THIS is not the first time I have mentioned Derrick Jensen
on this blog. His writing is unbeatable in terms of bringing home the horrific
reality of the destruction of this living planet being carried out by the
industrial system – and, of course, in terms of inspiring people to do
something to fight back.
The very depth of his analysis lends a certain undercurrent
of spirituality to his work, but he now seems to be going further in that
direction.
I have just caught up with his 2009 novel Songs of the Dead,
which very much revolves around a mystic and timeless dream-consciousness
connection to the natural world.
Here is a passage to give you a flavour:
“I see Indians dancing. I see fires. I see days and nights
and years of celebrations and mournings. I see people making love. I see the
same for all kinds of animals, all kinds of plants. I see them living, dying,
loving, hating. I see generation after generation of human, generation after
generation of cedar, generation after generation of porcupine, generation after
generation of ant, generation after generation of grasses, mosses, generation
after generation of fire.
And suddenly I see even more. I see generation after
generation of muse, dreamgiver, demon, walking back and forth between worlds. I
see geese and martens and wrentits moving between worlds. I see humans moving
between worlds. I see all these worlds being renewed by this intercourse, this
movement across borders porous and impenetrable and permeable and impermeable
and breathing and alive as skin. I see these worlds winding and unwinding,
tangling and untangling like the lovers they are, and I see moments in time,
too, winding and unwinding, tangling and untangling like the lovers that they
are, too. These worlds, these moments, they are not one, they are not two. They
are lovers, like any others.”
Jensen here reminds me of both Richard Jefferies, with his
ability to rise above the moment and see centuries and millennia spread out
beneath him, and also of the Sufi poet Rumi, with his use of the word ‘love’ to
describe his relationship to the Oneness.
As an American, the human spirituality that Jensen tunes
into is that of the American Indians who shared the land with nature
for so long before the arrival of the Europeans.
The central character in the novel is psychically wounded by
the life-hating violence of the ‘wetiko’ invaders and makes an interesting
comment about the difficulties for people of European descent in America to link
into a collective unconscious.
“I asked for dreams. Nothing. I looked at the stars and
asked. Nothing. I sat beneath trees and asked. Nothing. I held soil in my hands
and asked. Nothing. My only hint of anything, and I’m sure this was simply a
projection on my part, was a faint voice saying, ‘I can’t hear you very well.
You’re too far away.’
Projection or not, what the voice said to me was true. My
ancestors, the ones whose blood mingled for generations with the same soil, are
half a world away in Europe, too far away to
be able – at least with my inexperience – to help me.”
But is this a problem or a blessing in disguise? If we
believe that spirtitual energies go a lot deeper than human cultures, and that
our relation to them is ingrained deep in the universal human psyche, then we
should not need any specific framework in which to search.
Yes, it might be easier for us to access these deeper levels
by making use of living spiritual traditions and yes, it does help if we can
find some resonance in the geographic location where we live.
But those of us living in the ‘Old World’ risk being
thwarted and misled by the layer and layers of falsehood that cover the useful
and neglected core of religion.
Is it, perhaps, easier to connect straight to the heart of
things via indigenous spirituality, which is directly sourced in nature and not
clothed in the many deceits of civilization?
As ever, I’m interested to hear people’s views on this.
Email me at paulcudenec(at)yahoo.co.uk or leave a comment
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