There was neither non-existence nor existence then; there was neither the realm of space nor the sky which is beyond. What stirred? Where? In whose protection? Was there water, bottomlessly deep?
There was neither death nor immortality then. There was no distinguishing sign of night nor of day. That one breathed, windless, by its own impulse. Other than that there was nothing beyond.
Darkness was hidden by darkness in the beginning; with no distinguishing sign, all this was water. The life force that was covered with emptiness, that one arose through the power of heat.
Desire came upon that one in the beginning; that was the first seed of mind. Poets seeking in their heart with wisdom found the bond of existence in non-existence.
Their cord was extended across. Was there below? Was there above? There were seed-placers; there were powers. There was impulse beneath; there was giving forth above.
Who really knows? Who will here proclaim it? Whence was it produced? Whence is this creation? The gods came afterwards, with the creation of this universe. Who then knows whence it has arisen?
Whence this creation has arisen - perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not - the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows - or perhaps he does not know. -- Rig Veda 10.129
Not too distant lie the shattered remains of what once may have been the oak's twin brother, now the twisted wreckage left by the sudden violence of July storm. The bittersweet mix of decay and tannins wafts now on the breeze. Out of the decay a new oak grows, now only a sapling, but with the promise of future greatness shining through fragile leaves. At the stump's foot is a hole, a raccoon's den by the tracks at its entrance, the imprint of tiny feet announcing to all who would listen that she has kits. Life and death, death and life, bound intimately, joined eternally. Beyond, the man sees little, the underbrush is too thick, the canopy too dense for anything beyond his immediate vicinity to show as anything more than a vast, circumambient shadow of green and brown.
This is my story. This is your story. This is the story of every woman and man who has ever drawn breath on this earth. Alone in our little corner of the wilderness, with no way of knowing beyond that which we experience. And yet, we are filled with the desire to know.
In most people, desire runs unchecked by better instincts. By this process, desire to know becomes fear of not knowing and fear poisons the well of the mind. The fearful mind lashes out, imposing a poisoned knowledge upon the universe as a means of escaping its greatest fear. Death is no longer the great unknown. The fearful mind has convinced itself that death is not real.
The man comes to fear the unknown. The forest that was his friend has become a terror to him. Death lurks in the shadows, unseen, unknown. And so, he seeks to tame the wilderness. The grand old oak is the first to fall, a victim of a mans war with himself.
A new order is coming to the forest. An order of fire and steel, of progress and submission. Chaos shall be no more. Fear will give way to a rational universe, measured up and marked for sale. Death is not real! Death will not touch him if he kneels and surrenders self and Will. And who needs these anyway? Now he has shopping malls and casinos, a reasonable commute and money to buy shiny plastic things to fill the vacuum in his soul.
The poisoned rationality of the fearful mind has taken deep root in our society. Indeed, it is the very foundation of our current civilization. Knowledge is reduced to binary symbolism, to competing absolutes stripped of all the colour and passion and shading of reality. The majesty of nature is despised, for the wilderness stands as an eternal rebuke upon a society of human ants, broken in the empty pursuit of money.
Prophets come and go, denouncing the folly that paved the wilderness. But the man refuses to hear. When they tell him that his money is nothing but an account of his fears, he joins the mob in stoning them, crucifying them, mocking them, before heading off to work.
And so, when the cancer came, he never thought to wonder whether he would have found himself choking his life away had he not traded the grand old oak for a parking lot. Instead, he surrounded himself with virtual strangers. Doctors to stave off the inevitable until the last possible moment. Accountants and lawyers to ensure the proper disposition of the money and goods for which hed sacrificed all. A preacher to buttress his flagging confidence in the unreality of death.
His single-minded pursuit of wealth had alienated his friends and family, so they came, but only reluctantly. His daughter had learned well the lessons he taught her, and so, instead of staying with him to the end, she picked up her children from the daycare center at the local church after staying late at work, only to find that hed slipped into the darkness alone.
The night closes for all, and Death waits for none. But let us embrace the hope beyond fear, not the fools dream of onward, ever upward, but life in the living. Let men of true courage live. Let them ever be wolves at the door of the twisted wreck of a civilization that, fearing Death, has become Death itself. Let us be the vengeance of Nature upon the unnatural, of Honour upon the dishonourable, of men upon the herd. Let us stand alone in the wilderness, without trembling and without fear.
There was neither death nor immortality then. There was no distinguishing sign of night nor of day. That one breathed, windless, by its own impulse. Other than that there was nothing beyond.
Darkness was hidden by darkness in the beginning; with no distinguishing sign, all this was water. The life force that was covered with emptiness, that one arose through the power of heat.
Desire came upon that one in the beginning; that was the first seed of mind. Poets seeking in their heart with wisdom found the bond of existence in non-existence.
Their cord was extended across. Was there below? Was there above? There were seed-placers; there were powers. There was impulse beneath; there was giving forth above.
Who really knows? Who will here proclaim it? Whence was it produced? Whence is this creation? The gods came afterwards, with the creation of this universe. Who then knows whence it has arisen?
Whence this creation has arisen - perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not - the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows - or perhaps he does not know. -- Rig Veda 10.129
Alone in the Wilderness
He walks alone in the wilderness, through the tangle of undergrowth, between the shadows and twilight gloom of the forest's high noon. The cool breeze of early April ruffles his hair, jasmine on its breath, whispering a song of uncounted ages. He stops to admire a grand old oak, grown tall and proud in the fullness of its time. There's a quiet majesty in a great oak, a stubborn, deep-rooted pride like that of the kings and heroes of old. An oak never stops to wonder who he is. An oak knows.
Not too distant lie the shattered remains of what once may have been the oak's twin brother, now the twisted wreckage left by the sudden violence of July storm. The bittersweet mix of decay and tannins wafts now on the breeze. Out of the decay a new oak grows, now only a sapling, but with the promise of future greatness shining through fragile leaves. At the stump's foot is a hole, a raccoon's den by the tracks at its entrance, the imprint of tiny feet announcing to all who would listen that she has kits. Life and death, death and life, bound intimately, joined eternally. Beyond, the man sees little, the underbrush is too thick, the canopy too dense for anything beyond his immediate vicinity to show as anything more than a vast, circumambient shadow of green and brown.
This is my story. This is your story. This is the story of every woman and man who has ever drawn breath on this earth. Alone in our little corner of the wilderness, with no way of knowing beyond that which we experience. And yet, we are filled with the desire to know.
In most people, desire runs unchecked by better instincts. By this process, desire to know becomes fear of not knowing and fear poisons the well of the mind. The fearful mind lashes out, imposing a poisoned knowledge upon the universe as a means of escaping its greatest fear. Death is no longer the great unknown. The fearful mind has convinced itself that death is not real.
The man comes to fear the unknown. The forest that was his friend has become a terror to him. Death lurks in the shadows, unseen, unknown. And so, he seeks to tame the wilderness. The grand old oak is the first to fall, a victim of a mans war with himself.
A new order is coming to the forest. An order of fire and steel, of progress and submission. Chaos shall be no more. Fear will give way to a rational universe, measured up and marked for sale. Death is not real! Death will not touch him if he kneels and surrenders self and Will. And who needs these anyway? Now he has shopping malls and casinos, a reasonable commute and money to buy shiny plastic things to fill the vacuum in his soul.
The poisoned rationality of the fearful mind has taken deep root in our society. Indeed, it is the very foundation of our current civilization. Knowledge is reduced to binary symbolism, to competing absolutes stripped of all the colour and passion and shading of reality. The majesty of nature is despised, for the wilderness stands as an eternal rebuke upon a society of human ants, broken in the empty pursuit of money.
Prophets come and go, denouncing the folly that paved the wilderness. But the man refuses to hear. When they tell him that his money is nothing but an account of his fears, he joins the mob in stoning them, crucifying them, mocking them, before heading off to work.
And so, when the cancer came, he never thought to wonder whether he would have found himself choking his life away had he not traded the grand old oak for a parking lot. Instead, he surrounded himself with virtual strangers. Doctors to stave off the inevitable until the last possible moment. Accountants and lawyers to ensure the proper disposition of the money and goods for which hed sacrificed all. A preacher to buttress his flagging confidence in the unreality of death.
His single-minded pursuit of wealth had alienated his friends and family, so they came, but only reluctantly. His daughter had learned well the lessons he taught her, and so, instead of staying with him to the end, she picked up her children from the daycare center at the local church after staying late at work, only to find that hed slipped into the darkness alone.
The night closes for all, and Death waits for none. But let us embrace the hope beyond fear, not the fools dream of onward, ever upward, but life in the living. Let men of true courage live. Let them ever be wolves at the door of the twisted wreck of a civilization that, fearing Death, has become Death itself. Let us be the vengeance of Nature upon the unnatural, of Honour upon the dishonourable, of men upon the herd. Let us stand alone in the wilderness, without trembling and without fear.
