We are housed, in this life, in Homo Sapiens bodies, a rich conduit of DNA synthesis that brings its own joys and trials, but we must not forget our elvish heritage (that spark of odr placed in us by that great Heron, Hoenir, breathed into life by Odin), for the Homo Sapiens lineage has its own limitations stemming out of its primate line of evolution.
The elvish in us never loses touch with possibility, and has a rich sense of that possibility, of opportunities literally embedded in the fabric of things, like secret, unseen sparks that linger just out of reach to those who do not stretch, yet which may be grasped through extension.
Of course, things do not always turn out exactly as we anticipated (and in many ways, thank the Gods! we are still yet poor dreamers!), because we are dreamers in a multifactorial, ever-synapsing and switchboarding mesh of twist and turn, in which the things that have come to take on weight carry weight, and groove out their carve in the etching tumble with a will and weight of their own, and against this inertia, our sense of possibility can sometimes despair, and even turn to cynicism.
But to grow that elfin sense within, we must vie it against its disappointments, enlivening as a form of prayer or meditation again and again to the virtual everpresence of possibility. We cannot know in any one situation what outcomes will be. Outcomes are not given to us in advance, but gambles. We are given gambles. What we wager shows our faith. It takes faith to wager difficult, counterintuitive choices, because doubt speaks crosswise, but the audacity and the panache of the gamble is often measured against its contrariness to the grain of doubt, which so easily etches itself upon easily-disappointed creatures such as ourselves, locked still in a linear view of things whereby we expect our desires to come to us in straightforward ways, rather than strange, marvelous, and altogether awesome ways. Note our ambivalence towards awe : if something is full of awe, we call it awful ; if it participates in awe, we call it awesome. Our ego is awesome bruised in the fulfillments awe brings.
I do not believe this universe is a mill intended to grind us down, and that erosion is our only fate. It is true that the Mill grinds, but it is meant to grind down those too big for the world's own good, those who have thrown in with the monstrous. Does that mean the Mill doesn't grind the rest of us at all? Perhaps as a raw gem is ground, to polish it and render it multifaceted, bringing out its inner integrity and beauty. We may be disappointed countless times, because we start from ourselves and never bother to tune in to the web, to feel the vast aliveness and strange wonder of the crisscrossing currents and conduits about us, and lose our sense of the possible for what we merely want, or moreoften, think we want, which is too often pissant.
Realism means to acknowledge what has happened, but it doesn't require us to etch it onto our souls. When things happen that should not have happened, we are not required to believe in them. Belief implies being in love, and being loyal to. We are not obliged to be loyal to events which we can sense rose lower than they were capable, of which there are many fallings-short in this world, that failed to meet their skuld, their should. We acknowledge them, watch their linking in to the chainmail lightning-and-wind-weaving about us, as they fade into the fabric, but we are not obliged to believe in them, as if they were our own, or moreso as if we belonged to them. Many events we will meet, but not all will be our own : we must let them pass, and not cling on to them. Other events, reflecting deeper possibilities, do speak to us and call us by name, a name washed in whitest water, a name cleansed of all filth, a designation that speaks to a deeper sort of fulfillment. These we may call our own and pledge loyalty to, and often, against the cynical grind of the world's disappointments, these good things will call for loyalty indeed.
The Gods hold out the possibility of thriving to us. They want us to be fulfilled, to be a part of the fruition of the world, of weaving a richer and richer fabric of vibrancy, a Brinsingamen net of jewels where each facet gleam-reflects its spark of light to add to the awe-overwhelm of iridescence. Of course, we know that we are still students, bumbling learners tripping over our own toes, and how often we fall short of that full thriving. Our mistake would be to conclude that our own blundering proves that possibility is forever out of reach, or an illusion. Great things await us. There is a magic in the heart of things we have yet to learn to tap and cultivate, and bring up from source. That sounds naive to jaded ears, but often our best daring begins with the naive, and daring to stick to an innocence that brings ridicule, but which pursued unravels the green sap of ever-renewing life. What will you dare?
The elvish in us never loses touch with possibility, and has a rich sense of that possibility, of opportunities literally embedded in the fabric of things, like secret, unseen sparks that linger just out of reach to those who do not stretch, yet which may be grasped through extension.
Of course, things do not always turn out exactly as we anticipated (and in many ways, thank the Gods! we are still yet poor dreamers!), because we are dreamers in a multifactorial, ever-synapsing and switchboarding mesh of twist and turn, in which the things that have come to take on weight carry weight, and groove out their carve in the etching tumble with a will and weight of their own, and against this inertia, our sense of possibility can sometimes despair, and even turn to cynicism.
But to grow that elfin sense within, we must vie it against its disappointments, enlivening as a form of prayer or meditation again and again to the virtual everpresence of possibility. We cannot know in any one situation what outcomes will be. Outcomes are not given to us in advance, but gambles. We are given gambles. What we wager shows our faith. It takes faith to wager difficult, counterintuitive choices, because doubt speaks crosswise, but the audacity and the panache of the gamble is often measured against its contrariness to the grain of doubt, which so easily etches itself upon easily-disappointed creatures such as ourselves, locked still in a linear view of things whereby we expect our desires to come to us in straightforward ways, rather than strange, marvelous, and altogether awesome ways. Note our ambivalence towards awe : if something is full of awe, we call it awful ; if it participates in awe, we call it awesome. Our ego is awesome bruised in the fulfillments awe brings.
I do not believe this universe is a mill intended to grind us down, and that erosion is our only fate. It is true that the Mill grinds, but it is meant to grind down those too big for the world's own good, those who have thrown in with the monstrous. Does that mean the Mill doesn't grind the rest of us at all? Perhaps as a raw gem is ground, to polish it and render it multifaceted, bringing out its inner integrity and beauty. We may be disappointed countless times, because we start from ourselves and never bother to tune in to the web, to feel the vast aliveness and strange wonder of the crisscrossing currents and conduits about us, and lose our sense of the possible for what we merely want, or moreoften, think we want, which is too often pissant.
Realism means to acknowledge what has happened, but it doesn't require us to etch it onto our souls. When things happen that should not have happened, we are not required to believe in them. Belief implies being in love, and being loyal to. We are not obliged to be loyal to events which we can sense rose lower than they were capable, of which there are many fallings-short in this world, that failed to meet their skuld, their should. We acknowledge them, watch their linking in to the chainmail lightning-and-wind-weaving about us, as they fade into the fabric, but we are not obliged to believe in them, as if they were our own, or moreso as if we belonged to them. Many events we will meet, but not all will be our own : we must let them pass, and not cling on to them. Other events, reflecting deeper possibilities, do speak to us and call us by name, a name washed in whitest water, a name cleansed of all filth, a designation that speaks to a deeper sort of fulfillment. These we may call our own and pledge loyalty to, and often, against the cynical grind of the world's disappointments, these good things will call for loyalty indeed.
The Gods hold out the possibility of thriving to us. They want us to be fulfilled, to be a part of the fruition of the world, of weaving a richer and richer fabric of vibrancy, a Brinsingamen net of jewels where each facet gleam-reflects its spark of light to add to the awe-overwhelm of iridescence. Of course, we know that we are still students, bumbling learners tripping over our own toes, and how often we fall short of that full thriving. Our mistake would be to conclude that our own blundering proves that possibility is forever out of reach, or an illusion. Great things await us. There is a magic in the heart of things we have yet to learn to tap and cultivate, and bring up from source. That sounds naive to jaded ears, but often our best daring begins with the naive, and daring to stick to an innocence that brings ridicule, but which pursued unravels the green sap of ever-renewing life. What will you dare?
