Standing on My Head. Hugh Prather

      A Word about Words

      I didn't sit down to write this book. It evolved from a notebook in which I recorded thoughts, problems, insights, difficulties—a practice I have found helpful much of my life. The entries I have selected are in chronological order, at least in terms of internal time. Taken as a whole I believe they exhibit a curious pattern: Every time I think I have learned something, my life seems to deliberately set about contradicting it. Yet the contradiction is never absolute. It is more a quarter turn than a whole. So I have left the contradictions side by side, because that's the way life is.

      There are probably no absolute answers. Just alternatives. The best I can do is to trust my present experience and follow where it leads. And it has led me down some amazingly divergent paths, from Mary Baker Eddy to Fritz Perls, from Krishnamurti to A Course in Miracles . . . but somehow, at the time, each one worked, each one was needed, and, conversely, each became a cage when I clung to mere words in spite of my experience. This mistake was never the fault of the particular teaching. Once again, I had unplugged myself from my core.

      So I want to remind you that every entry in this book is at best an asymptotic shot at life, and at my life, not at yours. If my words affirm you, then savor them for the moment. But if they tempt you to distrust your basic honesty, spit them out. We are the only authority on what is good for us. Once we see this, we feel an enormous peace and freedom.

      soft the sky

      fills

      and softly

      spills

      soft the drop

      drips

      gently down

      and soft my foot

      falls

      soft the ground

      and down the ground

      fills

      gently down

      There is a flat way of seeing that most of us live with every day. And there is a spiritual way of seeing that comes suddenly, and when it does that day is rare and beautiful. With this new vision we see the innocence woven through all beings and objects, as though a shaft of light had fallen across treasured possessions in a forgotten closet, and for the time we live with this vision, all things around us are transformed.

      I associate this spiritual way of seeing with many causes: with music and poetry, with sunsets and seas, with friends who are friends, with love, and now and then with a book or a passage within a book. These things have at times inspired me to this broader vision, but rarely have I been able to return and use one of them to recapture it. If I try, the poem or song will have lost its magic, and I only receive an echo of my previous wonder.

      Sometimes I doubt and sometimes I believe. I like not making myself believe when I am doubting and not making myself doubt when I am believing. Surely neither God nor accident needs my consistency.

      When I paint I am influenced by the texture of the paper, the viscosity of the paint, the condition of the brush. I reach down to make a thin line and it comes out plump. Then the picture takes a new direction—I influencing it, it influencing me.

      We start to do one thing and something happens to divert us. We resent the influence and try to go back to our original intention. But we are always influenced because we do not live in a vacuum together with our intentions. We are in a relationship with everything that occurs. We walk down a road and feel a sudden burst of warmth from the sun and stop to bask our eyes. We receive a letter from a loved one, a nibble from our puppy, a knowing look from a clerk in a store and are no longer the same. What we just were doesn't quite apply. What we just intended is in the past. This is not a lack of resolve; it is the way life flows. Always a new painting, always a new self.

      Are we more mind than body, more body than feeling, more feeling than memory, more memory than future?

Скачать книгу