The Abundance Narrative Essays Old and New

It was hot, so hot the mirror felt warm. I washed before the mirror in a daze, my twisted summer sleep still hung about me like sea kelp.

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

But there is another kind of seeing that involves a letting go. When I see this way I sway, transfixed and emptied. The difference between the two ways of seeing is the difference between walking with and without a camera. When I walk with a camera I walk from shot to shot, reading the light on a calibrated meter. When I walk without a camera, my own shutter opens, and opens, and the moment's light prints on my own silver gut. When I see this second way I am above all an unscrupulous observer.

This is how you spend this afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.

You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars themselves neither require nor demand it.

The world's spiritual geniuses seem to discover universally that the mind's muddy river, this ceaseless flow of trivia and trash, cannot be dammed, and that trying to dam it is a waste of effort that might lead to madness. Instead you must allow the muddy river to flow unheeded in the dim channels of consciousness; you raise your sights; you look along it, mildly, acknowledging its presence without interest and gazing beyond it into the realm of the real where subjects and objects act and rest purely, without utterance. "Launch into the deep, says Jacques Ellul, "and you shall see."

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

Now I was in my own way; I myself was a dark object I could not ignore. I couldn't remember how to forget myself.

I was what they called a live wire. I was shooting out sparks that were digging a pit all around me, and I was sinking into that pit.

I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to live, dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. Then even death, where you're going no matter how you live, cannot you part. Seize it and let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and let your very bones unhinge and scatter, loosened over fields, over fields and woods, lightly, thoughtless, from any height at all, from as high as eagles.

The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting.