Ox Mountain

The woods on Ox Mountain were once beautiful!  On account of its being on the edge of a large country, it was attacked with axes and hatchets.  How could it remain beautiful? The refreshing breezes of the night spirit and the dawn's breath, and the moisture provided by rain and fog, did not fail to give rise to sprouts of vegetation from the stumps of the trees.  But cows and sheep were repeatedly pastured there, and for that reason it has remained desolate.  People observe its denuded state and assume that it never had any woods at all.  But how could this state be the true nature of this mountain?
                                                                                                        — Mencius

Meditating today on the Ox Mountain story of Mencius.  There is so much in it that speaks to our relationship with nature, to faith (of all kinds), to our understanding of truth.  It is especially pertinent in the era of the Trump Administration--of people who believe that the only way to relate to others and nature is to possess and to violate, to consume and destroy; people who loathe and deny the truth at every corner ("there never were any woods at all").  Thomas Merton says this about Mencius' parable in his book Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander:

Without the night spirit, the dawn breath, silence, passivity, rest, man's nature cannot be itself.  In its barrenness it is no longer natura: nothing grows from it, nothing is born of it any more.
                                                                                         

The Desert in Bloom

The desert near our home is bright with wildflowers--and quail, roadrunners, and mockingbirds are going about the business of hunting and raising their young. The rain we got this winter means there is a bright carpet on the desert, and the awakening cacti, like this cob beehive cactus, are either blooming or getting ready to bloom.

This nipple beehive cactus blossom is just opening.

The prickly pear will continue blooming for weeks.

The Texas rainbow cacti have showy yellow flowers that attract a variety of insects.

This one attracted a little skipper.

Many of them were attracting wild bees that were completely covered in the abundant, sticky pollen.

The bees would completely disappear amid the stamens, only to emerge almost drunk with nectar.

Spring in the desert, with the help of winter rains, is a time of quiet beauty and renewal.

The Romantic Imagination

How did a bunch of guys who rode around on stinky horses, and wore armor that left them covered by a film of rust, and who engaged in a series of stupid semi-martial engagements that were mostly symbolic—but could leave them dead or maimed for life—become transformed into St. George, or King Arthur, or Sir Lancelot?  Through the power of the romantic imagination—the power of magical idealism.

Könntest du nur sehn, wie du mir erscheinst, welches wunderbare Bild deine Gestalt durchdringt und mir überall entgegen leuchtet, du würdest kein Alter fürchten. Deine irdische Gestalt ist nur ein Schatten dieses Bildes. Die irdischen Kräfte ringen und quellen um es festzuhalten, aber die Natur ist noch unreif; das Bild ist ein ewiges Urbild, ein Teil der unbekannten heiligen Welt. 

                                                                                         --Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

Unser ganzes Leben ist Gottesdienst

About Novalis’ idea that art and nature are not, in fact, the spirit, but nevertheless can honestly represent the spiritual.  In order for them to do so, the encounter must truly be authentic—hence Thomas Merton’s position that nothing is less religious than bad, kitschy, sentimental “religious art.”  Rouault’s clowns and prostitutes and condemned prisoners contain as much of a spiritual message as his saints and biblical scenes.  Nature, too, must not be sentimentalized, as not only beauty, but ugliness, suffering and death (as well as spring—the resurrection) are part of the spiritual experience.

The Sun is a Red Circle

Is Not the Universe Within Us?

Wir träumen von Reisen durch das Weltall: ist denn das Weltall nicht in uns? Die Tiefen unsers Geistes kennen wir nicht. – Nach innen geht der geheimnisvolle Weg. In uns oder nirgends ist die Ewigkeit mit ihren Welten, die Vergangenheit und Zukunft. Die Außenwelt ist die Schattenwelt, sie wirft ihren Schatten in das Lichtreich. Jetzt scheint es uns freilich innerlich so dunkel, einsam, gestaltlos, aber wie ganz anders wird es uns dünken, wenn diese Verfinsterung vorbei und der Schattenkörper hinweggerückt ist.

We dream of traveling through the universe: is not the universe within us? We do not know the depths of our minds/spirits. Mysterious is the path that leads inwards. Within, or nowhere, is eternity with its worlds, the past and the future. The external world is a shadow world--it throws its shadow against the light. Now, of course, it seems to us so dark, lonely, and formless, but it will seem to us quite different when the eclipse is over and the shadow body has moved away.                                                                                                                                                                                            --Novalis

Nochebuena

Las luces coloridas brillan con neblina

en el aire frío,

y la nostalgia por el establo

cae como hojas húmedas.

Dentro de casitas, tamales y brandy,

quesos pequeños en papel de aluminio como regalos,

esconden por un momento, no más,

el deseo de ir al pesebre del Señor.

Todos juntos, hermanos y hermanas,

compartimos en el silencio de los animales

y en los canciones felices del cielo.