Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Lance Kinseth, Self As Landscape 1 (detail), 2014
THERE IS AN unbreakable space within us. It is not in our physical heart, but it is at the heart of each of us. It is a center-point. We are always there, but it goes unrecognized most of the time.
There is not door or wall. When we deepen enough, but still easily, casually, not pushing, we arrive. There are no sheaths that surround it other than the ones that we have contrived.
Upon arrival at what wears the appearance of a tiny little heart box, we discover that, paradoxically, it is not inside. There is here.
It is without scale, not bounded, unsized. And when we find that it is our homeland and where we have never ceased living, we optimize our life. And our daily actions might begin to mirror what we discover here. And what we discover there is not clarity. We enter this way of living in uncertainly.
There are no words and the terrain is unwritten, and yet there is language here. Coming alive here, our everyday transforms into the mystery that it is, and we hear languages that are the moreness of ourselves—the longer reach of ourselves that designs us and expresses us—inseparable, and here, our sensing unleashes:
I must go out—the greenery is dense
with memories, they follow me with their gaze.
They can’t be seen, they merge completely into
the background, true chameleons.
They are so close that I can hear them breathe
though the birdsong is deafening.
Tomas Transtromer, from “Memories Look At Me,"
The Great Enigma
We can lean back into this unbreakable quality. We appear and we disappear and yet we endure.