WAYPOINT: The Melodious Flux of the Mind of God
In the sunset of the West, a short essay in praise of silence and the nomadism of the human spirit
The temple bells stops
—But the sound keeps coming
Out of the flowers
— Bashō
Note »
Usually, this would be the Friday to publish the monthly “Conversation.” I've got a few in the works, but one of my rules for collaborators is: “It's no rush.” And they are taking that to heart, and I am glad—really, it's not a rush, and nothing is. So instead, what I'll offer is a short essay, which I'll call a “Waypoint,” a place of rest, perhaps redirection, between the beginning and end of a journey between larger essays.
Two Fridays ago, I sent out an essay, from which a few may still be reeling: Nurturers of the Real. Two weeks from now, I'll deliver the concluding essay of the current series, which I hope will make Nurturers seem pretty tame by comparison. And today, this will be an in-between essay—much smaller, much quieter—which I hope sheds a little light back on Nurturers, but also prepares the way for the next big essay, which I've scarcely begun, but have been thinking about for a long time, since its themes are very close to my heart.
Of course, all of this is just the beginning of Sabbath Empire—just staking out the territory I intend to explore, more mythopoetically than philosophically, the longer we go, with your fellowship and support.
love,
g
It's hard to find people with open, listening minds, open hearts, able to hear something new.
It's hard to be one of those people, too.
But, it's also joyful and life-giving, a source of relief and humility.
My best friend in high school, Henry, was the first person I met who, when he asked a question, actually wanted to hear what you had to say in response.
He'd sit there, silent, in the intensity of his blue-gray eyes, just listening, letting you take your sweet time to find yourself inside your own head.
And whatever you'd end up saying, he'd take it seriously, no matter what. He'd honor it, even elevate it, with more questions, adding life, like: “Sounds like what you're saying is computers are machines made of sand, almost like hourglasses out of which are minds are flowing—that's interesting, man, how'd you come to see them like that?”
And he'd listen to whatever you said then, too.
It was amazing!
I didn't even know you could do that, before I met Henry. I thought the human game was everybody talking into the air at and past everybody else, in the way of territorial animals, like human bluejays or human spider monkeys vocalizing into existence a protective bubble around themselves inside of which they can imagine always being right, regardless.
Because often conversation seems to be about control.
Often people just talk the whole time, so you can't.
Often they let you talk for a little, but it doesn't affect anything they were going to say, anyway, which might be worse.
I know people who will ask a question, and as soon as you start to answer, will jump in and answer it for you; I guess it's too stressful for them, unless they maintain that kind of grip on the flow of other minds.
In Eastern Orthodoxy, true prayer, conversation with God, is silence—listening to his silence, rather than talking on and on: God is not an ego, not some voice in our heads, yacking. As Saint Maximos the Confessor says: