Life seems to be a process of distillation. As Thomas Keller would say, "we're always skimming, skimming, skimming." Reduction, clarification, intensification. I've heard that a great work of art puts you in the mindset of the artist. If so, mustn't the artist have clarified his intention to its essence? What do you think Michelangelo felt slaving over the great chapel ceiling?
The work of the alchemist takes years and years of labor - and all for what? A man can't eat gold.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
on the road, the path, the way
I hope that my friend Josh will forgive me, but I am going to quote his recent correspondence with me. I was just sitting in a coffee shop, realizing that I forgot his letter in the car. I just received it and was really wanting to read it. I spent some time doing other things - I have some books and the computer, but the letter kept nagging me. Finally I went back to get it, and started thinking along the way that sometimes you just have to do what you WANT to do. I can read all the Rumi and Plato I want, but if what I really want to do is read a letter, I'll never be in the right mindset. This just clarified my whole experience of life since the summer. I have in that time decreased my outer responsibilities significantly. To the point where I might be considered a vagrant, but when one has nothing in particular to do, you find some interesting things. When all options are still options and therefore equal, I find that I desire one thing. It's almost always one thing. Today it was subsequently going to the bathhouse, changing address, drinking coffee, calling an old friend and acquaintance, walking Mt. Tabor, short meditation, picking up mail, and then meeting a friend. The funny thing about it all is that somehow my life gets ordered and taken care of exactly how I want it to. And here is the subtlety of it. It almost seems that there is one path for me to take. As I take each subsequent step, the next ones become easier. My mood relaxes - joy takes over. I eat when I want. Sleep when I want. Drink when I want, and most importantly dance when I want. It sounds obvious, but I don't think I've ever really lived my life like this. I always have these quiet mutterings telling me what I NEED to do. Blah blah blah. But everything becomes so much easier when I just do what I want.
And here's Josh:
[on travel] "I often do find what I'm looking for, but perhaps only because I usually am looking for something. many of us hit the road without any goal, or with what is the same thing, with a vague goal that is too large. Mine are always too large but never vague. I use travel. It is my tool, not me its. But of course, part of it is really getting lost. Even, for a time, losing sight of one's aim and letting the road control you. Otherwise it wouldn't work to travel, would it?"
It's funny that as I went walking to the car to find that letter I really needed to read, I found my own thoughts articulately echoed. Or maybe it's not funny (as I'm coming to suspect). The ironic element of all this is that as I free myself to my desires, I am actually constricting myself to something very demanding. The life I choose is set for a purpose. My goal is not "vague," so that each moment has a certain meaning. A friend commented recently that my dance is always getting better. I answered, of course it is - I work on it every moment. Whether this is in meditation, changing my posture, eating certain food, relaxing, reading Rumi, whatever - it's all for a very specific purpose. I never lose sight of this on a large scale. Everything starts to shed light on the philosophy of my life - something that will eventually characterize my dance. So to read poetry, yes I'm working on dance.
The other interesting thing about this thought of there being a true path for us to take is that we necessarily lose the trail. I must necessarily take wrong steps. In fact, much of my life could be considered a "wrong step," but it's really the wrong way of thinking about it. If in fact this path is determined by the eventual goal, every "wrong step" is actually helping to clarify that goal. Once that goal is set (will it ever be complete?) to then take a "wrong step" is simply to learn the error. Correction is the game. A life of corrections. Until finally the arrow will fly straight.
And here's Josh:
[on travel] "I often do find what I'm looking for, but perhaps only because I usually am looking for something. many of us hit the road without any goal, or with what is the same thing, with a vague goal that is too large. Mine are always too large but never vague. I use travel. It is my tool, not me its. But of course, part of it is really getting lost. Even, for a time, losing sight of one's aim and letting the road control you. Otherwise it wouldn't work to travel, would it?"
It's funny that as I went walking to the car to find that letter I really needed to read, I found my own thoughts articulately echoed. Or maybe it's not funny (as I'm coming to suspect). The ironic element of all this is that as I free myself to my desires, I am actually constricting myself to something very demanding. The life I choose is set for a purpose. My goal is not "vague," so that each moment has a certain meaning. A friend commented recently that my dance is always getting better. I answered, of course it is - I work on it every moment. Whether this is in meditation, changing my posture, eating certain food, relaxing, reading Rumi, whatever - it's all for a very specific purpose. I never lose sight of this on a large scale. Everything starts to shed light on the philosophy of my life - something that will eventually characterize my dance. So to read poetry, yes I'm working on dance.
The other interesting thing about this thought of there being a true path for us to take is that we necessarily lose the trail. I must necessarily take wrong steps. In fact, much of my life could be considered a "wrong step," but it's really the wrong way of thinking about it. If in fact this path is determined by the eventual goal, every "wrong step" is actually helping to clarify that goal. Once that goal is set (will it ever be complete?) to then take a "wrong step" is simply to learn the error. Correction is the game. A life of corrections. Until finally the arrow will fly straight.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Wolf talking about the blues
"When you ain't got no money - you can't pay no house rent and can't buy you no food, you damn sure got the blues. That's where it's at... That's where it's at... If you ain't got no money, you got the blues. 'Cause you thinking evil. That's right. Anytime you thinking evil, you thinking 'bout the blues."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQ654Lg6m8k
------------------------------------
I'm reading up on my man Chester Burnett. What I would give to have been able to see him play live. It was like a train, tearing everything up along its way. The only thing I've ever seen that had that feeling of life was Cedric Burnside and Lightnin' Malcolm. Damn, I want that spark.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQ654Lg6m8k
------------------------------------
I'm reading up on my man Chester Burnett. What I would give to have been able to see him play live. It was like a train, tearing everything up along its way. The only thing I've ever seen that had that feeling of life was Cedric Burnside and Lightnin' Malcolm. Damn, I want that spark.
Monday, January 17, 2011
the world is too loud for me
I can't seem to hear the things... which things? I'm not even sure which things. All I feel is the absence of something in the turmoil. Sometimes when I'm dancing I hear the music. Other times, I hear something regular, but it's most likely my racing mind. So why does a man step away? How can you explain such a decision that moves contrary to every implicit value of society? How about I quote Rumi? That seems fitting.
A close childhood friend once came to visit Joseph.
They had shared the secrets that children tell each other
when they're lying on their pillows at night
before they go to sleep. These two
were completely truthful
with each other.
The friend asked, "What was it like when you realized
your brothers were jealous and what they planned to do?"
"I felt like a lion with a chain around its neck.
Not degraded by the chain, and not complaining,
but just waiting for my power to be recognized."
"How about down in the well, and in prison?
How was it then?"
"Like the moon when it's getting
smaller, yet knowing the fullness to come.
Like a seed pearl ground in the mortar for medicine,
that knows it will now be the light in a human eye.
Like a wheat grain that breaks open in the ground,
then grows, then gets harvested, then crushed in the mill
for flour, then baked, then crushed again between teeth
to become a person's deepest understanding.
Lost in love, like the songs the planters sing
the night after they sow the seed."
--------------------------------
Am I singing my own praises? Not necessarily. Something inside feels a little self-conscious to speak in such terms, but I pass it off as the all-pervasive modern sense of irony (ironic sense of modernity?) that knows no sincerity, no humor, no love. Today is a day for other things. The sun was shining today like it was spring here in Portland - although without the rain. Things buzz in the sun; people wake up. We all look around and for just a moment the clouds get thinner.
So what if I want things that feel cliche? Le couer a ses raisons que la raison ne connait pas. Who am I to belittle my own desires? They were not created by me. If you watch a tree dance in the wind, you realize that the tree does not resist the movement. In fact, every little breeze that moves the branches reverberates throughout the trunk. If you look closer, you realize that the movement may be caused by an outside actor, but the quality is determined by its rootedness. Thus we find that the dance - the purest expression of whim and surrender - is caused by the deepest sense of purpose and intention. The ephemeral is merely another expression of that which endures.
So maybe you can understand my need for silence.
A close childhood friend once came to visit Joseph.
They had shared the secrets that children tell each other
when they're lying on their pillows at night
before they go to sleep. These two
were completely truthful
with each other.
The friend asked, "What was it like when you realized
your brothers were jealous and what they planned to do?"
"I felt like a lion with a chain around its neck.
Not degraded by the chain, and not complaining,
but just waiting for my power to be recognized."
"How about down in the well, and in prison?
How was it then?"
"Like the moon when it's getting
smaller, yet knowing the fullness to come.
Like a seed pearl ground in the mortar for medicine,
that knows it will now be the light in a human eye.
Like a wheat grain that breaks open in the ground,
then grows, then gets harvested, then crushed in the mill
for flour, then baked, then crushed again between teeth
to become a person's deepest understanding.
Lost in love, like the songs the planters sing
the night after they sow the seed."
--------------------------------
Am I singing my own praises? Not necessarily. Something inside feels a little self-conscious to speak in such terms, but I pass it off as the all-pervasive modern sense of irony (ironic sense of modernity?) that knows no sincerity, no humor, no love. Today is a day for other things. The sun was shining today like it was spring here in Portland - although without the rain. Things buzz in the sun; people wake up. We all look around and for just a moment the clouds get thinner.
So what if I want things that feel cliche? Le couer a ses raisons que la raison ne connait pas. Who am I to belittle my own desires? They were not created by me. If you watch a tree dance in the wind, you realize that the tree does not resist the movement. In fact, every little breeze that moves the branches reverberates throughout the trunk. If you look closer, you realize that the movement may be caused by an outside actor, but the quality is determined by its rootedness. Thus we find that the dance - the purest expression of whim and surrender - is caused by the deepest sense of purpose and intention. The ephemeral is merely another expression of that which endures.
So maybe you can understand my need for silence.
seduction (on Rumi)
A murmuring flow of words
as I sit on the bench.
They whisper,
I know you.
It is a drop of poison in the king's ear,
racking the house of the Danes, bringing all
labors to an end.
What air is this I breathe?
What stones do I walk on?
The world is left behind.
Layers are peeled away.
This is a madness, a Lethe I drink.
Falling from the wings of a sparrow
I am frozen on your page.
Close the book and I shall be crushed.
Certainty lies in promises and
judgment in a caress.
as I sit on the bench.
They whisper,
I know you.
It is a drop of poison in the king's ear,
racking the house of the Danes, bringing all
labors to an end.
What air is this I breathe?
What stones do I walk on?
The world is left behind.
Layers are peeled away.
This is a madness, a Lethe I drink.
Falling from the wings of a sparrow
I am frozen on your page.
Close the book and I shall be crushed.
Certainty lies in promises and
judgment in a caress.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Muhammad and the Huge Eater
Husam demands that we begin Book V.
Ziyq-Haqq, the radiance of truth, Husamuddin,
master to the pure masters,
if my human throat were not so narrow,
I would praise you as you should be praised,
in some language other than this world-language,
but a domestic fowl is not a falcon.
We must mix the varnish we have
and brush it on.
I'm not talking to materialists. When I mention Husam,
I speak only to those who know spiritual secrets.
Praise is simply drawing back the curtains
to let his qualities in. The sun,
of course, remains apart
from what I say.
What the sayer of praise is really praising is
himself, by saying implicitly,
"My eyes are clear."
Likewise, someone who criticizes is criticizing
himself, saying implicitly, "I can't see very well
with my eyes so inflamed."
Don't ever feel sorry for someone
who wants to be the sun, that other sun,
the one that makes rotten things fresh.
And don't ever envy someone
who wants to be this world.
Husam is the sun I mean.
He can't be understood with the mind, or said,
but we'll stumble and stagger trying to.
Just because you can't drink all that falls
doesn't mean you give up taking sips
of rainwater. If the nut
of the mystery can't be held,
at least let me touch the shell.
Husam, refresh my words, your words.
My words are only a husk to your knowing,
an earth atmosphere to your enormous spaces.
What I say is meant only to point to that, to you,
so that whoever ever hears these words will not grieve
that they never had a chance to look.
your presence draws me out from vanity
and imagination and opinion.
Awe is the salve
that will heal our eyes.
And keen, constant listening.
Stay out in the open like a date palm
lifting its arms. Don't bore mouse holes
in the ground, arguing inside some
doctrinal labyrinth.
That intellectual warp and woof keeps you wrapped
in blindness. And four other characteristics
keep you from loving. The Qur'an calls them
four birds. Say Bismallah, "In the name of God,"
and chop the heads off those mischief-birds.
The rooster of lust, the peacock of wanting
to be famous, the crow of ownership, and the duck
of urgency, kill them and revive them
in another form, changed and harmless.
There is a duck inside you.
her bill is never still, searching through dry
and wet alike, like the robber in an empty house
cramming objects in his sack, pearls, chickpeas,
anything. Always thinking, "There's no time!
I won't get another chance!"
A True Person is more calm and deliberate.
He or she doesn't worry about interruptions.
But that duck is so afraid of missing out
that it's lost all generosity, and frighteningly expanded
its capacity to take in food.
A large group of unbelievers
once came to see Muhammad,
knowing he would feed them.
Muhammad told his friends,
"Divide these guests among you and tend to them.
Since you are all filled with me,
it will be as though I am the host."
Each friend of Muhammad chose a guest,
but there was one huge person left behind.
He sat in the entrance of the mosque
like thick dregs in a cup.
So Muhammad invited the man to his own household,
where the enormous son of a Ghuzz Turk ate everything,
the milk of seven goats and enough food
for eighteen people!
The others in the house were furious.
When the man went to bed, the maid slammed the door
behind him and chained it shut, out of meanness
and resentment. Around midnight, the man
felt several strong urges at once.
But the door! he works it,
puts a blade through the crack. Nothing.
The urgency increases. The room contracts.
He falls back into a confused sleep and dreams
of a desolate place, since he himself is
such a desolate place.
So, dreaming he's by himself,
he squeezes out a huge amount,
and another huge amount.
But he soon becomes conscious enough
to know that the covers he gathers around him
are full of shit. He shakes with spasms of the shame
that usually keeps men from doing such things.
He thinks, "My sleep is worse than my being awake.
the waking is just full of food.
My sleep is all this."
Now he's crying, bitterly embarrassed,
waiting for dawn and the noise of the door opening,
hoping that somehow he can get out
without anyone seeing him as he is.
I'll shorten it. The door opens. He's saved.
Muhammad comes at dawn. He opens the door
and becomes invisible so the man won't feel ashamed,
so he can escape and wash himself
and not have to face the door-opener.
Someone completely absorbed in Allah like Muhammad
can do this. Muhammad had seen all that went on
in the night, but he held back from letting the man out,
until all happened as it needed to happen.
Many actions which seem cruel
are from a deep friendship.
Many demolitions are actually renovations.
Later, a meddlesome servant
brought Muhammad the bedclothes.
"Look what your guest has done!"
Muhammad smiles, himself a mercy given to all beings,
"Bring me a bucket of water."
Everyone jumps up, "No! Let us do this.
We live to serve your, and this is the kind of hand-work
we can do. Yours is the inner heart-work."
"I know that, but this is an extraordinary occasion."
A voice inside him is saying, "There is great wisdom
in washing these bedclothes. Wash them."
Meanwhile, the man who soiled the covers and fled
is returning to Muhammad's house. He has left behind
an amulet that he always carried.
He enters and sees the hands of God
washing his incredibly dirty linen.
He forgets the amulet. A great love suddenly enters him.
He tears his shirt open. He strikes his head
against the wall and the door. Blood
pours from his nose.
People come from other parts of the house.
He's shrieking, "Stay away!"
He hits his head, "I have no understanding!"
He prostrates himself before Muhammad.
"You are the whole. I am a despicable, tiny,
meaningless piece. I can't look at you."
He's quiet and quivering with remorse.
Muhammad bends over and holds him and caresses him
and opens his inner knowing.
The cloud weeps, and then the garden sprouts.
The baby cries, and the mother's milk flows.
The nurse of creation has said, Let them cry a lot.
This rain-weeping and sun-burning twine together
to make us grow. Keep your intelligence white-hot
and your grief glistening, so your life will stay fresh.
Cry easily like a little child.
Let body needs dwindle and soul decisions increase.
Diminish what you give your physical self.
Your spiritual eye will begin to open.
When the body empties and stays empty,
God fills it with musk and mother-of-pearl.
that way a man gives his dung and gets purity.
listen to the prophets, not to some adolescent boy.
the foundation and the walls of the spiritual life
are made of self-denials and disciplines.
Stay with friends who support you in these.
Talk with them about sacred texts,
and how you're doing, and how they're doing,
and keep your practices together.
- Rumi
--------------------
This poem screams to me like a Van Gogh painting.
What is it to know something of god?
Burn inside that presence. Burn up.
- Rumi
And they said one to another, Did not our heart burn within us, while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the Scriptures?
- Luke 24:32
Ziyq-Haqq, the radiance of truth, Husamuddin,
master to the pure masters,
if my human throat were not so narrow,
I would praise you as you should be praised,
in some language other than this world-language,
but a domestic fowl is not a falcon.
We must mix the varnish we have
and brush it on.
I'm not talking to materialists. When I mention Husam,
I speak only to those who know spiritual secrets.
Praise is simply drawing back the curtains
to let his qualities in. The sun,
of course, remains apart
from what I say.
What the sayer of praise is really praising is
himself, by saying implicitly,
"My eyes are clear."
Likewise, someone who criticizes is criticizing
himself, saying implicitly, "I can't see very well
with my eyes so inflamed."
Don't ever feel sorry for someone
who wants to be the sun, that other sun,
the one that makes rotten things fresh.
And don't ever envy someone
who wants to be this world.
Husam is the sun I mean.
He can't be understood with the mind, or said,
but we'll stumble and stagger trying to.
Just because you can't drink all that falls
doesn't mean you give up taking sips
of rainwater. If the nut
of the mystery can't be held,
at least let me touch the shell.
Husam, refresh my words, your words.
My words are only a husk to your knowing,
an earth atmosphere to your enormous spaces.
What I say is meant only to point to that, to you,
so that whoever ever hears these words will not grieve
that they never had a chance to look.
your presence draws me out from vanity
and imagination and opinion.
Awe is the salve
that will heal our eyes.
And keen, constant listening.
Stay out in the open like a date palm
lifting its arms. Don't bore mouse holes
in the ground, arguing inside some
doctrinal labyrinth.
That intellectual warp and woof keeps you wrapped
in blindness. And four other characteristics
keep you from loving. The Qur'an calls them
four birds. Say Bismallah, "In the name of God,"
and chop the heads off those mischief-birds.
The rooster of lust, the peacock of wanting
to be famous, the crow of ownership, and the duck
of urgency, kill them and revive them
in another form, changed and harmless.
There is a duck inside you.
her bill is never still, searching through dry
and wet alike, like the robber in an empty house
cramming objects in his sack, pearls, chickpeas,
anything. Always thinking, "There's no time!
I won't get another chance!"
A True Person is more calm and deliberate.
He or she doesn't worry about interruptions.
But that duck is so afraid of missing out
that it's lost all generosity, and frighteningly expanded
its capacity to take in food.
A large group of unbelievers
once came to see Muhammad,
knowing he would feed them.
Muhammad told his friends,
"Divide these guests among you and tend to them.
Since you are all filled with me,
it will be as though I am the host."
Each friend of Muhammad chose a guest,
but there was one huge person left behind.
He sat in the entrance of the mosque
like thick dregs in a cup.
So Muhammad invited the man to his own household,
where the enormous son of a Ghuzz Turk ate everything,
the milk of seven goats and enough food
for eighteen people!
The others in the house were furious.
When the man went to bed, the maid slammed the door
behind him and chained it shut, out of meanness
and resentment. Around midnight, the man
felt several strong urges at once.
But the door! he works it,
puts a blade through the crack. Nothing.
The urgency increases. The room contracts.
He falls back into a confused sleep and dreams
of a desolate place, since he himself is
such a desolate place.
So, dreaming he's by himself,
he squeezes out a huge amount,
and another huge amount.
But he soon becomes conscious enough
to know that the covers he gathers around him
are full of shit. He shakes with spasms of the shame
that usually keeps men from doing such things.
He thinks, "My sleep is worse than my being awake.
the waking is just full of food.
My sleep is all this."
Now he's crying, bitterly embarrassed,
waiting for dawn and the noise of the door opening,
hoping that somehow he can get out
without anyone seeing him as he is.
I'll shorten it. The door opens. He's saved.
Muhammad comes at dawn. He opens the door
and becomes invisible so the man won't feel ashamed,
so he can escape and wash himself
and not have to face the door-opener.
Someone completely absorbed in Allah like Muhammad
can do this. Muhammad had seen all that went on
in the night, but he held back from letting the man out,
until all happened as it needed to happen.
Many actions which seem cruel
are from a deep friendship.
Many demolitions are actually renovations.
Later, a meddlesome servant
brought Muhammad the bedclothes.
"Look what your guest has done!"
Muhammad smiles, himself a mercy given to all beings,
"Bring me a bucket of water."
Everyone jumps up, "No! Let us do this.
We live to serve your, and this is the kind of hand-work
we can do. Yours is the inner heart-work."
"I know that, but this is an extraordinary occasion."
A voice inside him is saying, "There is great wisdom
in washing these bedclothes. Wash them."
Meanwhile, the man who soiled the covers and fled
is returning to Muhammad's house. He has left behind
an amulet that he always carried.
He enters and sees the hands of God
washing his incredibly dirty linen.
He forgets the amulet. A great love suddenly enters him.
He tears his shirt open. He strikes his head
against the wall and the door. Blood
pours from his nose.
People come from other parts of the house.
He's shrieking, "Stay away!"
He hits his head, "I have no understanding!"
He prostrates himself before Muhammad.
"You are the whole. I am a despicable, tiny,
meaningless piece. I can't look at you."
He's quiet and quivering with remorse.
Muhammad bends over and holds him and caresses him
and opens his inner knowing.
The cloud weeps, and then the garden sprouts.
The baby cries, and the mother's milk flows.
The nurse of creation has said, Let them cry a lot.
This rain-weeping and sun-burning twine together
to make us grow. Keep your intelligence white-hot
and your grief glistening, so your life will stay fresh.
Cry easily like a little child.
Let body needs dwindle and soul decisions increase.
Diminish what you give your physical self.
Your spiritual eye will begin to open.
When the body empties and stays empty,
God fills it with musk and mother-of-pearl.
that way a man gives his dung and gets purity.
listen to the prophets, not to some adolescent boy.
the foundation and the walls of the spiritual life
are made of self-denials and disciplines.
Stay with friends who support you in these.
Talk with them about sacred texts,
and how you're doing, and how they're doing,
and keep your practices together.
- Rumi
--------------------
This poem screams to me like a Van Gogh painting.
What is it to know something of god?
Burn inside that presence. Burn up.
- Rumi
And they said one to another, Did not our heart burn within us, while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the Scriptures?
- Luke 24:32
a vision
I laid down the other night, and let my mind drift. I found myself following a dream I've been having lately. I've been lying in a boat, drifting down a lazy river. A friendly boatman who looks a little like myself is steering. We finally stop, and I step to shore in front of my house. I was using this dream to create the house and life I want. I mostly walk around the house in a little bit of awe, paying attention to all the details, trying to fill in blank spots. Often times I will meet a sort of guide, and we talk about life.
This time however I lay in the boat with apprehension. I glanced up and the boatman had no face - just a haze of grey. We were drifting down a river, but it was getting darker and darker; soon I realized we were entering a cave. The walls continued to close in upon me. I almost shook myself awake, but I reminded myself that true danger is within, and I must confront this. I laid back down, and the cave continued to close in on me. We barely squeezed through, but once we did we stopped at the dark shore and I disembarked. Waiting for me was a guide wearing a hood so you couldn't see his blackened face.
I decided to follow him, and we proceeded down a passageway. Suddenly I recognized my surroundings from a dream I had a few years back. I was at the opening of another cave, and out front was a coke machine. In my last dream, a man covered with hair except for his piercing eyes chased me out of the cave. I wasted time at the coke machine until he was about to catch me, but right when he did, I shook myself awake. This time he emerged. We made eye contact, and I followed him down the darkened pathway. When we were alone, he turned and grabbed me hugging me tight. He grip was suffocating, and he started to completely cover me. It felt like I was in his stomach, and I thought I was dying. After a while of not moving, I realized I was not dead and decided to stand. I emerged from the cave a different man - I had become the hairy man. As I continued to walk from the darkness, the hair began to fall off. What finally emerged was a new man. I stepped into a beautiful suit, and I found myself at the base of my house - where I would have been after getting off the boat in my normal dream.
-----------------------------------------
"Their mind being whole, their mind is as yet unconquered, and when we look in their faces, we are disconcerted." -Emerson, Self Reliance
9 David was afraid of the LORD that day; and he said, “How can the ark of the LORD come to me?” 10 So David would not move the ark of the LORD with him into the City of David; but David took it aside into the house of Obed-Edom the Gittite. 11 The ark of the LORD remained in the house of Obed-Edom the Gittite three months. And the LORD blessed Obed-Edom and all his household.
12 Now it was told King David, saying, “The LORD has blessed the house of Obed-Edom and all that belongs to him, because of the ark of God.” So David went and brought up the ark of God from the house of Obed-Edom to the City of David with gladness. 13 And so it was, when those bearing the ark of the LORD had gone six paces, that he sacrificed oxen and fatted sheep. 14 Then David danced before the LORD with all his might; and David was wearing a linen ephod. 15 So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the LORD with shouting and with the sound of the trumpet. -2 Samuel 6:9-15
This time however I lay in the boat with apprehension. I glanced up and the boatman had no face - just a haze of grey. We were drifting down a river, but it was getting darker and darker; soon I realized we were entering a cave. The walls continued to close in upon me. I almost shook myself awake, but I reminded myself that true danger is within, and I must confront this. I laid back down, and the cave continued to close in on me. We barely squeezed through, but once we did we stopped at the dark shore and I disembarked. Waiting for me was a guide wearing a hood so you couldn't see his blackened face.
I decided to follow him, and we proceeded down a passageway. Suddenly I recognized my surroundings from a dream I had a few years back. I was at the opening of another cave, and out front was a coke machine. In my last dream, a man covered with hair except for his piercing eyes chased me out of the cave. I wasted time at the coke machine until he was about to catch me, but right when he did, I shook myself awake. This time he emerged. We made eye contact, and I followed him down the darkened pathway. When we were alone, he turned and grabbed me hugging me tight. He grip was suffocating, and he started to completely cover me. It felt like I was in his stomach, and I thought I was dying. After a while of not moving, I realized I was not dead and decided to stand. I emerged from the cave a different man - I had become the hairy man. As I continued to walk from the darkness, the hair began to fall off. What finally emerged was a new man. I stepped into a beautiful suit, and I found myself at the base of my house - where I would have been after getting off the boat in my normal dream.
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"Their mind being whole, their mind is as yet unconquered, and when we look in their faces, we are disconcerted." -Emerson, Self Reliance
9 David was afraid of the LORD that day; and he said, “How can the ark of the LORD come to me?” 10 So David would not move the ark of the LORD with him into the City of David; but David took it aside into the house of Obed-Edom the Gittite. 11 The ark of the LORD remained in the house of Obed-Edom the Gittite three months. And the LORD blessed Obed-Edom and all his household.
12 Now it was told King David, saying, “The LORD has blessed the house of Obed-Edom and all that belongs to him, because of the ark of God.” So David went and brought up the ark of God from the house of Obed-Edom to the City of David with gladness. 13 And so it was, when those bearing the ark of the LORD had gone six paces, that he sacrificed oxen and fatted sheep. 14 Then David danced before the LORD with all his might; and David was wearing a linen ephod. 15 So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the LORD with shouting and with the sound of the trumpet. -2 Samuel 6:9-15
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