Perhaps, during this earthly journey, we have a spiritual duty to see, touch, taste, and listen not only through the physical senses but through the finer ones of soul, to part the underbrush of own preconceived illusions and limitations to find the treasure around us and inside of us. Our senses are the gateway to deep experience, and even when one is impaired, the others are designed to become more acute to make up for it. The epitome of this phenomenon is author and activist Helen Keller; she could not see or hear, but she took in life to the fullest extent, fuller than most of us who have all of our senses intact. Upon visiting legendary dancer-choreographer Martha Graham’s studio, she experienced the students’ performance by feeling their vibrations on the floor; the photograph of Keller from that day exhibits a woman on fire with joy. I once led a women’s workshop with a focus on bliss and asked each person her definition of the word and an example of a time she might have experienced it in her own life. The majority of participants had a difficult time pulling an incident from memory, and a few confessed to never having felt ecstasy, much less understanding the mere definition of the word. Bliss, ecstasy, felicity—no matter which word we choose, indicates intense joy. The word ecstasy is from the Greek ekstasis, “to stand outside oneself.” We have heard ourselves and others say, “I was beside myself,” when describing something upsetting, yet many of us find it difficult to say the same about something positive. The senses, like memory, can be rekindled and our worn-out nervous systems renewed; the capability to experience joy is inherent in each human being and can be awakened by simple nudges and willingness to feel—or feel again—without the distraction of noise, internal and external. Like Helen Keller, we too can feel the rhythm of life beneath our feet and find bliss for its own sake even in the presence of severe difficulty. Last summer I spied a black butterfly on a cluster of rain-dappled blooms and was struck by the unique wing shape. When I inspected her closer, I realized that the butterfly had met with some trauma–her wings were torn, ripped out piece by piece, only half of her painted beauty still functioning. And function she did. From flower to flower, the butterfly paused to drink, up to speed as her other winged sisters. Aside from her ragged appearance, there was no indication of wounds or impaired flight. I found it hard to believe that such a delicate creature could survive so much loss, so much compromise, her very body maimed and half of what it once was. The butterfly not only continued to survive, but survived fully and exquisitely. As humans, we too are torn, ripped, and storm-ravaged; sometimes we are bitten to shreds before narrow escape. We, too, find a way to go on, but not always with such grace and resolution. I doubt that the butterfly was lamenting her sad state as she supped in the garden, and what a beautiful thought for us to consider…crippled by life, fly! Drink deep! anyway… -Marlaina Donato from Spiritual Famine in the Age of Plenty (Ekstasis Multimedia, 2013) Available hard copy and Kindle editions at Amazon
Posted on: Thu, 05 Jun 2014 01:00:46 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015