Nothing In Fact Can Be Wasted

Nothing in fact can be wasted – it can always be reclaimed. Within the spirit, time and experience meld together to become internal objects, which can be later examined and deconstructed. Life consists of a series of appearances, each one layered atop the previous, forming a colossal telescope capable of imaging the full spectrum of human experience, from birth through death.

All of this is sacred. Everything we can see and imagine. The earth has put us forth so that we can joyously exhuberate. Imagine, for a moment, the evolutionary history of man. Millions of skeletons have risen and fallen, supporting endless bodies that have reached out to the world for the full range of human need. Have built shelter, killed to survive, wrote books, felt immense comfort at the touch of another. Born, lived a life full of pressures, died and disintegrated.

It is in these moments of incomprehension towards the evident callousness of life that we yearn to contact a transcendent spiritual significance. I can only say that while we can certainly learn from the patterns of spiritual traditions, we must integrate these into a more individualized quest for fulfillment. Having surpassed a certain point of awareness, one cannot simply choose a predetermined spiritual outlook, but must instead constantly develop one. This forces the individual to plumb the depths of their self-awareness and implement the exact proportions of transcendent and self-revelatory ventures needed.

It is the belief of this writer that acts of creation are necessary in order to express this synthesis as a separate item consisting of more than just the individual’s own internal processes. This item can then be entered into society as cultural material, and also exists as a marker for the creator, a discrete item which serves as an extended point of reflection. It can later be re-examined in the pursuit of furthering self-understanding. In my own experience, I have used poems for this purpose, but these principles can be applied to any artistic creation.

It strikes me that the depths of this world only reveal themselves to those who are willing to love it’s ugliness. Life moves on uncontrollably, and in the quiet moments every human, from time to time, concerns himself with his own mortality. What can be resolved, except by a peculiar dedication to challenge oneself to find meaning and beauty behind the curtain of life’s vagaries?

The story told, often in pieces, through the collection of the many quiet moments in our lives, is what defines who we are, and who we are to become. Self-reflection is the catalyst for growth and the means by which we are able to be re-born.

This entry was posted in Evolution, Poetry, Prose, Spiritual Tradition. Bookmark the permalink.

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