Posted by: scintillatingspeck | May 17, 2016

Breaking down hierarchies between Self and Other.

I don’t know how to classify these thoughts, these knowings that keep tumbling through me.  And not just me, this illusion of an island of me, but through those closest to me, and probably through those furthest away, too.

We could chalk this up to Relationship Anarchy, maybe?  It’s a good concept, I think, because it eludes definition, and anything too narrowly defined is just not big enough.  RA is all about dismantling hierarchies:  not privileging one person over another, not privileging romantic relationships over aromantic ones, deliberately blasting through illusions of competition and scarcity.  I was communicating with one of my loves about this, and it dawned on me: there is another hierarchy we can tackle in how we relate interpersonally, and that’s the false divide between Self and Other.

I don’t know how many times I’ve said it on this blog, in all sorts of contexts and circumstances: We are not separate.  Separation is an illusion.  This is not just talk.  This is not ethereal.  This is the truth.  It’s not just between “partners” or “friends” or whatever labels we want to apply; the very labels reinforce the notion of separateness.  We are endlessly creating meaning through language, and I think we are well-served to recognize that language is colonized.  I don’t know how to write about this without language and words keep coming up short.  I keep referring to myself as “I” or “myself” and talking about “you” and “us” and it’s not helping.  I just need to point it out.

It’s a material issue, and a spiritual one, and I suppose we could also chalk this up to some kind of continual religious epiphany, except you can see how colonized my language is even in referring to “epiphanies.”  I have to laugh.  How did I end up with this particular magnetic poetry box?  You know, where you get a bunch of words in a box with magnetized backings, and you can move them around on your refrigerator in different configurations?  It will never be infinite.  I can keep learning new language and new metaphors, but how steeped I am in this culture.  I can’t escape it, and I’m starting to comprehend that I don’t have to.

Maybe all language, all culture, all religion, all pilgrimages, all creative and intellectual pursuits lead to the same place?  I say that as if I’m afraid to name it.  What name could contain Oneness?  Do I need to become a theologian?  (Something inside me tells me No.)

It doesn’t matter how I got here, because this is where we all are.  I keep saying things that I’m slightly concerned make no sense.  This “here” is infinite love.  It doesn’t eliminate horrors and suffering.  It doesn’t erase the vagaries of existence.  I can’t really stomach making statements that seem to gloss over reality.

I keep pushing ahead and trying to write about this so I can integrate it more, observe the edges of my understanding.  It’s a challenge when edges keep dissolving.  It’s part of the lesson.  Stasis is an illusion.  What isn’t illusion?!  We’re clouded with illusions but they are no more substantial than dust.

I’m writing this as me, you, us.  This sentience gives us the chance to bear witness and melt in the face of beauty and compassion.  We strive; we don’t strive; it doesn’t matter.  It all matters.  This is energy; this is matter.

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Responses

  1. Mmmmmmmmmmmmm
    shsssss

    Laaaaaaaaaa

    MmmmmMmmmmm

  2. Your sacred space is where you can find yourself over and over again.
    ~ Joseph Campbell

    on·o·mat·o·poe·ia
    palindrome
    alliteration
    recursivity
    synergy
    synchronicity
    ineffable
    crepuscular
    Are all words I love and there’s a lot more where those came from. The wordless communication can be magical. A glance, a movement and mutuality of knowing. Here’s a poeme from a poetry group I’m in that I wanna share.

    March 15 Mill Valley, CA
    The boys always knew they were animals
    They would hock loogies and have contests to see
    who could hold the longest belch
    They would fart
    when it was particularly stinky they would high five each other
    and say “good one”!

    But we girls, we weren’t supposed to spit or burp
    And especially not let anyone know how we bled
    We learned to straighten our curls and remove stray hair
    smooth out our skin, cover our blemishes
    Perfume our stink

    Do you have any idea, the amount of time
    and life energy it takes
    To sanitize the animal?
    And for what?
    Polished beauty has a half-life of about 6 hours
    12 hours in, and you’re hanging again
    24 and your own natural musk from pussy and armpit has returned

    If I could have those hours back
    That were spent trying
    To not be a dirty little piggy
    To not be a bear in the woods
    To not be a mountain lion
    To not be
    a boy? Maybe?

    If I could have those hours back
    I would make shit
    I would fly planes
    I would dig beautiful ponds
    Where koi might swim
    I would build houses mostly of glass where the beams are nanosteel and the structures look light as air

    If I could have those hours back
    I would make shit
    I would orgasm without restraint
    I would climb
    I would spit
    I would bleed
    You would know my by my smell

    (Call It Late Blooming- 5/16)

  3. “When the self advances, the ten thousand things retreat. When the self retreats, the ten thousand things advance.” – Dogen

    The “ten thousand things” is the infinitude of objects, events, phenomena of the conditional world. Trying to sort them all out and trying to grasp them all is an infinite task for a finite embodiment, for as long as one identifies oneself with its finitude. Identifying with the unconstrained, unconditional basis that manifests in the “ten thousand things” is the only way out of the conundrum.


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