I have hardly left the room in which I sleep. This morning looks gray outside. I think I will sit by the fire at my desk and write. I have bathed my feet in my tub of water this morning, with my Nerve Rebuilder. The little box puts out an electronic signal that runs up and down my legs and through a tub of water divided into two separate parts, which helps improve the conditions of peripheral neuropathy. The neuropathy comes and goes in strength, but never goes away. I suppose it is why I find it so easy to just sit and read or type, rather than get out early mornings into the world to see what is going on. If I could walk at a normal pace and without the fear of falling I am sure that I would have so much more to write about, but as it is I must struggle with nearly every step, particularly when the walking surface is uneven or unpredictable, for then is when I trip and fall.
I have resolved to try once again to lick this difficult condition by eating better, doing my electronic treatment, refraining from alcohol, taking expensive vitamins, and exercising with more regimentation. I would like to think that all of this effort would surely help me win out over the neuropathy, and I have told myself the same thing several times before, but to no avail. Ever-so-often I attack the neuropathy with renewed vigor in hopes that I will become free to move more easily. Some days or nights I dream that I can walk and run and hike, then awaken to the reality that I am lucky to be able to walk at all.
I know better than to give up on hope, but at the same time I try to find comfort while recognizing that I may never again move very well. At the age of 66, however, I have had many years of wonderful mobility, and even the years without the mobility I have had a great time sitting, reading, enjoying the still life. My Kindle ebook reader is loaded with wonderful literature, enough to keep me quite busy for most of a life time. So if the writing interest drops off, which it seems to have mostly done, I am still deeply surrounded with words.
Some days I do not think of writing at all. I’m not sure what it would take for me to fire up my passion for writing once again. Publishing something might help, but then again maybe not. Reading the blogs of other want-to-be writers, I see so much anguish and dilemma buried in their words as well. The book I am currently reading states that music springs from sadness, even though it may sound happy and rejoiceful. I think poetic writing is the same, a subtle sadness that the poet is feeling with the world, in which he tries to remake the world into something brighter with his darkened forms and words. Maybe that is what I have finally found from my own journal keeping. The idea that the world is all messed up and it has messed me up and I need the inner workings of my own therapeutic, poetic treatment, to make things aright. More writing just exacerbates the displeasure with living, when I might be better off to go out and about in the world and become less focused on the inner me.
Recently I read the Julian Jaynes classic titled “The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Cameral Mind”. I don’t know how it is I stumble across such books as this, other than to say that I read online book reviews, and sometimes reviewers reference books that interest me. This was one of those that when briefly described to me caused me to want to seize the main ideas at once. I had been reading something of the roots of early Greek poetry and philosophy, as a means of understanding more about the world and the mind of New Testament writers. I had gone through a collection of the works of Pythagoras and what he had learned from his predecessors, particularly Orpheus, and from his years in Egypt.
But to back up just a little more in my earlier readings of this year, it was in the late summer that I first came across the books of Maurice Nicoll titled “The New Man” and “The Mark”. Nicoll educated me on the figurative language of the New Testament parables and miracles of Jesus, in the light of Jungian concepts of mythology, meaning, and allegory. For those who have not read Nicoll, I found him to be essential to understanding the grand sense of the scriptures. I suppose others, such as Immanuel Swedenborg, have helped immensely in uncovering the esoteric meaning of the words of Christ, and bits and pieces of those ideas had come to me through different channels–sometimes from my own understanding, and sometimes from just listening to the voices of others. Nicoll was the first to really button it down and give it to me straight, in a gentle, helpful manner that helped me see.
From Nicoll I went on a reading rampage, including much literature from Christian metaphysicians such as Emmet Fox, Charles Fillmore, Manly Hall, Annie Besant, Rudolf Steiner, Fabre d’Olivet, Sir Edwin Arnold, Monica Clarke, and Ernest Holmes. I didn’t really know enough about the difference between what might be considerd “esoteric” and what might be “metaphysical”, so was curious to puzzle out these different voices on my own. A common thread to many of these writers is, in one word, Egypt. They all seemed to trace the inspiration for the language of parables to ancient Egypt, beginning with Orpheus, then Pythagoras and Plato. Much of early Greek philosophy, then, they seem to be saying, was learmed by Greeks going and studying in Egypt, just as Jesus goes in hiding to Egypt when he’s a child.
I read intensely for several months before pulling together a sort of limited, big-picture sense of where the world’s great religions had sprung from.