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Where Are We Going?
We are mythic by nature and each person carries the thread of an essential plotline that tries to become known in the course of life. Our personal myth involves an energy laden, core imagination that has the power to orient our life and move our soul towards its destiny.
— Michael Meade
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When it’s not us lacing a brocade of dominion-speak into a voidal dark, but that actually the words themselves may be the return journey of longing from the thing itself. That there’s a scrummage of inspiration that is not only human. This is a reality that has been articulated from Amazonia to Renaissance Italy, from the Yakut to the Aborigine. That words can have fur and light in them. Words can constrict, words can liberate.
Bad storytellers make spells.
Great storytellers break them.
This, now, is mostly an era of spell-making. Of tacit enchantment, of stultified imaginations and loins inflamed by so much factory-fodder lust, our relationships malfunction in their millions. We are on the island of the Lotus Eaters, curled up in the warm sleepy breeze of a Russian fairy tale as the robber steals away the Firebird. How do we wake up?
I will give you a little plot-spoiler right here. Sounds so very deceptively simple. The secret is relatedness.
