, no waste of energy here.
events, and conduct of governments. The highest forms of life flapping lips, to
to avail.
"Do you think it might snow?" said one.
"Possibly! The weather man says chances are 50-50. Though you know
his margin for error is greater than 50-50," replied the other.
Silence, both heads spin in hopes of finding subjects to next vocalize.
"That damn football team, blew it again. All they had to do, to win, was
run the defence's weak side," said one.
"The coach should have tried the rookie quarterback," replied the other.
Their emotional context is bogged down, restrained by non-felt words.
Spinning heads fall off contact, as if an electro magnetic's power switch
was suddenly turns off.
Silence, then lips start flipping, contact resumes at minimum power.
"That idiot mayor of ours is running for reelection again.
He hasn't an ethical cell in his enter body," says one.
He, however, presents an appealing image, will fool a majority of the
voters," says the other.
Silence, contact withdrawn to inner dialog. Two sentient beings,
sharing the same world, at a complete lose of how to share their common
heart felt experiences.
A wall starts to build between them. Blank eyes fix on invisible objects.
The wall builds higher; silence looms thick. Each sense their shallow words,
and are reluctant to flap more. The wall builds even higher. Power is off.
No residue contact. They are now deep into their own heads. The wall
builds higher, and now isolates them Curious these two, who's combined
memories, store vast ranging, sensations of lived experiences, set such
a limited, bland boundary for their expression.
"Look there! says one, opening the circuit, "That man, disgustingly drunk,
and its so early in the day. Its sad to see."
Hesitating, the other adds, "He cannot manage his drinking." Than pausing
nervously continues, "I know his need, and what kind of emptiness alcohol
fills. You see, I am an alcoholic."
Ears perk; interest piqued, hot; eyes merge and focus intense. Full power on.
Hallelujah! a devastating blow smacks and weakens the wall.
"I am surprised, " rejoins the other, "I never suspected you had a drinking
problem. You seemed so conservative, and not given to impulse. You
know," pausing, "my wife has a drinking problem, and I have a real
compassion for the difficulty alcohol causes. I greatly respect and admire
your honesty with yourself."
The other says, "You have taken on a completely new aspect. Previously,
I thought you reserved and some what aloof. Now, hearing you respone
to my problem with sympathy, and sharing your own experience has changed
my opinion. I like you."
Smiles burst forth. The two virgorously pat one another on the back. Then
a warm, long hand shake, while eyes twinkle with good feeling. The wall
now comes tumbling down, and in its stead, friendship unfolds.
Now the world seems none so bad, and they themselves such sterling lads;
a mixing in with life, no waste of energy here.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
poems concerning family
Our primary relationships have the greatest impact on us. Those of family, extended, would be considered primary. We start relating to our family while still in the womb, and continue relating, on what can be called an unconscious level until we are approximately 21 years old. At 21 we have maturated to full psychological capacity. Meaning we can, at this point, began to process our experiences. Until (of course psychological maturity can begin earlier or later then 21, 21 is only a mean) we gain psychological maturity we take in our experiences on a strict emotional level. The power of our emotions without a reasoning process prevents us from making change. If we can not see the causes and effects in our relationships we are stuck with their emotions which are formidable barriers to change.
The poems presented were written over a period of years, and all contain the theme of family relationships, from my perspective. My intention is to cause a recognition within you of your own family relationships and hopefully help to release their pent up emotions bringing reconciliation and peace.
home
There was a time I knew my home
and the direction it did lay.
A two story brick storefront, cornering
the block, a harbor, a friendly, familiar
place to dock.
On snow covered days, I'd shovel
south to north from the alley, scrapping
the side walk clean. The shovel would
invariably thump the corrugated metal
plate my father made to cover an iron
grate. My stomach then would feel the
sharp tip of the shovel handle.
At the corner, I pushed a single path west
toward Gigi's side walk, then plowed
strip by strip past the mail box to the curb.
A technique learned from Frank the Grocer.
Now the two steps from the walk to the street
for bus rider appreciation and then finished
Mounting the shovel over my shoulder in soldier
fashion, I'd springily stride over the cleaned walk,
through the back yard gate, look lovingly at the pine
tree I planted, mount the stairs, absorb the homely
atmosphere and gently nap long side the warm
radiator.
There was a time I knew my home and the direction
it did lay. Centering from the brick two story, its
boundaries extended miles in all directions, like
Architurs in the evening's western sky, a reliable
fix had I.
Northward, passed cousin Mary Ann's house, the
railroad tracks, where balancing games, flattened
pennies, cries for chalk, floating, flashing, beaconed lights,
shrill whistles, rhythmic clicks of iron wheels on iron rails,
and powerful whiffs of air, were the order of things;
passed Aunt Annie's, passed Rose's fragrant Lillocks,
passed Duke the friendly Shepard, and passed block
after block of infinitesimal points, intimately tangent.
Southward, passed the old house, and the tree where
I caught a falling baby sparrow, my father set a ladder
to put the bird safely back into the nest; passed Cornia's
slippery, juicy cherry tree, passed the corner lot, where
summer baseball was played daily, then converted easily
to a race track for soap box cars, passed Keichen's
Grocery Store, where my mother once worked, and
where my attitude was dubbed, Louie the Thurd, passed
the 5 blocks of my paper route and passed block after
block of infinitesimal points, intimately tangent.
East and West, passed thousands of neurologically
recorded scenarios held fast by the camera in my mind's
eye. Panazzo's Funeral Home, where my father was laid
to rest, my high school, Vience's Barber Ship, the school
grounds and parks where my spent energy must still be
whirling; the churches, the drug stores, my sister's homes
the Michigan Ave hill leading to Pullman, Lake Calumet
where my bobber floated away, the etchings on the
side walks, "Beamster 1947," the alleys, all points of
intimacy.
Oh! yes there was a time I knew my home and the
direction it did lay. Finding my way by feeling the
cord of this umbilical tie.
Now I am severed, cast draft, no fixed point, no breath
of relief, no sanctuary, no kindred spirit, no intimacy,
no return, no home, relying only on dead reckoning.
Yet! there was a time I knew my home.
death comes to my Pa Pa
My eyes were dry, I took his hand
warmth in a wasted man. I stroked
his head, please Pa don't be dead.
We shared a family place, but how
unfamiliar his face. A spectre, a t-shirted
form speaking to me of sports:
"Rocky Caliveto, hit another home run.
He does it with strong wrists."
"Did you see that left hook, like a slap
from a lion's paw."
Pa, why didn't you talk to me the why
you did my friends?
Pa, did you love other women? Make
mistakes when you were young?
Pa, what was growing up like in Italy?
Damn your soul! I threw his hand to
his sunken chest. You left me without
showing me what it is like to be a man.
My eyes were wet, when they took him
away in the van.
Years to be a man
Pa, forgive me, I did not understand
It took me 40 years to learn to be a man.
I was blind, and listened only to my need.
I couldn't hear over my emotional greed.
Your love was stamped on my chest.
Yet, I didn't accepted it believing it wasn't the best.
Pa Pa, I am sorry, what manner of man have I been,
to decline the precious gift you freely had given.
We shared a family place. How selfish was my face?
A father to his son
"Son! determination the stuff real men are made of."
"Yes Dad! but how do I know how to get determination?"
"Determination is learned. You set a goal, one of course that
is within your capabilities, for instance, making the baseball
team, then focus your thoughts and energy toward its achievement.
That is how to do it."
'seeing you stand there on the brink
of life, excites and frightens me. all
the marvels and suffering lie immanently
before you, and I your father have a responsibility
to help shape your journey. I am frightened
I'll lead you wrong; I am frightened you'll not
like me;I am frightened of the power that will
grow within you, challenging my manliness, and
mostly I am frightened to hold you in my arms
and reveal my fears.'
"Yes Dad! but how do I know my capabilities?"
"You will develop a feeling for what you can and
can not do, as you grow older."
"Yes Dad! but where does this feeling come from?"
"You'll just have it. Don't ask stupid questions.
Go play somewhere."
'I don't know the answer to your question, and I am
annoyed at myself for not knowing. I am sorry
son. I like to give you a big hug but I am frightened
you would think I am weak.'
"Yes Dad."
my dear parents
Dear parents, know that your deepest and strongest
feelings penetrated to my total being.
Your aspirations awakened a spectrum of possibilities
and restrictions.
Your failures, on all levels, diminished the possibilities.
Your achievements, on all levels, increased the possibilities.
In our house regret and anger lived, like a manifest energy
that licked into my every pore.
A large part of my life was directed toward transforming
that negative energy into positive life force.
That initiation of fire, allowed me to understand a great
truth: although, I assimilated your deepest feeling, I am
from you but not either of you. I am your son, the baseline
of our family triangle: father-mother, son, following an
elemental, Cosmic Hierarchy. As the baseline I connect the
father-mother and evolve them into a more perfect form-me.
They sacrificed their lives in giving their life force to me, so that
I might progress beyond them. If you look very closely at life
you will see, that it originates from compassion and sacrifice.
There is a Buddha saying, that if you were to carry your mother
on your shoulders for your entire life, that not satisfy her sacrifice
to you.
The poems presented were written over a period of years, and all contain the theme of family relationships, from my perspective. My intention is to cause a recognition within you of your own family relationships and hopefully help to release their pent up emotions bringing reconciliation and peace.
home
There was a time I knew my home
and the direction it did lay.
A two story brick storefront, cornering
the block, a harbor, a friendly, familiar
place to dock.
On snow covered days, I'd shovel
south to north from the alley, scrapping
the side walk clean. The shovel would
invariably thump the corrugated metal
plate my father made to cover an iron
grate. My stomach then would feel the
sharp tip of the shovel handle.
At the corner, I pushed a single path west
toward Gigi's side walk, then plowed
strip by strip past the mail box to the curb.
A technique learned from Frank the Grocer.
Now the two steps from the walk to the street
for bus rider appreciation and then finished
Mounting the shovel over my shoulder in soldier
fashion, I'd springily stride over the cleaned walk,
through the back yard gate, look lovingly at the pine
tree I planted, mount the stairs, absorb the homely
atmosphere and gently nap long side the warm
radiator.
There was a time I knew my home and the direction
it did lay. Centering from the brick two story, its
boundaries extended miles in all directions, like
Architurs in the evening's western sky, a reliable
fix had I.
Northward, passed cousin Mary Ann's house, the
railroad tracks, where balancing games, flattened
pennies, cries for chalk, floating, flashing, beaconed lights,
shrill whistles, rhythmic clicks of iron wheels on iron rails,
and powerful whiffs of air, were the order of things;
passed Aunt Annie's, passed Rose's fragrant Lillocks,
passed Duke the friendly Shepard, and passed block
after block of infinitesimal points, intimately tangent.
Southward, passed the old house, and the tree where
I caught a falling baby sparrow, my father set a ladder
to put the bird safely back into the nest; passed Cornia's
slippery, juicy cherry tree, passed the corner lot, where
summer baseball was played daily, then converted easily
to a race track for soap box cars, passed Keichen's
Grocery Store, where my mother once worked, and
where my attitude was dubbed, Louie the Thurd, passed
the 5 blocks of my paper route and passed block after
block of infinitesimal points, intimately tangent.
East and West, passed thousands of neurologically
recorded scenarios held fast by the camera in my mind's
eye. Panazzo's Funeral Home, where my father was laid
to rest, my high school, Vience's Barber Ship, the school
grounds and parks where my spent energy must still be
whirling; the churches, the drug stores, my sister's homes
the Michigan Ave hill leading to Pullman, Lake Calumet
where my bobber floated away, the etchings on the
side walks, "Beamster 1947," the alleys, all points of
intimacy.
Oh! yes there was a time I knew my home and the
direction it did lay. Finding my way by feeling the
cord of this umbilical tie.
Now I am severed, cast draft, no fixed point, no breath
of relief, no sanctuary, no kindred spirit, no intimacy,
no return, no home, relying only on dead reckoning.
Yet! there was a time I knew my home.
death comes to my Pa Pa
My eyes were dry, I took his hand
warmth in a wasted man. I stroked
his head, please Pa don't be dead.
We shared a family place, but how
unfamiliar his face. A spectre, a t-shirted
form speaking to me of sports:
"Rocky Caliveto, hit another home run.
He does it with strong wrists."
"Did you see that left hook, like a slap
from a lion's paw."
Pa, why didn't you talk to me the why
you did my friends?
Pa, did you love other women? Make
mistakes when you were young?
Pa, what was growing up like in Italy?
Damn your soul! I threw his hand to
his sunken chest. You left me without
showing me what it is like to be a man.
My eyes were wet, when they took him
away in the van.
Years to be a man
Pa, forgive me, I did not understand
It took me 40 years to learn to be a man.
I was blind, and listened only to my need.
I couldn't hear over my emotional greed.
Your love was stamped on my chest.
Yet, I didn't accepted it believing it wasn't the best.
Pa Pa, I am sorry, what manner of man have I been,
to decline the precious gift you freely had given.
We shared a family place. How selfish was my face?
A father to his son
"Son! determination the stuff real men are made of."
"Yes Dad! but how do I know how to get determination?"
"Determination is learned. You set a goal, one of course that
is within your capabilities, for instance, making the baseball
team, then focus your thoughts and energy toward its achievement.
That is how to do it."
'seeing you stand there on the brink
of life, excites and frightens me. all
the marvels and suffering lie immanently
before you, and I your father have a responsibility
to help shape your journey. I am frightened
I'll lead you wrong; I am frightened you'll not
like me;I am frightened of the power that will
grow within you, challenging my manliness, and
mostly I am frightened to hold you in my arms
and reveal my fears.'
"Yes Dad! but how do I know my capabilities?"
"You will develop a feeling for what you can and
can not do, as you grow older."
"Yes Dad! but where does this feeling come from?"
"You'll just have it. Don't ask stupid questions.
Go play somewhere."
'I don't know the answer to your question, and I am
annoyed at myself for not knowing. I am sorry
son. I like to give you a big hug but I am frightened
you would think I am weak.'
"Yes Dad."
my dear parents
Dear parents, know that your deepest and strongest
feelings penetrated to my total being.
Your aspirations awakened a spectrum of possibilities
and restrictions.
Your failures, on all levels, diminished the possibilities.
Your achievements, on all levels, increased the possibilities.
In our house regret and anger lived, like a manifest energy
that licked into my every pore.
A large part of my life was directed toward transforming
that negative energy into positive life force.
That initiation of fire, allowed me to understand a great
truth: although, I assimilated your deepest feeling, I am
from you but not either of you. I am your son, the baseline
of our family triangle: father-mother, son, following an
elemental, Cosmic Hierarchy. As the baseline I connect the
father-mother and evolve them into a more perfect form-me.
They sacrificed their lives in giving their life force to me, so that
I might progress beyond them. If you look very closely at life
you will see, that it originates from compassion and sacrifice.
There is a Buddha saying, that if you were to carry your mother
on your shoulders for your entire life, that not satisfy her sacrifice
to you.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
coming together
There was a man who held silent for years.
Listening to the world with rabbit ears.
Revolving his radar to voice direction; hearing
and feeling with little expression; releasing words
that were analysed and mapped.
You see this man's mouth was tightly wrapped.
It seemed, a tightly coiled spring fixed in his jaw,
viced his lips in a chronic stall; although when
great pressure was applied the spring sprung,
and the mouth opened wide.
The words that escaped were low pitched and
mellow; sending monotoned waves as an aspect
of this fellow. Here what I mean, follow this scene:
his boss would say, "It's about your work, sometimes
brilliant, sometimes dull; inconsistency that's your fall."
As an iceberg he sat listening, then his mouth opened
and words came out hissing, "I appreciate your criticism,
sir!" he said monotonously, "I'll try harder to be what I
should be."
The beat of his heart slammed against his chest; anger
swelled as a wave mounting to its crest. His inside voice
seething with incessant jabber, "That living wart, how dare
he judge my worth. It's him that's the matter. Pure
incompetence encased in a fatty blatter." The blank face
with its iceberg stare, stands up and walks calmly from his
chair.
Still the jabber runs in side his mind, like an endless spool
of twisting twine. "I should have done this... I should have
said that...or maybe even spat in his hat. If my mouth could
only say what is in my mind, then I could be freed from this
terrible bind." He shuffled off in silent gloom, with occasional
murmurs he moved from the room.
That kind of scene continued for years, building a pattern of
anxiety, depression, and tears.
Yet with each encounter his internal lament grew louder, "If
my mouth could only say what is in my mind, and free me of
this terrible bind."
Till, like a chick cracking its shell, his felt need burst from
its internal well. His mouth tuned with his feelings, loosening
that tightly strung jaw for dealing. His lips vibrated freely,
words oozed out rapidly, easily, ideally, expressing his emotional
content, really.
Euphoria sweeped through his inside. The once incessant jabber
ebbed as a morning tide. A great understanding set in his crawl;
that he is responsible for his emotional raises and falls, and that
he holds a right to express them all.
There was a man who held silent for years.
There is a man who speaks of his tears.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
the principle of change
Whenever the statement "everything changes" is heard, most people nod their head in complete agreement to its apparent truth. However, a closer look at peoples' reaction reveals that their understanding of the statement is only casual, and directed at the most superficial evidence of change. For example, take the case of the death of a close relative. Most people are shocked by the death of someone close. This reaction is true even if the close relative was near death for some months or years. When death does come it is experienced as a sudden, immediate event having a specific time and place. The most ostensive part of change seems to capture our attention. In this case, we notice the obvious change, from a living relative to a dead relative. However, the inevitability of change as an on-going continuous process somehow escapes our awareness. The moment life is spawned on earth, so too is its death. We therefore, should not be surprised when death comes. Change, it seems, is noticed immediately by its overt physical symptoms, and is not given primary consideration as an integral part of all on-going events. Events happen, changes occur, yet our attention is focused only on the most outward aspect of the event, and not on the underlying process. In truth, nothing on earth has real duration, for nothing remains without change for even one billionth part of a second.
The understanding of this truth was brought to my mind while riding a bicycle. As I was riding one day, I was forced to the edge of the sidewalk I was riding on by a pedestrian. My tires rolled over a large bulge in the concrete. I was nearly thrown off. I stopped, got off the bike, and went to see what exactly it was I had rolled over. It was a large crack in the sidewalk, caused by the roots of a tree. As my eyes followed the crack to the tree, it suddenly occurred to me how changeable everything is, and how little attention I give to that fact. Here was a slab of concrete, solid, rock hard, laid with the intention of permanence. Here too were the tree's roots, extending and growing, knowing nothing of permanence. Then little by little, year after year, the tree's roots pushed up and cracked the concrete. An apparently relentless effort, yet not fully noticeable until the concrete was cracked and raised above its original poured level. How is it that the pervasiveness of change is not readily recognized?
The reason for this weak reaction to the processes of change is mainly due to the limited quality of our senses. Our normal vision, for instance, is limited to within a certain range of light waves. We hear within a specific decibel range. We taste, touch, and smell, all within a specific range of flavors, tactile sensations, and odors. These given limitations function as a kind of clearing house filtering out all sensations not precisely corresponding to the normal range reception. The result of this filtering process products a common or standard range of experience patterns, and their accompanying state of consciousness. For instance, we awake each morning at approximately the same time. We wash with the same smelling, feeling, soap and water. We drive the same smelling, feeling car, over the same route, through the same landscape, day in, day out. Usually our job consists of doing a number of the same procedures, over and over, in the same place and at approximately the same time of day. These routinely repeated events have a common or standard sensual quality to them, and thus are perceived as changeless or static.
In addition, to this kind of standard, sensual quality, are other aspects of our human perception that combine to help create a common noun out of the verb to change. There is the ability of our conscious mind to isolate specific events, thereby framing in a small detail of a much larger whole. There is the ability of our memory to hold whole, part, or a series of specific events and to recall them at will in a form many times more static than originally perceived-something like taking a photograph, where one infinitesimal moment of our dynamic, fluid world is frozen in a solid, static form.
Change is not only operative in our material world, but also in all the more subtle realms of our world. To illustrate, suppose you suddenly were blessed with extraordinary capabilities of vision, millions of times keener than anything known. Now focus your super-vision on that woman standing in front of you. See her blond hair, light complexion, blue eyes, and red shoes. Now adjust your vision to see through her skin to the musculature. Notice how her muscles wrap, connect, and inner-connect. Notice the continuous change in the tenuity of her muscles as they adjust to gravity. Now adjust your vision to microscopic. See the armies of bacteria, continuously signaling, digesting, stimulating, discharging, and absorbing. See the red blood cells speeding through arteries, giving nourishment-constant movement, constant change. Now adjust to molecular vision. See her molecular configurations and their interactions. Now adjust to atomic vision. See the oscillations of the atomic action, the speed of light movement of the electrons. Now adjust to sub-atomic vision. See the vibrational wave pattern, then the particle, alternate, seemingly at random. Now adjust your vision back to normal. Here we see a human being once again in her most dense, material form. It is only with the realization of the plurality of realities surrounding this human form, and their complete occupation with the process of change, that we begin to grasp the eminent presents and action of the force of change. Of all concepts known about the Cosmos, the concept of change is, ironically, the closest to being an absolute constant.
The understanding of this truth was brought to my mind while riding a bicycle. As I was riding one day, I was forced to the edge of the sidewalk I was riding on by a pedestrian. My tires rolled over a large bulge in the concrete. I was nearly thrown off. I stopped, got off the bike, and went to see what exactly it was I had rolled over. It was a large crack in the sidewalk, caused by the roots of a tree. As my eyes followed the crack to the tree, it suddenly occurred to me how changeable everything is, and how little attention I give to that fact. Here was a slab of concrete, solid, rock hard, laid with the intention of permanence. Here too were the tree's roots, extending and growing, knowing nothing of permanence. Then little by little, year after year, the tree's roots pushed up and cracked the concrete. An apparently relentless effort, yet not fully noticeable until the concrete was cracked and raised above its original poured level. How is it that the pervasiveness of change is not readily recognized?
The reason for this weak reaction to the processes of change is mainly due to the limited quality of our senses. Our normal vision, for instance, is limited to within a certain range of light waves. We hear within a specific decibel range. We taste, touch, and smell, all within a specific range of flavors, tactile sensations, and odors. These given limitations function as a kind of clearing house filtering out all sensations not precisely corresponding to the normal range reception. The result of this filtering process products a common or standard range of experience patterns, and their accompanying state of consciousness. For instance, we awake each morning at approximately the same time. We wash with the same smelling, feeling, soap and water. We drive the same smelling, feeling car, over the same route, through the same landscape, day in, day out. Usually our job consists of doing a number of the same procedures, over and over, in the same place and at approximately the same time of day. These routinely repeated events have a common or standard sensual quality to them, and thus are perceived as changeless or static.
In addition, to this kind of standard, sensual quality, are other aspects of our human perception that combine to help create a common noun out of the verb to change. There is the ability of our conscious mind to isolate specific events, thereby framing in a small detail of a much larger whole. There is the ability of our memory to hold whole, part, or a series of specific events and to recall them at will in a form many times more static than originally perceived-something like taking a photograph, where one infinitesimal moment of our dynamic, fluid world is frozen in a solid, static form.
Change is not only operative in our material world, but also in all the more subtle realms of our world. To illustrate, suppose you suddenly were blessed with extraordinary capabilities of vision, millions of times keener than anything known. Now focus your super-vision on that woman standing in front of you. See her blond hair, light complexion, blue eyes, and red shoes. Now adjust your vision to see through her skin to the musculature. Notice how her muscles wrap, connect, and inner-connect. Notice the continuous change in the tenuity of her muscles as they adjust to gravity. Now adjust your vision to microscopic. See the armies of bacteria, continuously signaling, digesting, stimulating, discharging, and absorbing. See the red blood cells speeding through arteries, giving nourishment-constant movement, constant change. Now adjust to molecular vision. See her molecular configurations and their interactions. Now adjust to atomic vision. See the oscillations of the atomic action, the speed of light movement of the electrons. Now adjust to sub-atomic vision. See the vibrational wave pattern, then the particle, alternate, seemingly at random. Now adjust your vision back to normal. Here we see a human being once again in her most dense, material form. It is only with the realization of the plurality of realities surrounding this human form, and their complete occupation with the process of change, that we begin to grasp the eminent presents and action of the force of change. Of all concepts known about the Cosmos, the concept of change is, ironically, the closest to being an absolute constant.
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