I remember Peter Sloterdijk suggesting that meditation came naturally to our ancestors as one or two were sitting silently, on watch - listening intently for nothing in particular as predators could make all kinds of noises and you have to listen for them all...
What kindled my understanding was the "nothing in particular" in that listening. I regard meditating as the activity of thinking, doing and imagining nothing in particular - open stage, maybe.
Transformative self sounds to me like "moving between forms" without being anyone in particular. In transform I'm in between something and nothing and to whatever extent free from the tendency to lean one way or another; to interact I transform into something, usually the one that claims continuity as me. And when contemplating I lean into something to inhabit as good as I can at the time.
Tip-toeing around the incarnated understanding that Reality loves me (and anyone else that understands her, and does so as transform-self) my imagination takes flight: What now is possible!!!
It is a fractal action protocol! Full of sentient "gap junctures", little ecstasies of oscillation, an apophatic prayersturbation (Layman Pascall) & an enlivening transvaluator of SAD passions:
ALEGRIA! that which increases our capacity to think and act.(Spinoza), which in your words "activates imagination to co-create new possibilities in the participatory field." these are the seeds that can grow in the next world even if we will never see them bloom.
A process of negation of negation, as Fosha writes, moment to moment kept on a progressive track by vitality affects signaling the operation of recognition processes, which "no longer relies on a storehouse of old memories and social programming and is no longer interested in the symbolic representation of reality".
Something needs to be done with the shit ton of refluxive narrative dysbiosis we call western thought, — like when you kill off all the microflora in your gut and it gives too much free real estate for monologuing pathogens to take over... But your answer is to not kill off the pathogen, but to overwhelm it with other microbes, with other stories. It is not about throwing any of them out. Its about throwing them ALL IN to a compost heap! Where re-search is inseparable from POP-UP conviviality.
I have been reading Eliot's Four Quartets since I was a teenager battling a suffocating trifecta: dictatorship, catholicism and colonial war — reading became my "flow space". Today these fragments arose differently, washed of melancholic pesticides, TRANSVALUATED with beginner mind!!!!
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn.
...
I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
...
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been.
...
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.
...
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
...
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
What my organism is experiencing in this journey from mind to body to nature, which I sensed would offer a deepening of phenomenological engagement with warm data initiation. Both the composting AND the seeds... the how of Ursula Le Guin's exodological interpelation in "Walking away from Omela". This is "THE Work", a nod to Gurdieff, of rewilding cognition, if we let that work work on us such that we "without thinking" can leave seeds which would not have otherwise been possible, the needed training implicit in this Whitehead fragment (inside my white head) :
It is a profoundly erroneous truism, repeated by all copy-books and by eminent people when they are making speeches, that we should cultivate the habit of thinking of what we are doing. The precise opposite is the case. Civilization advances by extending the number of important operations which we can perform without thinking about them.
As you say "sensation is heightened, imagery is vivid, focus and concentration are effortless…"
Dear Bonnitta "Beautiful"!!!!! in Portuguese, this work is dispositionally worth giving the rest of my life for:
“I would not give a fig (FUCK) for the simplicity this side of complexity; but I would give my LIFE for the simplicity the other side of complexity.”
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Deep gratitude from this MAD Iberian fellow Ex-Temporarian
"In the dark too dark to see, a feather made it back
And whirled there on the surface
And the stillness became the dancing."
Bonnitta REWILDS Eliot's
"all in the waiting..." =
"still hunting" the alert, attentive, intentional, dynamic stillness that integrates sensitivity with clarity, awakened feeling with awakened perception.
I remember Peter Sloterdijk suggesting that meditation came naturally to our ancestors as one or two were sitting silently, on watch - listening intently for nothing in particular as predators could make all kinds of noises and you have to listen for them all...
What kindled my understanding was the "nothing in particular" in that listening. I regard meditating as the activity of thinking, doing and imagining nothing in particular - open stage, maybe.
Transformative self sounds to me like "moving between forms" without being anyone in particular. In transform I'm in between something and nothing and to whatever extent free from the tendency to lean one way or another; to interact I transform into something, usually the one that claims continuity as me. And when contemplating I lean into something to inhabit as good as I can at the time.
Tip-toeing around the incarnated understanding that Reality loves me (and anyone else that understands her, and does so as transform-self) my imagination takes flight: What now is possible!!!
This is not a text.
(paraphrasing Marcel Duchamp this is not a pipe)
It is a fractal action protocol! Full of sentient "gap junctures", little ecstasies of oscillation, an apophatic prayersturbation (Layman Pascall) & an enlivening transvaluator of SAD passions:
ALEGRIA! that which increases our capacity to think and act.(Spinoza), which in your words "activates imagination to co-create new possibilities in the participatory field." these are the seeds that can grow in the next world even if we will never see them bloom.
A process of negation of negation, as Fosha writes, moment to moment kept on a progressive track by vitality affects signaling the operation of recognition processes, which "no longer relies on a storehouse of old memories and social programming and is no longer interested in the symbolic representation of reality".
Something needs to be done with the shit ton of refluxive narrative dysbiosis we call western thought, — like when you kill off all the microflora in your gut and it gives too much free real estate for monologuing pathogens to take over... But your answer is to not kill off the pathogen, but to overwhelm it with other microbes, with other stories. It is not about throwing any of them out. Its about throwing them ALL IN to a compost heap! Where re-search is inseparable from POP-UP conviviality.
I have been reading Eliot's Four Quartets since I was a teenager battling a suffocating trifecta: dictatorship, catholicism and colonial war — reading became my "flow space". Today these fragments arose differently, washed of melancholic pesticides, TRANSVALUATED with beginner mind!!!!
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn.
...
I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
...
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been.
...
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.
...
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
...
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
What my organism is experiencing in this journey from mind to body to nature, which I sensed would offer a deepening of phenomenological engagement with warm data initiation. Both the composting AND the seeds... the how of Ursula Le Guin's exodological interpelation in "Walking away from Omela". This is "THE Work", a nod to Gurdieff, of rewilding cognition, if we let that work work on us such that we "without thinking" can leave seeds which would not have otherwise been possible, the needed training implicit in this Whitehead fragment (inside my white head) :
It is a profoundly erroneous truism, repeated by all copy-books and by eminent people when they are making speeches, that we should cultivate the habit of thinking of what we are doing. The precise opposite is the case. Civilization advances by extending the number of important operations which we can perform without thinking about them.
As you say "sensation is heightened, imagery is vivid, focus and concentration are effortless…"
Dear Bonnitta "Beautiful"!!!!! in Portuguese, this work is dispositionally worth giving the rest of my life for:
“I would not give a fig (FUCK) for the simplicity this side of complexity; but I would give my LIFE for the simplicity the other side of complexity.”
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Deep gratitude from this MAD Iberian fellow Ex-Temporarian
Wow. This is iconic!
Something needs to be done with the shit ton of refluxive narrative dysbiosis we call western thought
Talk about non-justificatory persuasion!
Here is one bak atcha
I said to my soul be still
and wait without hope
for hope would be hope of the wrong thing.
And wait without love
for love would be love of the wrong thing.
There is yet faith-
but the faith and the hope and the love are all in the waiting
And do not think
For you are not ready for thought.
So the darkness will be the light and the stillness, the dancing (TS Eliot)
Yesterday my chicken fell
Deep inside my well
Her little brood of six
Went on peep peeping
In the tall grass
As she drowned
I suppose.
I suppose
because I did not see her
Tho I stared there deeply
Into the many depths that lay there
Deep inside my well
Dug there in the tall grass
Into whose depths my chicken fell.
I stared there deeply
And cool winds rank of earth and stone
Freshened my face. I felt alive.
Was it for that reason
My chicken fell
To feel alive there
In that deep well?
Dark. It was too dark to see
Deep inside that well.
Too still for hope
When hope would be for the wrong thing.
Then a feather made it back
And whirled there on the surface
And the stillness became the dancing.
Her little brood of six
Went on peep peeping
There in the tall grass
And followed me home to the coop.
Now I put the light on
At night to keep them warm
And the darkness became the light.
Iconic bak atcha!
"In the dark too dark to see, a feather made it back
And whirled there on the surface
And the stillness became the dancing."
Bonnitta REWILDS Eliot's
"all in the waiting..." =
"still hunting" the alert, attentive, intentional, dynamic stillness that integrates sensitivity with clarity, awakened feeling with awakened perception.