Thoughts From A Cave
Today I feel a strong urge to take refuge in a cave. Once
while I was a college student I took refuge in the Assembly Hall in a cave made
of thirty foot long burgundy-colored velvet drapes. I sat on the window ledge
(inside, not on an outside edge; Goodness!!!!) to meditate on things. The
actual things, I don't remember--the experience of solitude, I do. Caves are
not necessarily made of stone. Today the way away might be some sort of cave
through which much social media could not penetrate. Back when I sat behind the
curtain society didn't extend far. Very few people had access to me, especially
not immediate access, and I still felt the need for the cave. In the world of
today I'm actually less visible than most, since my home cannot be reached by
cell signal. Despite that the world feels enormous.
I like writing a blog--this meandering stream of happenings and dreams and visions. I love writing books, though I'm less and less keen about publishing them, and am completely resistant to marketing them. If I were Emily Dickinson I'd just stuff my writings in drawers. (Oh, wait! How is that different from putting them on the thumb drive?) Now and then I get a surge of business sense. I took my books to a Book Fair, had a terrible time, sold one or two. If I hold my publishing to Kindle e-books, maybe I can tolerate that. I won't need to come out of the cave because of an e-book.
Facebook seems so noisy. I like quiet. Though I do like to check in on nieces and nephews from time to time. Linked-In--I think I'm opting out. I'm going purely email. And the blog.
What does all this mean, I ask myself. It poses a question, not an answer. What is the purpose of life? Yes. I really think that's what all of this blather of mine is about. My dear and only sister is sleeping in the big chair right across the room from me. Her breath is even. She sleeps all day now. There's so little we can do--ever--all our lives. We can be compassionate to one person at a time. We can enjoy one moment. We can feel one thing. T. Roethke said "Being, not doing, is my first joy."
And focus attention. Focus laser-like. Bring mind to a still point. That point at the apex where life and death meet is a point of the most intense being any of us will ever experience either in ourselves or in others. May we be focused...not scattered or diffuse.
The cave really is within each of us, isn't it? As is the point of complete Being.
I like writing a blog--this meandering stream of happenings and dreams and visions. I love writing books, though I'm less and less keen about publishing them, and am completely resistant to marketing them. If I were Emily Dickinson I'd just stuff my writings in drawers. (Oh, wait! How is that different from putting them on the thumb drive?) Now and then I get a surge of business sense. I took my books to a Book Fair, had a terrible time, sold one or two. If I hold my publishing to Kindle e-books, maybe I can tolerate that. I won't need to come out of the cave because of an e-book.
Facebook seems so noisy. I like quiet. Though I do like to check in on nieces and nephews from time to time. Linked-In--I think I'm opting out. I'm going purely email. And the blog.
What does all this mean, I ask myself. It poses a question, not an answer. What is the purpose of life? Yes. I really think that's what all of this blather of mine is about. My dear and only sister is sleeping in the big chair right across the room from me. Her breath is even. She sleeps all day now. There's so little we can do--ever--all our lives. We can be compassionate to one person at a time. We can enjoy one moment. We can feel one thing. T. Roethke said "Being, not doing, is my first joy."
And focus attention. Focus laser-like. Bring mind to a still point. That point at the apex where life and death meet is a point of the most intense being any of us will ever experience either in ourselves or in others. May we be focused...not scattered or diffuse.
The cave really is within each of us, isn't it? As is the point of complete Being.
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