The Pagan Heart
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March 2005 Issue
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Food for the Soul
By Axiom
One of the things I've been discussing with a friend recently is the concept of the "soul". Do I have one? Does every living thing have one? What is it? Is it useful, necessary, definable, etc? The topic came up after she mentioned how she'd watched the sun set over the mountain ranges and the glory of it fed her soul - feeling a little dried up and spat out after a long week, the fifteen minutes she spent watching colour sprawl across the sky renewed her. The thing is she doesn't believe in souls, or gods, or religion - and she's not too sure on spirituality either. Has a nagging feeling it's a little too closely allied with religion. But after describing the effect the evening had had, she commented that it was times like that that she could almost believe she had one - could almost feel it lurking within her somewhere. Now I do believe in souls - I see them as intensely personal entities inhabiting the body and at the same time almost indistinguishable from the Divine energy that fills everything. I think the soul kind of morphs out of that energy upon conception, and over the "incubation" period gradually loses its conscious awareness of its own divinity and becomes "human"... or canine or equine or arachnoid. I think for the duration of this lifespan, my soul is unique - but after death it may lose cohesion and remerge with the Divine. Or maybe my imprint will be strong enough that it holds form long enough to inhabit another body and I get to live another life as "me" - albeit probably unaware or my reincarnation. What I came to conclude was that what I hear as my soul talking, my friend names "inspiration", or the voice of the Muse. I like the idea of that - that my soul is inspiration that has momentarily alit upon this mortal plane, and, finding itself enfleshed, spends a lifetime trying to speak in words this flesh can hear and comprehend. Is this why in my moments of greatest artistic creation I cry? Because I hear my soul? Is this why certain melodies, or images, or experiences can bring such ecstacy, such poignant yearning, such bittersweet desire? Because the creative urge they awaken is the language my soul uses to speak to me? Is that a moment when I see the face of God/dess? If so, it only occurs during those times I am living "within the moment". This is a very Buddhist philosophy, but there are hints of it in many of the Indo-European faiths. The time we spend focused upon the past or future is not just wasted, but lost forever. The past has happened, and cannot be changed. To dwell on past mistakes or triumphs leaches joy from today. The future is undetermined - it can be planned for, but never completely. There is always the unforeseen circumstance. To worry about how it will unfold is useless once you have done all you can to set it in motion. And it blinds you to the wonders of the now. Living in the moment is about experiencing life to the utmost - all the joy and sorrow. When we live in the moment we are most receptive to experiencing ecstacy and inspiration. Neither tends to come from reflection upon the past or focus upon the future. My first recollection of such a moment was when I was two. I stood on a hillside in long grass surrounded by brilliant blue flowers, feeling them under my fingers. A sense of utter joy still fills me when I recall the image. Of course at the time I had no realisation. I don't think children naturally distinguish between the voice of their soul and their conscious mind. That is a division we adults teach them when we train them to "grow up" - in which process I believe many children become deaf to their spirits. More's the tragedy. It was a particular night a few years later that taught me to recognise the voice of my soul. Knowing, I can look back at the earlier memories and say, "Yes, that too was one of those times". This particular night was not a joyous one - my brother died and I felt his death. For years afterwards I had a fear of the night, of the silence. For in that silence we can hear the sound of our own mortality as it pounds, the blood rushing rhythmically through our bodies, loud enough to be heard - it's the noise a shell makes when you hold it to your ear. Gave me nightmares. I finally learnt to sleep in the silent night as an adult, turning off my radio and listening to the sound of the ocean as I stared into the dark. But back then, as a four year old, the metaphysical nature of it held no allure. What mattered was the sound my brother made as he left - such a quiet whisper, yet it woke me up where I lay in my bed at home, unaware that he had died in the hospital, but knowing he was gone. And for years afterwards I heard that whisper in the dark and could not sleep. That moment - when I knew - may not seem to be the touch of inspiration. But it was. Too often we define inspiration as being something that motivates us to act or create, and that evening was not such an event. But inspiration is so much more. It is stimulation of the intellect, the emotions, the soul. It is the growth of intuition and the development of communion with the Divine. Often the greatest strengths within us reveal themselves in the silent darkness of the night. Such moments can destroy us, or they can create a bridge between the intellect and the soul - and for me, that was indeed the outcome. I did not become deaf to my soul. Which makes "tending" it a bit easier. I know when spiritually I need cleansing, or am unbalanced, or need to feed my soul. And I know how to do those things. Meditation is a universal panacea of the soul as it meets all needs. Formal meditation is a wonderful tool - one I use a lot. But there is much to be said for unstructured "natural" meditation too. To meditate when instead I could sit and revel in the sunrise and achieve the same outcome seems to be a way of blinding myself - and why do that? That act of observing the sunrise is an unstructured meditation that is very much an exercise in being in the moment, experiencing the present rather than dwelling on the past or wishing for the future. It is also a very grounding act, reminding me that I am a part of this world. And it is inspirational - it feeds my soul in a way formal meditation does not. The difference between lavender and roses, or chocolate and strawberries, is the difference between formal and unstructured meditation. How often do you engage in meditation? And when was the last time you watched a sunrise, or sat beneath the stars, or went for a walk looking for ladybugs and butterflies? When was the last time you lived purely within the present moment? If it wasn't today, then isn't it time you did so again? |
Secondary Article - The Spiral Path
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