Living with Unknowing

     Last night’s dream must’ve figured from recent readings (especially Religion and Nothingness by Keiji Nishitani, translated by Jan Van Bragt) and doings (particularly planting maple trees whose roots were wound far too tightly inside far too small containers, much too restrictive for the continuous development essential for ascension). The dream featured folks playing a sort of game where individuals attempted to articulate words that yearned toward but not quite able to reach into sufficient meaningfulness. Perhaps the divine purpose within the activity meant to enjoy the spirit of the attempt without getting trapped by the demands of clarity and rational thought. Nishitani seems to lean into such notions, including the attempt to “prehend,” the attempt to grasp or lay hold of:

“But when the concept of substance, which was supposed to express the selfness of things, and the concept of subject which was supposed to express the selfness of the self, strike against nihility at their very ground and are there negated, they make a leap forward onto a field where the things and the self they were out to prehend manifest their selfness. This means that, on the field of nihility, neither things nor the self are objects of cognition and, hence, can no longer be prehended or expressed conceptually (as logos). They are no longer determined either as substance or as subject. We seem no longer to be able to say ‘what’ they are. . .   With that, the existence of things and of the self are both transformed into something utterly incomprehensible, of which we can no longer say ‘what’ it is.” (Keiji Nishitani, Religion and Nothingness, p. 136)

     Looking out into the tree (whose colors transition between matter and air, my reflections wander into the poem that’s held a favorite position for over a decade. Antonio Machado in “Llamo a mi corazon” penetrates into the garden with the “viento” which I consider as holy spirit that wafts along dreams and visions, that whispers its blessings and demands upon the responsive heart and soul. 

     The full poem with Robert Bly’s translation has been treated in previous posts including Distilling Distraction: Contain the Longing (Oct 4, 2014); Mining the Resonant Field with Mantras & Story Moments (Nov 4 2016, including a link to a video in which I recite the poem and give brief commentary); and Winter Containment (Feb 3, 2022).

     My experience today with Machado’s marvelous poem owes much to the remarkable writings of Mark C. Taylor (see previous blogs, most recently Planting a Tree Oneself ), Nishitani (just cited above), and works noted in other recent blogs. Especially, I have gratitude for a responsive shift to the closing of this poem. Usually the emptying of the garden feels almost heart-breakingly poignant (“Mi corazón sangraba”) as the wind takes away the waters of the fountain, the yellowed leaves, and the withered petals: 

          Me llevaré los llantos de las fuentes,

          las hojas amarillas y los mustios pétalos.

          Y el viento huyó... Mi corazón sangraba…

          Alma, ¿qué has hecho de tu pobre huerto?

Now I’m thankful that a somewhat lighter possibility flits through. Perhaps as Nishitani indicates, the field of emptiness promises a marvelous transformation beyond the too-tightly contained self. The emptied garden makes a space brimming with the hope of movement into “the field of ecstatic transcendence…” (p. 151).

Planting a Tree Oneself

 

Sunrise, April 8

Wonder how many have written

On planting a tree

Oneself sifting soil

Grain by grain, 

Brushing back leaves of the ancestors, 

Temporarily extracting stones—

They’ll hold the borders—

For sugar sap to rise years hence 

As memories too rise up—

Perhaps across to that other world 

For those who planted sweetness 

They’d never taste—

Here. Take this falling leaf in,

Your current, and read/write 

Revelation from your own digging/

Planting. 

One self cannot separate other, indeed cannot know the Unknowable but better leans toward, falls, fails into. Yearning tries to complete the true-self yet succeeds when holding open access to and from the Source. The self/other dynamic frustrates and celebrates being/becoming. 

“The incarnation of the divine in the human is the disappearance of transcendence in immanence… ‘The Kingdom of Heaven is a condition of the heart…something that comes at every moment and at every moment has not yet arrived.’”    [p. 60, Mark C. Taylor, Nots; quoting Nietzche, The Will to Power, Kauffman, trans. p. 98-9]

Yearning, grief, desire, mystery—such forces carry the energy to move beyond the known, to transgress the limited self that’s too bounded by reasons, prohibitions, dogma and/or bones. Spirit goes mysterious ways out past right/wrong, either/or, heaven/hell…

Late afternoon, Apr 5

A Woodland Valentine

7:19AM February 14, 2026

“Where else but in nature do we learn to overcome nature and thereby become our humanity—our finite, open-ended transcendence?” Robert Pogue Harrison, Forests: The Shadow of Civilization, p. 231.

     The heart songs offered in forests and woodlands come freely every day. Their blessings enter the window above my desk as well as all windows around our home and perhaps even better when walking amid the oaks and maples. Harrison’s book enriches these experiences with his elaboration on the words and representations articulated by historians, story tellers, poets, and visual artists who have ventured into forests across many lands and ages. One, of course, is Henry David Thoreau. Harrison notes: “The woods do not contain the knowledge that Thoreau seeks by going there; they do, however, uncover the habitual hiding places of the self, leaving it exposed to the facts of life,” p. 222.

February 14 2026

Exploring woodlands through the lens of John Constable’s paintings, particularly Study of a Trunk of an Elm Tree, Harrison furthers an understanding of logos:

… the trunk of the elm tree…stands there as the embodiment of something that has come to appearance, that has emerged from the earth that somehow gives itself over to representation. The tree and its encircling forest, the patch of open sky and its sphere of illumination on the floor of the clearing, appear in Constable’s study in what one might call their pregivenness. The phenomenon is always pregiven, the human presence is that to which it is given. Expressed otherwise, the phenomenon takes its stand within a fundamental relation, or correlation, that binds together the human essence and the self-disclosure of the phenomenon. This relation is logos. Logos is the ‘word’ that keeps silent in the artwork by disappearing into the presence of the phenomenon.

We must go further and say that this fundamental correlation underlies the correspondence between soul and landscape which Constable’s paintings strive to evoke. Constable’s devotion to the light, tone, and atmosphere that pervade a landscape and imbue it with a mood that is like a fusion between human feeling and nature’s appearance—this devotion to the emotional modalities of the chiaroscuro indicate the extent to which, for Constable, human presence in the world belongs most intimately to nature’s manner of being. ‘Painting is but another word for feeling,’ he declared, and feeling is but another word for the relational bond—the logos—through which nature comes to presence in the phenomenon. (p. 208)

This commentary contributes to my sense of the possibilities of photography involving these woods.

     Harrison also meditates on the abundant giving from the woodlands through several poets, especially A.R. Ammons, John Clare, and Andrea Zanzotto. Poignant are the revelations from seasonal expressions shown by forests in relation to longing and loss. Profound are the gifts that flow from fallen leaves covered in snow.

Disfiguring

 

Jan 5, 2026, 9:03PM

Ah-Ha! Just when I think I’ve figured it out…Not.

 

                                   yesterday's sunrise, taken with the camera’s “default” setting

Maybe moving into my 80th year I’m finally learning to look through, maybe to revalue the quick take or the disappointment, perhaps to imagine a conception possibly drawn from the other world. The “figured-out” more likely marks the activity of presumption and delusion, but rather than throwing it out, consider it as an opportunity to “disfigure.” The really important things like beauty, truth, love and the other 96 Names for God all surpass human containment. Claiming to grasp them descends into all manner of trouble; yet when problems are recognized and this brings a humbling recognition of human limitation--then  comes the chance of surrender to the beyond. And, by Grace, the Divine just might allow a whiff of the ecstatic.

same image edited to remember and imagine possibility of spring, etc

This venture beyond the bounds of cognition invites the play of imagination, and opens a free space where interpretations guess and dance with uncertainty. The figures that have ruled as unquestioned reality, as absolute right, get unmasked in  “disfiguring.” This term finds provocative elaboration in Mark C. Taylor’s Disfiguring: Art, Architecture, Religion. Taylor explores and richly illustrates with contemporary artists, also connecting with philosophy and theology, as he develops the process of finding sacred ground by breaking idols that block access to creativity and compassion. How can we engage the modern condition without sinking into despair and alienation?

same image edited for black and white setting

“Modernism’s perfection is always a ‘violated perfection’; its purity is impure from the beginning, indeed, before the beginning. Modernity is infected by an other it both refuses and cannot refuse.

One of the figures of this irrefutable other is figuration. Modernism’s disfiguring is not only an aesthetic strategy; it is, as we have seen, a moral crusade. The struggle between figuring and disfiguring is the strife between madness and civilization. Inasmuch as it re-presents sensuousness and irrationality, figuration represents the primitive, infantile, feminine, and mad that modern civilization is constructed to refuse. The refused, however, never goes away. Constituting itself in and through acts of refusal, modernity needs what it nonetheless cannot bear. The refused eternally returns to disrupt and dislocate the structures constructed to control it. 

At its height, modernism’s search for purity is violated by the eruption of surrealism. . . 

The goal of surrealism is to reclaim the rights of the imagination by releasing the strange forces that inhabit the mind. These uncanny powers constitute madness in the midst of civilization and folly at the heart of reason. By soliciting the return of the refused, surrealism attempts to subvert modernism’s repressive puritan ethic. . .

Against modernism’s preoccupation with purity, order, rules, reason, clarity, and function, surrealists set impurity, disorder, transgression, irrationality, and uselessness. Such concerns are hardly reasonable; indeed they are folly—‘les folies les plus vives.’ Forever incomprehensible in any system—be it philosophical, religious, or economic—the folly of surrealism is the ‘non-knowledge’ that Bataille associates with the ecstasy of ‘inner experience.’ If the proposition (non-knowledge lays bare) possesses a sense—appearing, then disappearing immediately thereafter—this is because it has the meaning NON-KNOWLEDGE COMMUNICATES ECSTASY.’ 

(pp. 232-233, 235 in Taylor, quoting Bataille, Inner Experience, p. 52; emphasis in original).

Perhaps reading Taylor has encouraged my play with photo editing and its application to other stuck places in views of life past, present, and future. The snapshot offers a limited perspective dependent on the camera’s default setting and the photographer’s point of view, focus, zoom…so much like the mind’s view that has its own default settings, often unexamined, that control and limit understanding, action, and love for others as well as for self. So let's figure, dis-figure, re-fuse, play on...

Telling the Truth

December 9, 2025

A secret special passage mediates between me and the message that wants to get through. One mess (or not) involved with access to and movement within this passage involves the collection of books that somehow shuffle around desk, floor, shelves, boxes… to say nothing about drop-ins from used book stores, goodwill, on-line sources, and recommendations... Just yesterday (or maybe the day before) I was browsing about the basement library hoping that something would light up. Although Taylor’s Disfiguring was the right book to be reading, the copy I had was just too cluttered with a previous owner’s ink underlinings and marginal notes. Connecting Taylor’s terrific commentary on Modernism/Post-modernism, art, transcendence/immanence and integrating this with personal experience was demanding enough. Trying to block out the distraction of someone else’s grappling/frustration with the text was too much. So I gave in to the need to order a replacement and to find another good read while waiting for it to arrive. 

     A gift really, because when looking about the possibilities, my eyes fixed on a slender volume with Truth in the title, by an author I’d not read before, Frederick Buechner. The first glance wasn’t compelling enough so I kept browsing, but maybe that golden thread that Blake says leads the way must have been tugging me back. So I returned and took down Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale. 

     A day or so later I’m very grateful because not only is this book terrific but I’ve now found two other books by Buechner that were lost in the other side of the basement library thus promising prospects for wonderful hours guided by his imagination, the opening of truth, the Word in the rich dimensions of depths of each human’s life expressed through tragedy, comedy, and fairy tale. 

“The preaching of the Gospel is a telling of the truth or the putting of a sort of frame of words around the silence that is truth because truth in the sense of fullness, of the way things are, can at best be pointed to by the language of poetry—of metaphor, image, symbol—as it is used by the prophets of the Old Testament and elsewhere. Before the Gospel is a word, it is a silence, a kind of presenting of life itself so that we see it not for what at various times we call it—meaningless or meaningful, absurd, beautiful—but for what it truly is in all its complexity, simplicity, mystery.” p. 25

December 9, 2024

Confounding of Suffering/Joy

Pre-Dawn December 4

 Hard to imagine writings of more importance on spiritual walking than the work of St. John of the Cross and St. Teresa of Avila, and equally difficult to find anyone better for guidance into their texts than Edith Stein. Wikipedia’s entry for her begins with this background:

Edith Stein [in religion, Teresa Benedicta of the Cross] 12 October 1891 – 9 August 1942) was a German philosopher who converted to Catholicism and became a Discalced Carmelite nun. Edith Stein was murdered in the gas chamber at the Auschwitz II-Birkenau concentration camp on 9 August 1942, and is canonized as a martyr and saint of the Catholic Church.

 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edith_Stein

The Science of the Cross is Volume VI of The Collected Works of Edith Stein and it focuses on St. John of the Cross. In Kieran Kavanaugh’s introduction to this volume, he says that Stein “weaves together John’s words and her own. The fire that was dark, consuming, and painful is now brilliant, loving, and gentle” (p. xxxi).  

Moving into this material seems impossible without willingness to persist in mystery; the “Dark Night of the Soul” admits passage only as one yields to the Unknowable and to the Incomprehensible Love. To sustain the journey, the traveller leans into frequent confounding of suffering/joy and dark/light, accepting just what is sufficient to take a next step, uncertain of the ground yet trusting in the guide. The manna is rich, complex, and it thus requires time to integrate into the grey moments of personal experience, in order to gain candle-like illumination, for receiving sufficient light and warmth on the way.

For example, in relation to feeling the Presence of the Guide, Stein elaborates in Chapter 17, “Rays of Divine Glory,” on  Stanza 3 of St. John’s Living Flame of Love :

O luminous lamps of fire

In whose resplendent rays

The caves of sense—profound abyss—

Which once were dark, bereft of sight,

With rarest beauty unite

In gift for the Belov’d, warmth and light

[p. 203, Science of the Cross, trans. Josephine Koeppel]

In Living Flame of Love , St. John followed the poem with his commentary which includes this discussion of Stanza 3 (paragraph 23):

“Yet—may the Lord help me—since it is true that when the soul desires God fully, it then possesses Him Whom it loves…the greater the soul’s desire the greater will be its satisfaction and delight rather than its suffering and pain” 

(pp. 618-19, The Collected Works of St. John of the Cross, Trans/Ed Kieran Kavanaugh & Otilio Rodriguez)

In her discussion of this material from St. John, Stein notes:

“Yet, if the soul longs for God in truth, she already possesses the one she loves and so it seems that she is no longer capable of feeing any pain…the more intensely she desires to possess God, and she will do this all the more because she lives all the more in possessing him. Therefore she, too, feels neither suffering nor pain.” Stein, p. 207

Moments felt as dark can be incorporated with the three abidings: faith, hope and love. Suffering can be known as refining faith, as affirmation of God even when it’s inexplicable (cf “why hast Thou forsaken me?”); hope may be extended into times when no positive way is seen or imagined; and love claimed even when it seems no one cares.  There, in the darkest night, is God found. In ways and knowing beyond…

In Chapter 11, Enkindling of Love, Stein elaborates the preparation for and initial experience of union with God.

The human intellect, united with the divine through supernatural illumination, becomes divine. In like manner, the will is united with the divine will and divine love, and the memory, affections, and appetites are converted and changed according to God. . .

The dark night of the soul also deprives the soul of satisfaction in good things, yes, even in supernatural and divine things. This is so because the soul’s impure, lowly, and very natural faculties can receive supernatural things only according to a human and lowly mode. Through ‘being weaned, purged, and annihilated…they will lose that lowly and human  mode of working and receiving, and thus all these faculties and appetites of the soul are tempered and prepared for the sublime reception, experience, and savoring of the divine and supernatural that cannot be received until the old self dies.’  

[pp. 137-8; Stein references St. John’s Dark Night, Book 2, Ch 16, para 7, 9, 13, 14 which may be found in Kavanaugh and Rodriguez,  pp. 365-368]

The fire felt, the darkness of knowing, the aloneness of bereavement, all witness the Divine transforming the soul (will, intellect, feeling) that moves, knows, and loves into the ineffable, the unseen, through embraceable longing, all that mediates toward, possibly even into, union with the Oneness.

Full Moon Rising, December 3 

Hidden in the Cold

David would’ve been age 40 today…suppose is, in memory at least… gone just before 19, just over 21 years ago. Reading in the middle of the night from Edith Stein’s The Science of the Cross, adds perspective on loss. In her chapter on “Spirit and Faith” (reflecting particularly on the work of St. John of the Cross, both Ascent of Mount Carmel and Dark Night of the Soul):

Therefore faith is a totally dark night for the soul. But it is precisely by these means that it brings her light: a knowledge of perfect certainty that exceeds all other knowledge and science so that one can arrive in perfect contemplation at a correct conception of faith. That is why it is said: Si non credideritis, non intelligentis (“If you do not believe, you will not understand,” Is 7:9). [fn 3: See Ascent of Mount Carmel 2.3.2-4 ]

From what was last said, it has not only been made clear that faith is a dark night, but also that it is a way: the way to the goal toward which the soul strives, to union with God. For it alone gives knowledge of God. And how is one to arrive at union with God without knowing him? However, in order to be led by faith to the goal, the soul must conduct itself in the right manner.  She must enter into the night of faith by her own choice and by her own power. After having renounced all desire for creatures in the night of the senses, in order to reach God, she must now die to her natural faculties, her senses, and to her intellect also. For in order to reach the supernatural transformation, she must leave behind everything natural. Yes, she must divest herself, as well, of all supernatural goods when God grants her any of these. She must let go of everything that falls into the realm of her power of comprehension. ‘And she must remain in the dark like a blind man, leaning upon dark faith and choosing it as light and guide and not supporting herself by anything she understands or enjoys or feels or imagines. For all this is darkness that will lead her into error or delay. Faith, on the other hand, is above all such understanding, enjoyment, feeling, or imagining.’ [fn 4: Ascent of Mount Carmel 2.4.2-4] 

   from pp. 58-59 Stein, The Science of the Cross

 Looking back at written reflections, this item seems good for reflection:

When You Come to the Land

Halfway to his third-grade class, I lurch at the wheel
spotting bare ankles between jeans and sneakers,
and feeling the cold rubber brake as on our soles.
It’s mid-December. Ice crusts the left-over rain.
How can he not know his socks are missing?
We can’t blame sleepiness as he’s jabbering away
about meteor showers, fishing for a word
to catch the ground between exciting and afraid.
Some line’s down between head and foot.
Did a big storm pass through, snow and wind?
Has the ground around him been too harsh?
The stares cold inside the house, an icy silence?
Oh, perhaps he’s in search of winter’s power,
that makes hidden, in the cold, the hope of spring.