There is a great boiling mess in my head right now [March 14, 2010] that clouds my memory. I find myself longing for all those trappings that I used to dismiss so readily as merely the physical collections of an otherwise aloof spirit. Now I find myself craving their recollective and reconnective power. I am increasingly mindful of how I am bound to them and they to me. It is true that there is something that lies at my source and my foundation that lies ever separate from my material goods, yet there is something deeply formative and constitutive in them as well. I feel cut loose and in need of grounding without them.
Similarly and yet in a wholly different facet of being, I find myself casting about for an anchor. No longer hampered by the flailing uncertainness of the past six years I now begin in earnest the important task of perceiving clearly the new landscape in which I find myself. Of course it is not new. It is older than the time by which we measure our lives and thoughts, but it is new to me in that I have not heretofore opened my eyes to see it. In this newness there is a heady mixture of all that’s been before and all that I have ever expected but never really was prepared to entertain.
Having long developed the suspicion that the woman I saw on Burnaby Mountain was intrinsically bound to me and mine (and us to her) as a kind of dís or fate in the Norseman sense, I have recently determined that she and her kind must be the immediate object of my attention in terms of personal good. Last night sitting at the computer I had the clear impression of a tall dark woman standing immediately at my right. I presumed it to be D. but on turning to her I found D. across the room. That my sense was more than fancy I do not doubt as I clearly made out her shadowy presence in my peripheral vision and caught the gentle laying of her hand between my own immediately before I turned. I take this as a great sign and comfort as this weekend has seen me at my emotional ends.
D. quite rightly pointed out the need for us to see this year as a culmination of previous dreams and goals, when now we can put to rest those things for which we have worked so hard to achieve. Now is the time to be thankful for what we have accomplished — getting my PhD, moving to Scotland, and all the other dreams we have long held between us — and move on to set new goals and dreams for the coming life in our new circumstances. D. spoke much today about my being grateful as we came back from the garden store today. I found myself swept into a frenzy of gardening. Really I was just pruning back wild growth and clearing out dead wood, but as i did so I felt that the physical act was also spiritual. I began speaking to the shrubs with an ever-increasing sense of kinship. We were both overgrown and with much dead wood tangled within us. On coming inside I had to take to my bedroom and wept for some time.
Having released much of the tumult in my soul I took to meditating, trying to draw from Niamh’s well (this is my name for it at the moment) that peace and liveliness of new growth for which I have felt so parched. It has struck me in the last few days that there are two divinities of which I am certain. One is Niamh who sits beside a well and it is from this well that all joy, growth, innocence and life can be drawn. I call her Niamh now as I type this, but I suspect there is a better name for her. As I was writing the notes for this in my journal (for I often write with pen what goes here) and instead of ‘and it is from this,’ I wrote ‘and is here.’ I had meant to write ‘and is from her well’, but my hand obviously knew more than I.
There is another male god whose character is known by the actions of all those who have given sway to him. He drains and leeches off from people — what he drains and to what purpose I am not sure — by dint of an overbearing sense of critical authority expressed through a numbing officiousness. Endless bureaucracy is the result of his influence. I know that this makes him seem unduly modern but I know that he is there and he directs the actions and perceptions of many.
This of course implies a theory of spirit and agency. I do not have the presence now or the full ability to delineate it here, but let suffice to say that our own agency is ever under the influence of spirits and divinities. Those who are most certain of what they know and of their own power merely blind themselves to it. There is in this of course a further implication of a spiritual history so far removed from the histories handed to us since the Roman age that it makes me dizzy, but this will have to wait for another time.