Patterns
I see patterns in my faith. During my life, I ‘ve had faith in the existence of God. I’ve dismissed the existence of God. I’ve believed in the gods and I’ve forsaken the gods. I’ve believed in people and then discovered their frailties and inconsistencies. I’ve had faith in places. I’ve had faith in teaching. I have also learned that those faiths too are ephemeral. I notice my patterns of acceptance and rejection. It did not seem possible to have faith in myself without some kind of aid. Standing alone would require the inconceivable attainment of viewing myself as my own leader, my own true north. In the vast expanse of life that seems inconceivable.
Cynicism is a faith in irony. The belief that outcomes are always twisted. A temporary surety that leaves a void which rebels against the rule of giving up. That was my farewell to cynicism.
When the stars were so far away, we invented stories about their patterns in the night sky. When technology brought us closer, we perceived an endless array of repeating patterns, and gave names to the types of universes. We only see what we are able to understand. The patterns are reflections of us; what we are capable of perceiving. They are almost mirrors.
Awareness searches for connection. It needs a ratification of purpose. Does this come from its temporary nature? Is it because I cannot perceive the world without me?
Cave paintings weren’t made by me but I feel their search. I’ve seen the geometry of the pyramids, almost like beacons. I’ve stepped into a room and instantly become different. I’ve believed this from the distance of time. World views are looking glasses into us. All those expressions forming the patterns of who we are, of our migrations and hibernations.
I had this dream that I was in London but had become separated and could not remember where I needed to go. I tried to describe where I needed to be. I solicited directions. I walked in widening circles. Each time someone said, “Do you mean The Tower of London, or Buckingham Palace, or Trafalgar Square,” I realized that was not the place at all. It didn’t sound right and I had this feeling that I would recognize it as soon as I heard it. In some ways, that describes my patterns of faith. Would I recognize my destination?
Sometimes we find joy in the discovery or creation of patterns because it brings insight. Appreciating the beauty of a braid and knowing how to make one are very different experiences. It is not unlike appreciating music and making it. Writing a story and reading one. Viewing a painting and painting. They are different forms of the same magic.
Belief in magic opens a door to the possibility of eternity. It is not exactly a magic trick that is dependent on slight of hand. It is more than the making of sausage. It is closer to what brings grace into a dance. It can be the instant of harmony. In those moments, existence seems smiling and beneficent. Is that more than just a pattern that is the reflection of me?
Archives for January 2023
Connecting
There is a tree filled hilltop in back of an old farmhouse where an outcropping of rock opens to the sky and birds play in the air over the valley. There is a small point that juts out into a lake where the sun seems to rise and set and water glistens twice a day. There is a doorway with a ledge that looks out on the street. There was a house by the highway but it burned down and took a blossom tree with it. There is a desk by a window. Any place can be home.
Places speak to me. They ask me to stay or leave. They are far more consistent than people. Sometimes people want to see you and sometimes they turn you away. A wanderer learns the places that almost always ask you to stay. The ones that can heal you and share your joy. The ones where you blend in. They are part of our memory but they are steady as rock.
I wonder about when my memories seem to come from outside of me. They are seldom intruders and sometimes just need to visit. Plants and trees are like that. They cannot come to you but they need you to come to them. Maybe it is simply a need for connection. Maybe they recognize something in you that has touched them. Maybe they are messengers through time. Is that related to what we call de ja vu?
The other day I thought that perhaps they are forms of reincarnation. Maybe ancestral traits are manifestations of the reincarnations that we are. I don’t believe in popular reincarnation, where everybody gets to be Cleopatra or Alexander the Great. But maybe some lives have been so barren that we stuff their reincarnations deep so that they can never surface.
When the feel in the air or the light filtering to the street embrace you like a homecoming, and you have never been to that place before and have this one time to meld with it. When this one time, place, or creature melds with you and both ingest like sustenance, something special happens. Something deep in you responds. What is that instant of creation?
Sometimes I think it is in my DNA. I wish I knew more about the nature of DNA. I studied its effect on learning for years. But it was moving too fast and changing into its components, like the atom or fleeting love.
Chromatin has my interest today. It is a substance consisting of DNA and protein. It is part of our chromosomes. Is it the dwelling of our ancestors? Scientific articles say that it is essential in maintaining the function of memory cells throughout the life of the organism. Is it possible that they go further? Do they speak to generations yet to come through their propagation? Is it an expression of reincarnation?
That all sounds so farfetched. It is like a desire for eternity.
Places are relatives but different because the life of the organism is undetermined. It is more of an ecosystem than creatures appear to be, but that is only on the surface of things. In some realities, creatures are all echo systems. The purpose of the system is survival. Metamorphosis comes into the picture. A place can be reborn, and I guess so can a person. A place can not seem to remember who it was and neither can a person. But was can be perceived.
Our memories are also in our senses. All of them can transport us through time and distance. Sensory memory. Isn’t it clearly transported in other creatures who have the innate sense to migrate to a specific place they have never been? A part of them may have been there before. I like to think that it happens with plants and trees too. How does it look in people?
If everything is connected, mustn’t science connect with spirituality? Mustn’t conscience connect with the soul? Must’s they all connect with the senses? May they all not connect through generations?
Some things are so primitive that they are complex. Does the nature of the primitive seem to be among them?
Does science not reveal the microscopic structure and megascopic structure to be related? Or is it just our perceiving the surface of things more closely and from farther away than ever?
My chromosomes have taken a detour with me; they’re haven’t gone anywhere. Unless there is some other way to pass along my chromatin? To become part of what appears to be the fiber…
When I reach out for these answers, I am met with only the sense of be here now. The rest will work itself out.