Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Kundalini and the Artist
What is the relationship of kundalini and creative expression? Some believe that kundalini is often the hidden source of both inspiration and the vital energy which together enable the artist to transcend familiar human limits in new vision and insight.
When we look at the writers of the present as well as the past century, we see many who reached great heights in their achievements but whose works lit up landscapes which were desolate and void of meaning. Loneliness and despair, isolation and meaninglessness are key themes of the era. It is as though their brilliance brought them to the very edge of revelation, but kept them from making the final step into affirmation. I think of these as the finest exemplars of the "old consciousness", a refined awareness which has not undergone the transmutation wrought by the alchemy of kundalini.
Above all, kundalini brings us hope. In the moment of awakening, and through the tokens of love which follow, we no longer question but believe. We are renewed in the fires of our own inner transformation, and even if not all our questions are answered nor all our issues resolved, we no longer cling to despair and disbelief as the only acceptable responses to the human condition. We take off our armor of skepticism and exist with expanded vision, renewed certitude and hope.
Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)is one of the great master writers of the past century. His work is dazzling in its effect, and impressive as a giant accomplishment. A perpetual seeker, he never finds the "solution" he obsessively desires. His central image is the labyrinth (of mind, of spirit, of time and history) of which he is captive. This, along with never ending obsession with death and the brevity of human life, are his persistent themes. His vision is vast, but for whatever reason, he never relinquishes his despair.
Borges in His Labyrinth
"I am the one who never has unraveled
the labyrinth of time..."
Jorge Borges
He is the man poised
at the moment before illumination,
the blind man measuring his narrow walls
in quiet dignity,
cane tapping out
the endless lengths of brick.
Transfixed, we watch his incessant circling,
his dogged pacing of the intricate maze
whose every fold and turning are now worn smooth
through his repeated touch.
We marvel at his graceful bearing
as he searches for the magic door,
the key which will spring it open.
And something whispers,
"Oh, Borges, if you only knew."
copyright, Dorothy Walters
Ubi Sunt
Your preference was not to be happy,
choosing rather "to brood."
In this you succeeded admirably
mulling over historic deeds, eras, chronicles,
the entire alphabet of human acts
(including your own)
for good or ill.
In none of these did you find solace,
evidence of something more.
Rather, you thrilled to think
how nothing outlasts its time
and all is swallowed at the end
into the oblivion which is the common destiny
of kings and beggars,
broadaxes and manuscripts.
Elegies, laments--
these were your stock in trade.
The brevity of human life,
dread of your own mortal state--
they became your incessant notes
for sixty years and more,
until you finally died
at almost four score years and ten.
copyright, Dorothy Walters
When we look at the writers of the present as well as the past century, we see many who reached great heights in their achievements but whose works lit up landscapes which were desolate and void of meaning. Loneliness and despair, isolation and meaninglessness are key themes of the era. It is as though their brilliance brought them to the very edge of revelation, but kept them from making the final step into affirmation. I think of these as the finest exemplars of the "old consciousness", a refined awareness which has not undergone the transmutation wrought by the alchemy of kundalini.
Above all, kundalini brings us hope. In the moment of awakening, and through the tokens of love which follow, we no longer question but believe. We are renewed in the fires of our own inner transformation, and even if not all our questions are answered nor all our issues resolved, we no longer cling to despair and disbelief as the only acceptable responses to the human condition. We take off our armor of skepticism and exist with expanded vision, renewed certitude and hope.
Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)is one of the great master writers of the past century. His work is dazzling in its effect, and impressive as a giant accomplishment. A perpetual seeker, he never finds the "solution" he obsessively desires. His central image is the labyrinth (of mind, of spirit, of time and history) of which he is captive. This, along with never ending obsession with death and the brevity of human life, are his persistent themes. His vision is vast, but for whatever reason, he never relinquishes his despair.
Borges in His Labyrinth
"I am the one who never has unraveled
the labyrinth of time..."
Jorge Borges
He is the man poised
at the moment before illumination,
the blind man measuring his narrow walls
in quiet dignity,
cane tapping out
the endless lengths of brick.
Transfixed, we watch his incessant circling,
his dogged pacing of the intricate maze
whose every fold and turning are now worn smooth
through his repeated touch.
We marvel at his graceful bearing
as he searches for the magic door,
the key which will spring it open.
And something whispers,
"Oh, Borges, if you only knew."
copyright, Dorothy Walters
Ubi Sunt
Your preference was not to be happy,
choosing rather "to brood."
In this you succeeded admirably
mulling over historic deeds, eras, chronicles,
the entire alphabet of human acts
(including your own)
for good or ill.
In none of these did you find solace,
evidence of something more.
Rather, you thrilled to think
how nothing outlasts its time
and all is swallowed at the end
into the oblivion which is the common destiny
of kings and beggars,
broadaxes and manuscripts.
Elegies, laments--
these were your stock in trade.
The brevity of human life,
dread of your own mortal state--
they became your incessant notes
for sixty years and more,
until you finally died
at almost four score years and ten.
copyright, Dorothy Walters
