I have a little gem of an obscure book by a Polish semi-Anthroposophist, bringing a lot of his own yoga practice into his understanding of life (and Steinerian theory). Naturally, for remaining in his private niche, he is more often than not banned to stored in the basement of an Anthroposophic library. For the rest, I am going to set this man and his work to one side, for now, giving him only an elusive honorary mention as the obscure well in the shadows at the back of my garden, where a frog at the bottom waits for one of your golden balls to roll into.
From this source I take the concept of the “inner ear”, and the idea - which is far from novel, but he works it out in his own way - that the emination of the three-fold spirit (of light, sound, fire) can be a way of life. Steemit is for me a tiny but rapid stream down which I raft to intensify this practice.
I am here to listen with an inner ear. This is only possible under certain conditions or restrictions. I have asked and received a date for when I may be relieved from this arduous task that asks me to sacrifice all my time, without a clear objective. In part, it sets me back into a stream of life I had decided to leave, or maybe never even entered. Maybe,that is my Autism, if Autism is a reticence of soul to begin with. I work in trust, but continue to question why I may not choose my preferred occupational therapy of leaving and being left well-enough alone, not because I shun trial and tribulation (I seem to be exceptionally confrontational) but because I need to urgently stop splitting infinitives.
With this ear I pick up soulful intent. Now, once again, as more often, this post is not about me really, nor meant to examine human potential in general with advice and instruction. It may surprise you, but Robin (#thenamadicway) and I do the same work, and he meets with similar opposition, that is mild but scornful nonetheless. I am clearly, still of the old guard, wearing a suit of chainmail I knit on, every day afresh, with my yarn of knowledge: a defensive approach. I have no face other than the pictures I post and no name other than my working title. It is not even about one of us, any of us souls thus occupied in matters of community building, being more robust than the other - needing less obfuscation; there are simply different strategies in place and we belong to different regiments and we each bring different weapons into this battle for Consciousness in the stream of life, that is a field of time.
Must it all be this bellicose? I hear the snorts already. No, in the Namadic Tribe you will only find love and harmony. I am just the scribe reporting on the state of the World Soul. You need never even know such a war is going on, but may it, in the meantime, explain why there is any war at all around you, and may we, one day soon, all drop our weapons laughing like a Buddha at this gross display of ignorance. By then weapons will have turned into spiritual organs.
)It is also not about “the Namadic Tribe” which is Robin’s personal project, fueled by his personal karma. Although, it may have a bit to do with the fact that he lives (near/in) Béziers. It is about how some of us on Steemit are already of the same Tribe, maybe without ever finding out, or even, no sooner having considered the option, they vehemently protest the whole idea that such a pre-ordained Tribe exists. For that is all it is. Not a call to form new factions in a fragmented world. It is neither about bringing segments together to form a fresh whole orange. This orange already exists. Maybe it is better to think in constellations.
It is very much about getting out of every circle with a line and to understand the circle without a line. In order to do this we will have stop being circle-people or old-fashioned tribal in our actions and reactions. Bobbing along on my raft, with little but a loom on board, I weave this possibility for you, every day again.
The header quote, which translates: "Kill them all,/and let God sort them out" was once a brutal call to sack a town (the Crusaders slaughtered the population of Béziers regardless of their creed) but could be esoterically analysed to map out an over-arching struggle for consciousness since the Neanderthal passed their baton (or apple) over to Homo-Sapiens. It takes a plummetingly deep and soaringly multi-dimensional context, which is not for everyone, but it will do already, if you can grasp the irony of the massacre (and learn how far away one must stand before one can do such a thing about an atrocity): the Popish Knights’ first stop on their way to fight the Moors, the Heathens par excellence, was in their own country, to butcher their own people - most of which were as piously Catholic as themselves (if we make allownaces for the form that piety took on) and the rest were Christians of another denomination. Every war is only a battle against the ignorance that rules within the attacker. It is as ironic as rain on your wedding day or a fly in your Chardonnay.
There is something heroic about dying in battle, but not in the pathos that commemorates patriotism. If you do your job well at life, then you die heroically, in the saddle of your warhorse. Life is not meant to be a struggle; it offers opportunities (fields) in which to mete your strength of soul.
I write many pieces that paint small-scale, or not even microsopic but intangible real-life loss and critical moments bordering on defeat in the hope that is pokes and pries a little beneath the crust of your scabs. Blood must flow if you are to understand the elusive nature of whiteness (see next post!). Where scarring is keloid, I have no chance with the mere nib of a pen. Irony on a personal level: I have to deliver these pachydermically patchwork people to where they actually are by leaving them be. To be able to do this job well, I have been placed in the midst of them! I wish I were like the Countess in the "Chartrehouse of Parma" and could have retired to find happiness [to have] taken refuge in the onset of old age (“ The Charterhouse of Parma” by Stendhal, Penguin Group, 2006, p. 28)- by which she means 31 years of age.
It is not that I cannot be committed to life and all its playthings, but while it all ends up in chemo, car-crashes and death I must say I find it all a little pointless, and frequently challenge Camus's approach to the absurd (just live it). Then again, if I had committed more boldly back when I still could (the last explorers sail galleons in search of that point in time), I might have found myself on a mountain side, somewhere near Sion, CH, in a place I call Perlesvaux, surrounded only by the force field of love.
Till such time as when I am renewedly committed (jeepers creepers, it sound's like I am K-Pac on the loose) you must forgive me my indulgences on my raft-mat when I weep at the loss of Trikonasana pose due to a recalcitrant periformis and I feel like stuffing No-Good's Plan down His Omniscence's throat, and looking forward intstead to an existence where I may retire “on that sublime lake where I was born, where a happy, peacful life awaits me.” I know the dream of Lake Como will have to do.
)The lands at peace battle on in sports and grades of excellence. Actually a version of the same, but with fewer casualties. Around any competition there is always suffering and negative emotions. They serve to show you that you are still in the midst of a battle for consciousness. You are still figuring out how to eminate intelligence, grace and loving kindness.
Of course, every book is but a battle field, too! But I already said I was a knight by profession. Or a frog.
