Skip to main content

It's All...

 

The word Idiot comes from the Greek ἰδιώτης which means a private person or an individual. An idiot is someone who has no term of reference apart from themselves. It is someone for  whom their own good is the paramount good; someone for whom their own worldview is the only valid one. Neo-liberalism, with all its emphasis on individual rights and trust in the market (ie in individual self interest) is the idiot's creed. And it seems that at the moment the world is full of idiots, some of them very vocal and some of them very powerful. 

**** 

Most days I walk with the beloved companion of my youth. We look about us and talk. I hold her hand because she is fitter than me and walks faster, and holding her hand to slow her down a bit is a lot easier than galloping to keep up. And I am so grateful, despite all that this year has been. My brother Alistair died on my birthday. My mother fell and broke her hip. The doctors gave me bad news then good news then so-so news then excellent news. My children and grandchildren filled the house and left again and my brother in law came to stay during the lockdown. We drove to Nelson and Mt Cook and Nelson again. And it's still only September. I walk and think about what I was and what I am, and know that it all kind of fits, although I can't say, exactly, what it fits, or how. I'm grateful - and relieved - to find that I have a context.

****

Years ago Wes Sandle explained Einstein to me. And Schroedinger  and Heisenberg and David Bohm and John Bell. He took a long time over his explanations, as Wes was wont to do, and he did an excellent job because after my conversations with him the world made a lot more sense. Of course "makes sense" is a relative term because all those old guys with the foreign sounding names said some crazy stuff and left a lot of puzzles behind them. This year I began to read the theoretical physicist Lee Smolin and some of the craziness began to resolve itself, if ever so slightly. Some of the puzzles seem a lot simpler to me than they did a year ago.

****

 About the same time that Wes was sitting in our drawing room in the vicarage at Highgate explaining the thing about the cat in the box, and why, exactly, I would get very heavy and slow if I was to travel at nearly the speed of light, I was reading a couple of very old books. The Dark Night of the Soul, by John of the Cross, and The Cloud of Unknowing, by goodness knows who, had both been sitting, unread, on my shelves since I got them at some church fair or other ages ago. Then, when the time was right,  I opened them. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say they opened me. These books both describe the same dynamic: that of the growth of the soul by way of all manner of helpful mechanisms for growth, until the soul has reached a point where those mechanisms are no longer needed and must be abandoned. These ancient works have been formative, down the centuries,  for many scholars and mystics, particularly Thomas Keating and his friend and successor, Cynthia Bourgeault, who codified and developed the practice of Centering Prayer, a means by which the centuries old tradition of Christian Contemplative prayer can be made accessible to contemporary men and women. I have been a practitioner of Centering Prayer for all the time since I read The Cloud of Unknowing and had it interpreted for me by Thomas Keating. This last couple of weeks I have been reading Father Thomas' last published work, a tiny book of poems called The Secret Embrace. It is the final statement of a man who made it to the end of the road. I mean, really made it. I have been engaged in an e-course with Cynthia Bourgeault as she reflects on and discusses the poems.

****

  • The quantum and relative universe which is not arbitrary or imagined; reality is conversational, and the universe is the other party to the conversation.
  • The pattern of growth in my psyche which has been noticed before, in other people, many thousands of times, and written about since the time of Christ. 
  • The reality described by the mystics which is the same as that described by the physicists. Both describe the same universe: it must be so, as this is the only one we humans are capable of knowing. 
  • The certainty that my passage through this universe has been guided and the guidance has been compassionate and knowing and loving. 
This is my context, and it has taken me almost 70 years to begin to understand it. It has taken me almost 70 years to leave my idiocy behind.     

Comments

Elaine Dent said…
I love this. You make us think about what idiocy is and, when it is much easier to point fingers, how it might be still harboring in us. (Surely not I, Lord!) Then, assuming the harboring to be a true reality within us, your post invites us to consider what learnings and practices might be setting us free from the idiocy that clings to us.

Popular posts from this blog

Camino, by David Whyte

This poem captures it perfectly Camino. The way forward, the way between things, the way already walked before you, the path disappearing and re-appearing even as the ground gave way beneath you, the grief apparent only in the moment of forgetting, then the river, the mountain, the lifting song of the Sky Lark inviting you over the rain filled pass when your legs had given up, and after, it would be dusk and the half-lit villages in evening light; other people's homes glimpsed through lighted windows and inside, other people's lives; your own home you had left crowding your memory as you looked to see a child playing or a mother moving from one side of a room to another, your eyes wet with the keen cold wind of Navarre. But your loss brought you here to walk under one name and one name only, and to find the guise under which all loss can live; remember you were given that name every day along the way, remember you were greeted as such, and you neede

Kindle

 Living as I do in a place where most books have to come a long way in an aeroplane, reading is an expensive addiction, and of course there is always the problem of shelf space. I have about 50 metres of shelving in my new study, but it is already full and there is not a lot of wall space left; and although it is great insulation, what is eventually going to happen to all that paper? I doubt my kids will want to fill their homes with old theological works, so most of my library is eventually going to end up as egg cartons. Ebooks are one solution to book cost and storage issues so I have been  using them for a while now, but their big problem has been finding suitable hardware to read them on.  I first read them on the tiny screens of Ipaqs and they were quite satisfactory but the wretchedness of Microsoft Reader and its somewhat arbitrary copyright protection system killed the experience entirely. On Palm devices they were OK except the plethora of competing and incompatible formats

Ko Tangata Tiriti Ahau

    The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse  - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire.  Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon

En Hakkore

In the hills up behind Ranfurly there used to be a town, Hamilton, which at one stage was home to 5,000 people. All that remains of it now is a graveyard, fenced off and baking in the lonely brown hills. Near it, in the 1930s a large Sanitorium was built for the treatment of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments. It was a substantial complex of buildings with wards, a nurses hostel, impressive houses for the manager and superintendent and all the utility buildings needed for such a large operation. The treatment offered consisted of isolation, views and weather. Patients were exposed to the air, the tons of it which whistled past, often at great speed, the warmth of the sun and the cold. They were housed in small cubicles opening onto huge glassed verandas where they cooked in the summer and froze in the winter and often, what with the wholesome food and the exercise, got better. When advances in antibiotics rendered the Sanitorium obsolete it was turned into a Borstal and the

Return to Middle Earth

 We had a flood, a couple of weeks back, and had to move all the stuff out of the spare bedroom, including  the contents of two floor to ceiling book cases. Shoving the long unopened copies of Sartor Resartus and An Introduction to Byron into cartons, I came upon my  copy of The Lord of the Rings . Written in the flyleaf are the dates of its many readings, the last one being when I read it aloud to Catherine, when she was about 10 or 11, well over 20 years ago. The journey across Middle Earth took Catherine and me the best part of a year, except for the evening when we followed Frodo and Sam across the last stretches of Mordor and up Mount Doom, when we simply couldn't stop, and sat up reading until 11.00 pm, on a school night.  My old copy is a paperback, the same edition that every card carrying baby boomer has somewhere on their shelves. The glue has dried and hardened. The cover and many of the pages have come loose. I was overcome with the urge to read it again, but this old