When I lobby for the inner life as a sacred site, as a touchstone, as a place of repair, as our integrity, as our private dialogue with our developing self, as our conscience and moral compass, as the joy of discovery, as deep connection with the known and unknown worlds of both experience and imagination, as the part of us we feel will not die, because in some sense it is passed on - as wisdom, as goodness, as an inter-generational touch across time, as the best of us, not least because it resists too much exposure to light, although it is light. The inner life is shy of too many visitors, but it is where we go to commune with ourselves, where we meet with the part of us that is both stillness and vibrant. A clear sound on a cold night.
When I lobby for the inner life it is because it must be nurtured. Nurtured by nature and culture - the twin pillars of humanity here on earth; our connection with this planet, and with the civilisations we have created, their glories of art and architecture, of science and philosophy. We create worlds - inner worlds and outer worlds - and we need to live in both those worlds because we are born hybrids.
[…] We are contemplatives and doers. We imagine and we build. We get our hands dirty, yet we rise above it all, star-dreamers and shit-shovellers. Creatures of beauty, as well as ugliness and fear. Terrible failure. Impossible success.
∆ Jeanette Winterson, 12 Bytes: How We Got Here. Where We Might Go Next
The Italian philosopher Vico had this theory that time moves more in a spiral than it does in a line. He believes that’s why we repeat ourselves, including our tragedies, and that if we are more faithful to this movement, we can move away from the epicenter through distance and time, but we have to confront it every time. I’ve been thinking about trauma—how it’s repetitive, and how we recreate it, and how memory is fashioned by creation. Every time we remember, we create new neurons, which is why memory is so unreliable. I thought, “Well if the Greek root for ‘poet’ is ‘creator,’ then to remember is to create, and, therefore, to remember is to be a poet.” I thought it was so neat. Everyone’s a poet, as long as they remember.
∆ Ocean Vuong, "What’s your mood when you write?"
an oracle can be anyone or anything.
but it’s the timing of the message and where it finds you in your life that is most profound.
never expected, but always on time.
Since all of these problems are human problems, in one way or another they are touched, shaped, even created by language.
October is nature’s funeral month. Nature glories in death more than in life. The month of departure is more beautiful than the month of coming–October than May. Every green thing loves to die in bright colors.
∆ Henry Ward Beecher