"He who binds to himself a joy
Does a winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise."
__ William Blake, "Etrenity"
Joy is not a creature of the cupboard; it is wild, free, and profligate, spending itself in one great burst of energy. The ability to enjoy and be part of something is a skill many of us lose; as we disengage from the immediacy of life, we are less able to sink outselves deeply into things. This distancing of the self often arises from the need to protect ourselves from perceived dangers (physical and emotional). Whatever its cause, this form of separation from life clips the wings of joy very effectively.
Certain people want to restrain the freedoms of others; having hushed the ecstatic song of joy in their own lives as a thing too flighty or too dangerous to be allowed, they find it suspect in others as well. At the other extreme are people who, having tasted joy, want it all the time.
Whatever our condition how do we make access to joy? It can come only when there are three conditions present: a state of lively engagement with life, a receptive and spacious heart, and a respect for other beings than ourselves. If we live in a closed-off bubble, forcing life to happen beyond us, joy cannot enter; but if we play ball with life, catching and throwing back the many experiences that come our way, we begin our true engageent. If we have a daily receptive space where we allow the universe to speak to us, joy will find its way. If we truly believe that the freedom of other beings is as important as ourown, if we truly respect that freedom, joy will wing toward us.
"Meditate upon the three conditions above and discover which ones will help you to be hospitable to joy." [From: "The Celtic Spirit" by Caitlin Matthews]
(Kerry, Ireland)
On the Beara Peninsula in the far southwest of Ireland, a strange outcrop of metamorphic rock shaped like a woman's face gazes out to sea. It is the Cailleach Bhearra (vyey-ruh), the Hag of Beara, whom local tradition calls the Shaper of the Land. Once an immortal ancestral goddess, she was changed by the pen of a medieval scribe into an old nun grieving over her lost youth and beauty. The poem might be the lament of the goddess herself for the end of the pagan era.
I have had my day with kings
drinking mead and wine;
today I drink whey and water
among shriveled old hags....
The flood-wave,
and the swift ebbg;
what the flood brings you
the ebb carries from your hand..."
[From Mara Freeman's "Kindling the Celtic Spirit]
Great post and what a picture. This is something i really have to work on. I've been distancing myself a lot lately...isolating in my home on weekends. I have got to work on coming out of it.
ReplyDeleteMary