August 22nd, 2019 – The feather and the razor

Goodmorning.

Everything has a beginning, and is at the same time part of something else, already existing: therefore it seems vain to place first stones, but the aim of this blog is to tell a story, and so I do it, going back to read a travel diary and reporting here some excerpts.

In the fall 2017, keeping on following a path that’s familiar to me, I turn my shoulders to a number of doctors that were prescribing me medicines, a permanent collar, the shadow of a spine surgery, and, soon, the prospect of a wheelchair, and I troop away for the Amazon, looking for something that I don’t even know, without knowing where or who to go to, I just have the idea to contact Ayahuasca, that I met a quarter of century earlier, scilicet a couple of lives ago, without the need of healing that pulls me right now.

I choose Ecuador, between the several South American countries, from school reminescence, which, to be honest, were just the vague memory of a mythical capital which had to do with the Inca empire, 3000 mt high, surrounded by seven volcanoes.

I plan the trip in record time, and I’m accompanied, another of those weird decisions whose real reason I will never know, by my daughter Bianca and her boyfriend.

But: how was I before I left?

I report to you a page written in September:

 

THE FEATHER AND THE RAZOR

Sixty-four years old, my body broken and in pain, I realized I belong to another world, too. 

It happened, easily, a slow sliding that you notice because the different coordinates, not because the movement itself; after twenty-seven years after my first conscious contact with this density of the existance, and after I have, with  toil, patience and stubbornness, slowly absorbed concepts, permeated the everyday life with that and tried to overcome the dicotomy between privat and social, I find myself inside a huge split-up: between the world as I perceive it and what I see and hear and sense on my skin there is an abyss, whose vastness, instead of diminishing, it’s swelling day after day.

Words evoke forms and events dress up as inner definitions of different thickness, and feelings prevail over emotions, both in acting and in living the actions of the world.

The meanings of each thing are more incisive, more determinant, nevertheless less important, they step in sideways, taking place in the consciousness almost noiselessly, the movements of the soul become evanescent, leaving a trail not unlike how a dream does, which engraves conscience rolling by with feather softness and razor sharpness; the shifting of the Point of Union belongs to everyday life not unlike how perception of body functions does, and the need of Abstract looks like hunger.

Recognizing is the key; something inside recalls, and it’s sure about it.

Recognizing what’s going on or the person in front of us not because already met, but more for the scent, that on itself appease one’s hunger, and feels like home.

Looks like I’ve reached my Dream, and now I have to live it but, of course, the Spirit has played with me, and put me in an unsustainable position, or at least so it seems now: as newborn baby, in some moments I know who I am but I cannot think it, and I don’t have the means, the tools, I need to operate: on the other hand, if I had them, if I had my body available as not so long ago, I would likely make choices that in this moment I could not share. 

I think that maybe, but for sure this is a form of self-conceit, many, with my past, would have been dipped long ago in a social envelope which is mask of the Ego; I’ve never wanted to think of myself as anything more than an explorer, for sure not someone who dialogs with the Abstract, or who’s able to dance with an orchestra made of energies. However it is happening , and the wonderment isn’t in shaping atmospheres never painted before, but in realizing that it has always been like this, and that I was seeing only what I was allowing myself to see.

So, now, due to this blindness lasted too long, I’m paying the price which I still don’t feel totally fair, but the true comprehension of what is occurring is never contemporary with the occurrence: I know that time has to pass by, before finding a collocation for the things, and, as everyone, I don’t know how much time I have available.

Time itself is taking different forms and sinuosities, not linear, seamlessly slipping on themselves, therefore death, and everything which is transforming, it’s not so much a question of time but of density of living.

The anxiety that becomes a consequence of the need for this density has been something steady, and still is, in my life, despite being the main thrust to research, and the blindness concerned also the fact that life is already all around, in every moment, and the amount of awareness and attention has determined how much of that I was aware of. 

How is possible to honor the gifts that have been given to us?

 

This is the situation from a slant that has nothing to do with the physical side: but does this sentence make sense?

I could have said that it was a side of the percption, or a type of perception, a part of it, but in reality I would not have said anything.

Let’s try again:

 

29th September 2017.

It’s going to be a tough phase, and as far as I’m concerned the physical aspect will be the master: in these last few days I have been almost totally stucked in bed, I cannot walk more than about ten meters, and with the stick.

I have no sensibility in my feet, paresthesias run throughout the whole body, continuously, varying in intensity but stable in the legs, in the belly, up the left side and arm untill the fingers, which is two years that are always burning, night and day.

I feel pain on the vertebrae with damaged discs, seven, as chakras, and the eighth has dried up: I have scattered marks on the dural sack and several marrow lesions, one of which is surrounded by an hematoma and a beginning of necrosis.

The rejection following the operation I had three years ago has triggered an autoimmune mechanism, which has tilted up the peripheral nervous system, and it’s evidently started a myelin destruction process (myelin is a substance whose function is to optimize the trasmission of sensory data to the brain), so I feel on my body what is not there and I don’t feel what is actually there, and for the remaining part of the so called normal physical sensations I feel variations depending on the day.

I should be on wheelchair, with a permanent collar; but I’m leaving finding something I don’t know where it is, or what exacty it is, in a country that I don’t know, whose mountain landscapes I see, and volcanoes close to nebular forests and to still unseen oceans.

I have the trace of Ayahuasca, and we will have to pursue a scent, because I don’t know where or through who it will be possible to meet it.

 

30th September 2017.

This morning the dawn is rosy, and in the sky there is no cloud.

Where the mind gets stucked and claims to be right there is a step I don’t manage to overcome, so I appeal to values: I wonder what I’m really interested in, in this moment where the leaving is close and there are things to untie, I wonder what gives life.

For sure there is a behavior of mine which is not giving life, otherwise there would be peace, within me, at least in part.

But I have no peace inside, I don’t have a shelter were I can nestle to catch my breath.

Inside my body I can’t find a place which gives me ease, if not in some moments where I’m not alone, and the ease identifies itself with the decrease or the short-lapse absence of sufferance.

The mind is very crowded: as the body, it’s using big portions of my attention in vicious circles which seldom let in glimpses of light.

Emotions are saturated, everything around me causes waves of vibrations which I feel in my body, whether is the car’s jerks or the emotional explosion of someone: all of this overburdens my nervous system, already worn.

I see the spirit around, and the resulting sensation is something impersonal, on which the footholds that I usually use in life don’t work: it has no mercy, it exists also without me, or, better, I am such a small part of it that doesn’t matter, for the whole, if I exist; or, even better, the importance that I give to my existance is of a different nature, special, because I’m a creature too, but, afore what I catch a glimpse of, for sure of another nature, another syntax.

I’m a litte fish swimming in a big herd: essential as everybody, but not indispensable for the whole; I carry in me the essence of the group, but alone I don’t represent it.

I need the whole, I aim to it, whereas the Abstract is already in me, it has no tension to, and I see that, now, and the time spent to reach it.

What will give in to pressure?

Here are the shadows popping up when they see the strenght diminish: I can’t avoid to make comparisons between now and six month ago, a year or two, and it’s something disheartening.

Still, I see the result of the good acting, mine, and of all of us involved in this moment of life, because everyone, in different ways and interpretations, we feel that what we have in front of us is part of a design that nobody is seeing in its wholeness, and in the flowing river are emerging islands of trust, humility, sense of surrendering, but, above all, the obstacles hidden underwater are being highlighted, because the more the current increases, the more the whirlpools created provoke dizziness.

This vague collective awarness places a guardian on the threshold between thought and action .

We are all doing what we can, but maybe not what we could do, and for sure we could avoid doing many things.

A friend says that is marvelous trusting what happens to us, but I’m not there yet, not as a vision, and I don’t know if I will ever arrive there, if this is on my path; something, as I bring my soul up to that state of being, makes me deflecting the trajectory towards lands where you incise the most on your life using the sense of smell, between the senses the one which is the most linked to ancient memories, a sort of, let’s say, energetic olfaction, as smelling a scent compared to see: the scent makes the eyes close, leads to the ancient, the dream; eyes lead to reality.

So I’m more connected to the image of the buddhist surrendering: the surrender of the warrior, who takes note of the situation, closes his eyes and breathes, and coordinates himself in a perpetual alternation between action and steadiness, learning from the forces set in motion by the actions themselves, as knocking at the doors of Abstract, as I’m doing now, not waiting for my destiny to come but going and flushing it out in the Amazon forests.

And I wonder where Terzani was, roaming around the world to find a cure for his cancer, what was he doing, how was him inside switching from one cure to another, in that last carousel ride where willy-nilly he has experienced not ordinary moments; he has seen the world around change, little by little, shrink and yet expand; how far has he arrived? How far he has allowed himself to go?

To what extent has he succeeded in doing what we all should, scilicet to unburden, move towards our own destiny as much as possible without weights, circles to be closed, outstanding things?

Nevertheless also living, and not just dying, can be the destiny, so the taste of unburdening, of separating from things, percolates self-pity, cleanses it, picks up what’s good about it, because even inside one of the biggest and most sneaky enemies of the warrior, the self-pity, there is an innocent nucleus, and maybe in this case it is about the desire of not tearing away from the spirit of things.

This is a legitimate desire, sacred, but what actually tears away, in a separation, is the ego, because is the ability to dialogue with the Abstract which unbinds the sense of solitude.

The ego suffers, and it can be exctruciating: I feel the need to make my body live sensations that have a meaning which my inertia cannot dismantle, perceptive certainties which allow me to overcome the woad where I am in, till the next awakening.

 

I have neither removed or changed anything, slippery syntax included, of what I wrote then: I’d like it to be a picture, placed side by side with the others that little by little I will lay there, as pieces of a puzzle, in this telling.

Anyway, I have to place a last image, about those days before the leaving, and I will soon give it to you.

May Beauty be always around.

 

Adriano.

 

By |2019-09-13T10:07:55+00:00settembre 1st, 2019|Blog English|0 Comments

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