Psyche seems to have an innate, autonomous ability to generate symptoms, disturbances, wounds, and hurt places to remind us of a certain majesty and vastness, that there is so much we’re not in control of, that we are at all times being imagined by something larger.
As Auden said in one of his poems, "We are lived by powers we pretend to understand." I think he was onto something.
Rumi and other poets of the imagination spoke quite a lot about the wound being the place where the light enters. If there were no wound, no heartbreak, no raw tender opening, then how would the light break through?
It is not easy to tend to the soul when things are falling apart, as difficult emotions erupt, in the wake of an avalanche of critical, ruminative thoughts. Yet here we are, at some sort of precipice: asked to do this work not just for ourselves, but for the collective – for the ancestors and for the ones yet to come.
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