Accepting Blame

Also most fascinating, faucon. I’m glad to ‘take the blame’ for opening whatever door might be ajar . . . There is no doubt that I do go around throwing them open with regularity, just to see what is behind them. I’m not too worried about the story of Blue Beard and if I find a door that is locked, I’m probably going to go looking for a key or start jimming the lock. I discovered, in the mines, that doors sealed shut ultimately leak poison. Open doors let the sweet, cleansing wind blow through. This, I learned in the mines.

I am sometimes brought up a little short with wonder when I find things in your writing that seem to fall under the mantle of “main stream.” I don’t know why. When a person ranges all across the mountains, the deserts and the plains, he is bound, sooner or later, to cross some main streams. Choice. They called it “Free Agency” in the place with walls I went to learn spiritually as a child. I left at the age of twelve, perhaps because of the walls, perhaps because I had had my eye brows raised since I was six. Most of them were not at all sorry when I disappeared dancing into the Greenwood.

It is a convoluted concept “Free Agency.” Your “choice” is cleaner. I also sense that your choices are deeper, with wide concentric rings that encompass much more than they would ever conceive. And yet . . .

This is a profound and intricate piece of thought, ideas folding back on to concepts, paths of belief open into other views, bringing you brightly back where you started. Reading it, I absolutely have the feeling that I’m dancing down pathways in a vast meadow, laughing to find that though I thought I’d gone off in a completely different direction, here is that same stand of bluebells nodding in the breeze. I know what you mean, though I’d be hard pressed to explain it to someone else. There is much, while accepting having respect for your thoughts and feelings, that I do not believe myself. I love the metaphor of the orchestra. I don’t know about the conductor’s hand, nor about how dependent existence is on my ability to hear the chords, on my ‘choice.’ I’ve always wanted a more lyrical way to say it, but the original is just so right on the money. Shit happens. Shall we say, “music happens?” Does it convey the same thing?

I have been in the audience. I have been in the orchestra. I have been both the composer and the conductor. In the end, as always, I just want to dance.

Thank you for sharing this, it made me think and will make me think again as I re-read it. I believe it definitely belongs here, for what we are doing in bringing forth a new mythos is nothing more than thinking about the eternity of what has been, the myriad of what is and shining off into the next dimension - what could possibly be.

I’m glad I left the door open.

(I’m posting these thoughts on thoughts as posts rather than ‘comments.’ I think it is difficult to read the comments when they get too long and mine, inevitably, get too long.)